Page 45 of The Best Parts of Him
“You’ve traveled a lot.”
“I’ve been taking a trip every summer ever since the NHL started giving me big, fat paychecks.”
“Yeah?” Ryland’s face lit up, and Dabbs had the inane thought that he wanted to take him somewhere. Rome or Brussels or Lima or Victoria. Dabbs could show him all of his favorite spots and treat him to his favorite local foods, and they could wander off the beaten path and discover local shops and cafés the tourists didn’t know about.
“Where’d you go this year?” Ryland asked, jolting Dabbs out of his thoughts.
“Nowhere. Bellamy and I moved in here right after the playoffs, then I was in North Bay for most of the summer.”
Ryland straightened and chose another card from the pack. “I usually head to California with my teammates at the end of the season, but I skipped it this year.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know. I guess playing volleyball on the beach and baking under a blazing sun doesn’t appeal anymore. I actually wanted to do a road trip up to Quebec City from Columbus, with stops in Niagara Falls, Toronto, Kingston, and Montreal on the way. But I got vetoed for sandy beaches and scantily clad women.”
“So you didn’t go.”
Ryland shrugged his left shoulder—the one not in a sling.
“Have you been to any of those places before?” Dabbs asked.
“Sure, for hockey—except for Quebec City; never been there—and as I’m sure you know, when you travel for hockey, it’s for hockey. Sightseeing wasn’t so much an afterthought as a non-thought. I tried to convince Jason to do the road trip with me this past summer, but he was buried in his thesis research.”
I’ll take you, Dabbs almost said. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.
“Ready for the next card?” Ryland asked.
Dabbs held out a hand. “It’s my turn to ask the question.” When Ryland handed the cards over, Dabbs pulled one out and read, “How do you say ‘hi’ in French?”
“Bonjour,” Ryland said, pronouncing it like someone whose first language was English—bohn-joor.
“Bonjour,” Dabbs corrected.
Ryland gaped at him. “Wait, you speak French?”
“Bien sûr.”
“Is it because you’re Canadian?”
Dabbs had to laugh. “Trust me, there are plenty of Canadians who don’t speak a lick of French. But there’s a pretty significant Francophone population in North Bay. I was in the French immersion stream at school, plus it was one of my majors in university.”
Ryland leaned forward eagerly. “Say something in French.”
Dabbs chuckled. Why was that always the first thing people said when they found out he was bilingual? He thought of Ryland’s pink-and-turquoise sunglasses and about calling Ryland colorful at Frozen Fest and said, “T’es comme un arc-en-ciel, captivant et surprenant.”
Unblinking, Ryland stared at him for a long moment. “I didn’t catch a single word of that. What’s it mean?”
“Ask Google Translate.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Ryland grumbled. “I couldn’t make out individual words. Tell me what it means. Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell meeeee.”
“Nah. I think I’m enjoying being mysterious.”
“Mysterious?” Ryland held up a finger. “Or a mysteriously annoying turd?”
Dabbs laughed so hard, he woke up the dogs. He handed the cards to Ryland. “Your turn.”
Huffing out a breath, Ryland selected one from the middle. “What profession does the cartoon character Tintin have?”
