5. Donut Worry

CHAPTER 5

DONUT WORRY

FRANCINE

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 when all I can do is 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 he wants." 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 an off night for 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 penalty box. "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."

"Yes, it did." Laughing with Stefan comes easy. I could get used to it, and I know I shouldn't. "You're lucky the Union have such a good penalty kill for all the time you force them onto the ice."

"Excuse me," Stefan feigns offense, "we have a pretty mean power play team too, thank you very much."

"Oh, sure," I laugh. "The second team is excellent."

"You wound me, Francine." He smiles as he says it, stretching out the second syllable of my name just a second longer than usual. His smile crinkles the corners of his eyes, and as he stifles a yawn I realize just how late it's gotten. "I should let you get home. Thanks for the donut."

"Thanks for the company."

"Question for you," Stefan waits for me to stand and accompanies me out the door and into the cold night air, "are post-game donuts just for beer league, or do pros get them too?"

"I guess we'll find out tomorrow afternoon, won't we?"

Game days at the Ren are my favorite, and afternoon games are the best. There's an electricity in the arena as the fans filter in and fill in the stands. The teams take to the ice for warm ups and Gabriel Bouchard skates across the ice from his bench to my box. Gabriel gives a fist bump of greeting to the glass that divides the penalty box from the ice before he skates off and posts up in his goal for the first period. Yesterday, Gabriel was dressed like Stefan and Alex – Union sweatshirt, joggers, and skates – unassuming, and completely charming. When he's in his full goaltending gear, he's a formidable force. If I didn't know it was him under that mask, I may have backed away from the glass out of sheer self preservation.

Warmups are the best kind of controlled chaos and are so much fun to watch from my side of the glass. Alex Hyryck raises a hand in greeting as he skates toward the box, staying on his side of the centerline for warmups as he chases down a puck passed to him by Stefan. The two of them connect with their third lineman, Pat Larsson, and work on passing as they weave in and out of their own defenders and forwards on the ice.

Warmups in my league are a little less intense than what happens before a professional game, but I recognize the stretches and the passing drills and the pregame routines that are a familiar part of hockey. Stefan, I've noticed, never wears his helmet during warmups, and I hate to admit one, that I've noticed, and two that it stresses me out every time. There are pucks flying around and he's unprotected from the neck up.

He skates across the ice with Hyryck and Larsson at his back, coming to a stop just shy of the box and lifting a gloved hand in greeting and earning himself a razzing from his linemate. Both teams skate off the ice, and the lights lower for the US and Canadian anthems, and then the first lines skate to center ice to face off and start the game.

Growing up, the Assembly Line was the third line. Always.

They were scrappy.

Tough.

They weren't afraid to get in the fray and drop the gloves when they needed to. But they were also defensively minded forwards and could get their goalie out of a jam when needed. Tonight, the third line comes on at shift change, and does just that; they, and their pair of defenders, make quick work of foiling a Montreal scoring opportunity and regain control of the puck as Larsson streaks toward the other end of the ice, passing to Stefan, who shoots and opens scoring for the Union. He's mobbed on the ice, bumping helmets affectionately with his line-mates.

Dad is right. Watching Stefan and his line is like watching the Assembly Line in the glory days of Detroit Union hockey. They have on-ice chemistry that is unrivaled. A knowledge of the game – and of each other – that is evident every time they enter the ice. Watching them is a thing of beauty. Watching them reminds me of growing up watching the Union with Dad. Mom, French Canadian by birth, was never a Union fan, but watched with us because "even bad hockey is good hockey." The Union weren't bad, they just weren't Montreal.

Mom is somewhere in the stands tonight, I'm sure, grumbling about the first period and all the scoring opportunities that were foiled by the Union's defenders. The saves that Gabriel made look far easier than I'm sure they were, and insisting to Dad that Montreal always plays their best hockey in the second period, to which Dad is likely countering "the Union play their best in the third. This game is ours."

Just before the end of intermission, there's a knock on the glass behind me, something I've learned to tune out and ignore. There's always pounding on the glass around the rink, but when there's no players in the box it's a little odd for anyone to knock on my glass. Turning around, I find Mom on the other side of the glass, wearing a Montreal sweater that's older than I am, and a proud smile.

"Picture?" She shouts to be heard through the glass and above the noise of the crowd.

She presses against her side of the glass, and I do the same on mine as mom passes her phone off to someone in the front row to snap a picture. "This is my daughter!" Mom loudly exclaims to anyone willing to listen. And I just know that my cheeks are as red as the Union's home uniforms as Mom slaps high fives with anyone she can find in a Montreal sweater before heading up the steps to wherever she and Dad are sitting.

Things get chippy in the second period when Montreal's fourth line comes out for their shift and acts like a fourth line. Boarding, checking, and there's almost a fight on the ice, but the refs break it up quickly, sending Alex to my box, and two of Montreal's skaters to the neighboring box.

"Hi Francine," Alex greets me with a smile as he steps into the box and takes a seat. "How's it going?"

"I was afraid I wouldn't have to work tonight," I answer with a laugh after noting his penalty on my sheet. "Thanks for getting feisty out there."

"Anytime."

"Do me a favor," I keep an eye on the time, knowing that the clock is winding down on his penalty. "Tell Morrow Donut Worry. "

Alex turns to me, confusion on his face, but I don't have time to clarify because we're mere seconds from his return to play and I have a job to do. At the end of Alex's two minutes, he skates off to the bench, elbowing Stefan and jostling for space as he sits down and rests for his next shift.