Page 86 of Canadian Boyfriend

“Why am I so confused?” I said when we sat down a few minutes later. “Why do I feel like I failed Tim Hortons?”

“You tell them what you want in your coffee when you order.Regularisn’t a size; it means one unit of cream and one unit of sugar. You go up from there. A double-double is two creams and two sugars.”

“My order’s a medium double-triple,” said John, “which is a medium coffee with two creams and three sugars. I have a sweet tooth.”

It must run in the family.

“The whole country is kind of low-key obsessed with Tim Hortons,” John said. “Which I admit is a bit weird. The coffee is fine, but I’m not sure, objectively, that it lives up to the hype.” He glanced at Mike Martin. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

“This guy”—he jabbed his thumb in Mike Martin’s direction—“bought his dad a Tim Hortons franchise.”

“I heard.”

“OK, first of all, Chris and I bought it together. Second, we only did it because my parents wouldn’t accept any other help, and my dad was going to keep working for twenty bucks an hour until he keeled over and died. This way at least he’s in charge.” He turned to me. “My dad was the manager at a different location when Chris and I made the purchase.”

“So how do you two know each other?” I asked as a way to change the subject, because I knew Mike Martin didn’t like us talking, even jokingly, about his largesse. I suspected I already knew the answer, though: this was the high school friend he’d referenced, the older brother of Erik.

Probably.

“We played high school hockey together before Mike started in the WHL,” John said. “Actually, we’ve been playing hockey together since we could walk—from U7 on up—Mike and Chris and my brother Erik and me.”

Erik. There it was.

“Erik was hugely talented at hockey,” Mike said.

Yep. I had known that. I shouldn’t have been shocked by any of this, and really, I wasn’t. Or my rational brain wasn’t. My body, which was suddenly sweating, didn’t quite get the memo. Hearing it confirmed was freaking me out.

“John’s grandfather was a farmer, and he made a rink at the farm one winter that we all played on,” Mike Martin said. “That’s what gave my dad the inspiration to do one in our yard.”

“And the rest is history.” John smirked. “Basically my family is responsible for spawning the NHL star you see before you today.”

“Not a star,” Mike Martin said.

“What became of Erik?” I asked, praying my voice sounded normal. “Did he go on to play hockey?”

“Nope. He was really good, but it wasn’t his calling. He went into politics. He’s on the Winnipeg City Council, and he was previously on the Long Plain band council. His big interest is housing issues—on reserves and in the city.” John practically radiated pride.

“I used to fly back and do a workshop every year at my old high school,” Mike Martin said. “I was in Chicago by the time Erik was in high school, but I’d try to see as many of his games as I could.” He snorted. “But clearly Erik was on to more important things.” He grew serious. “He used to present likethe class clown, but he had brains—and a big heart. I always knew Erik was going places.”

The next three days were great, once I shook off the discomfort of meeting John. I somehow never got taken to the hotel. The second night, Diane surprised me with a birthday coconut cream pie, Olivia and the day-care kids made me a card, and Mike Martin took me to a store called Canadian Tire and bought me a headlamp he said I would need for camping. I never would have imagined spending my thirtieth birthday like that, but once I had, I couldn’t think of anything better.

That night, Mike Martin repeated his question about whether I would mind putting off the hotel. The third night, he said, “Look, unless you really need an escape hatch, we’re all set up here, aren’t we? Honestly, the pullout in the basement is a queen, and I’d probably stay on it even after you left.”

I didn’t even put up a perfunctory objection. I was having a grand time, and I was sleeping like a log in Mike Martin’s childhood bed. We spent the days taking walks and bumming around town. We went to the pioneer museum. Olivia declared it not as good as De Smet, but I think that was because it was more about looking at stuff and learning, which I quite enjoyed.

Diane was great, full of backbone and wisecracks but also actual wisdom. Ed was great, too, though quieter and therefore harder to parse. I got the sense that both Mike Martin’s parents were proud. Inherently—hence their refusal to let him help them financially—but also proudofhim. But I knew they would have been proud of him whatever job he ended up with. Their pride wasn’t conditional on his status as a pro hockey player.

Which in turn made me see why he was always insisting that he wasn’t a star, why he bristled under the attention of fans.

His parents had made him that way, and it was a good thing. Mostly. I did wonder if his extreme aversion to the profile that came with his job was holding him back emotionally. If it made him keep people at arm’s length, which didn’t seem like the best way to live.

Olivia was in her element, basking in the affection of her grandparents and making some cash helping Diane at the day care. I suspected that, Mike Martin’s beef with them aside, she had similar experiences at her other grandparents’ place. It was good for her to be around other people who loved her, and to be away from the daily grind of school and camp and life at home.

I felt that way, too, about the daily grind. Vacations: Who knew?

My rose-colored glasses were shattered, though, when he tried to get me to go for drinks to meet Erik.

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