Page 8 of Must Love Hockey
“Really? You can do that?”
“Yeah, I have a high deductible, too. Butpleasedon’t leave the hospital. And don’t eat anything. Only water to drink.”
“No problem.” I stand up.
“Don’t go home, okay? Otherwise, I’ll spend my break looking for you, and that’s just mean.”
“I promise!” I laugh. “I’ll be on one of those ugly chairs outside.”
“Good. Go. The secret exit is over there.” He guides me toward a different door than the one I came in. “You're saving me paperwork, anyway. My gut says you'll be just fine. And if my gut is wrong—”
“—I’m only ten paces from the desk.”
“Exactly. Where you’d ask for me by name. Meanwhile, I’m setting an alarm to come and find you.” He taps his watch.
“Thank you! I really appreciate this.” I’m walking backwards toward the door. Then I make my escape to the waiting room.
I scan the room. Only five minutes have passed, but James is nowhere to be seen.
Of course. It’s after midnight, and he’s gone home. I’d let him go before I’d said a proper goodbye. It was that grumpy triage nurse’s fault. I’d let him intimidate me out of getting James’s full name and contact information.
The guy deserves a thank you, at the very minimum. I’ll have to figure out how to contact him tomorrow.
For a few minutes, I just stand around and get my bearings. There’s really no rush to find a seat. I’m going to be here for hours. Besides, the doctor said I could have water, and that sounds good right about now. There must be a vending machine somewhere.
As I pace the edges of the room, I see the glow of a Coke machine from around the corner. And when I come closer, I notice a tall, strong-looking guy in a Brooklyn Bruisers jacket feeding a dollar bill into the machine.
“James!” I cry in surprise, and he whirls around.
Then the most beautiful smile breaks across his face. It's so wide that I wonder if it's even for me. “Hey, back so soon? Did you miss me?”
Would it be strange to admit that I did?
* * *
“L,” I guess.
“Doh!” James says, giving the hangman a leg. I’m about to lose this game. I’ve got BRYAN but the last name is eluding me. It reads _ R _ _ _ _ E R.
“U,” I try.
He shakes his head, and the hangman gets a bowtie.
“C?”
James gives the hangman a pair of glasses. He’s trying not to let me lose.
“O?”
“Yeah!” He fills one in for the third letter. But I’m still stumped.
“Uncle,” I whimper. “I guess my knowledge of NHL hall-of-famers isn’t as great as I thought it was.”
“But you got Lemieux!” he says, tapping our last game with his pen. “This guy is Bryan Trottier.”
“Who?”
James chuckles. “He won six Stanley Cups as a player and one as an assistant coach. Here—it’s your turn to hang me.” He hands over the pen.
