Page 22 of The Tryout

The shock on his face startles a single laugh from me, then another until I’m laughing, really laughing, for the first time since coming back to Des Moines. His face looks slightly less worried, although most of that worry has been replaced by confusion.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to have you arrested for kidnapping.”

That finally gets a smile out of him, just in time for the light to turn green.

“Okay, but it’s gonna be okay at the arena, yeah?”

“What is?”

“Your car, Finn. Keep up.”

I’m pretty sure I’m not the reason this conversation is so confusing..

“Oh, I don’t have a car.”

Avery’s eyes grow wide again, giving me a good view of that brilliant green. Up close, I can see little specks of gold, too.

“But how do you…I don’t know, go places?”

I shrug.

“I walk, mostly. Sometimes I’ll ride a bus or a bike. If I have to, Markie or Novak are usually willing to give me a ride.”

It looks like this idea has never occurred to Avery. To his credit, he takes the time to think it over before responding.

“That…makes sense, I guess. Do you live close to the arena?”

“Right downtown, it’s a super easy walk.”

It’s one of the things about the place that feels just a little too luxurious now. When we got the place last year, I’d figured I’d be saving enough money between the roommate and the car that it would be worth it. Now I’m not so sure.

“Cool. By yourself?”

We’ve arrived at the restaurant, a place with a 4.8 star rating. From the outside, it doesn’t look like much. It sits in a strip mall, a neon “open” sign in the window, fluorescent light pouring onto the sidewalk.

“Is this…is this the right place?”

“This is definitely the right place.”

He opens the car door, and I have no option but to follow him inside. As we enter, he erupts in a flurry of words, not a single one of which I understand. The older man wiping down a table responds, and for a minute or two I stand there being absolutely useless. Their exchange done, the man points to a table near the kitchen and we grab a seat. Before long, he drops off two menus, which have certainly seen better days. They’re laminated and may be older than my hockey career.

“What do you want? Supposedly this is the best Pho in the city, but Mr. Tran says the Bún Bò Huế is even better.”

I blink at him, not sure how to respond without looking like an absolute hick.

“I, uh, don’t have a lot of experience with Vietnamese food.”

To my surprise, my confession delights him.

“Really? Can I tell you all my favorites? What do you like? Any allergies?”

And for the next ten minutes, he walks me through the menu, pointing out things I might like, comparing them to dishes from cuisines I also don’t have any experience with.

“Can you just…surprise me?”

He nods, a serious look on his face. When Mr. Tran – or, at least, I’m assuming this is Mr. Tran – stops by again, he orders several dishes. I realize that I maybe should have given him a budget. None of the items on the menu even have prices, and as Avery goes on, I worry about just how many things he’s ordering. Eventually, though, his conversation with Mr. Tran wraps up and we’re alone again.

“So you, uh, speak Vietnamese?”