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The last thing I expect,only a few days after turning him down for another outing, is for Stefan to accept my invitation for a post game donut. We’re just two people going for a post-hockey donut, that’s all this is. Coworkers. Colleagues. Colleagues eat donuts together all the time, right? Right.
“Where to, Stats?”
“Stats?” I ask, as an adorable blush creeps into his cheeks.
“Yeah…I gave you the nickname after that night at the diner but have never actually said it aloud before. Please forget I said that.”
“I will not be forgetting that. I love it.” It’s thoughtful that he gave me a nickname, and a dangerous reminder of why we can’t shouldn’t do this. “My usual place is a bit of a drive from here.” I don’t want to discourage him, but I also don’t want him to feel obligated to say yes.
“I don’t mind,” he answers quickly, “I have nowhere to be.”
“Okay. I’ll see you there then.” I sling my bag over my shoulder and step past him, heading for the exit. But Stefan halts my progress, reaching out a hand and grabbing mine, turning me to face him. His eyes, deep brown and intense, lock with mine.
“You never told me where we’re going.”
“Donut Worry. It’s in Hamtramck,” I answer, trying to shake his gaze, “it’s worth the drive.”
After loading my gear into my car, I replay every second of our interaction on the way to Donut Worry. When I walked into the rink tonight, ready for a leisurely game with my league, I caught a brief glimpse of Stefan on the ice, knelt down in front of a girl of nine or ten years old. There was a stoppage in play and he was helping her adjust her grip on her stick, and offering pointers on her passing. I’m used to seeing him in game situations, in his full gear and uniform, but out there in his street clothes and skates I could almost forget –almost– that he plays for the team that signs my paychecks.
Once I get to Donut Worry, it’s name feels like a personal attack tonight whenall I can dois worry about being here with Stefan, he’s on a bench outside the shop waiting for me. He opens the door and guides me inside with a hand at my back.
“What’s good?” He asks, standing close to me and surveying our options.
“Everything,” Ursula, the bakery’s night manager, answers with a wry smile. “How was the game Francine?”
“We had a good time.”
“She’s being modest,” Stefan places a hand on my shoulder and steps closer to the counter. “A goal and two assists. Plus seven penalty minutes.”
There’s something about his smile when he mentions my penalty minutes that sets my stomach to fluttering, even more than him knowing my stat line for the night.
“Only seven tonight?” Ursula asks, earning me a curious look from Stefan. “Must have been an off night.”
“Okay…enough about my stats tonight. I’ll take one of your apple fritters please, and a decaf coffee…and whatever hewants.” I pull out my wallet and avoid Stefan’s gaze. “It’s on me, tonight.”
“Make that two decafs, and I think I’ll try the maple bar please.”
With donuts and coffee in hand, Stefan and I find a table in the corner, and eat in uncomfortable silence for far longer than I’d like.
“How’s the fritter?” Stefan asks with an amused smile as I lick glaze from my fingers as gracefully as one can lick donut glaze from their fingers.
“So good,” I laugh, wiping my hands with a napkin. “Extra apple-filled tonight. How’s the maple bar? I’ve never tried it.”
“It’s excellent. Want a bite? I mean, I can break you off a piece, you don’t have to take a bite. We’re not…that is to say, this isn’t…”
“Sure,” I interrupt him, putting a stop to his verbal buffering. “I’ll trade you for a bite of my fritter.”
Stefan pulls off a piece of his donut, and I break off a piece of mine, sliding it to him on a napkin and immediately biting into the piece of maple bar. It’s a rich yeast dough, with creamy maple frosting, and I don’t know why I’ve never tried it before now. Stefan studies me, and I have to look away, not sure what to do with myself under his scrutiny.
“So…it sounds like you’re no stranger to the penalty box.” Stefan sits back in his chair and sips on his coffee. “Seven PIMs is anoff nightfor you?”
“Oh, that’s rich coming from you,” I laugh, “how often are you in my box?”
“At least -”
“At least once a game!” We share a laugh, and it feels natural. It feels right. As much as I want to believe this is a bad idea, I do enjoy getting to know him off the ice. And outside of the penaltybox. “Some of them you don’t deserve though. That tripping call last week? He clearly dove.”
“Thank you!” Stefan exclaims loudly before remembering where we are and bringing his volume down a bit. “But we scored short-handed, so it worked out in the end.”
