8. Reunited

CHAPTER 8

REUNITED

STEFAN

I should have just gone home.

The team offered to send me home, and I turned them down, opting to stay and workout with the team during morning practices. I'm taking it slow on the ice, working with the trainers and getting my sea legs back as it were. Alex is razzing me from the other end of the ice, trying to goad me into a sprint, but I won't give in. Mostly because the trainer is watching me. If she were anywhere else I'd rise to Alex's challenge.

"Good morning, Stefan," Gabriel skates past me, fully decked out in his goaltending gear, "have you called Francine yet?"

"No Gabriel, I haven't called Francine." Every morning since my on-ice injury a week ago Gabriel has bugged me about calling Francine. She texts me with updates on Stevie nearly everyday, so I haven't yet seen a reason to call her.

"Stefan, do you think she isn't worried about you? You need to call her. Let her hear the sound of your voice."

"Don't you have a net to mind?"

"I'm just saying…" Gabriel skates away from me, turning around and skating backward toward the goal as he shouts, "Alexander and I both think you should call her."

"Don't bring me into this!" Alex shoots me a pass from the centerline, a grin on his face as he does. "But yes, we do."

"She said she doesn't want a relationship with me," I close the distance between me and Alex, keeping my voice low. "We're not exactly in a ‘update you on my wellbeing' kind of relationship."

"You told me she said that you can't have a relationship," Alex points out, "that's very different from her not wanting a relationship."

"We're going to be home in two days. We have a game to play, and then I'm picking up Stevie. We'll see each other then."

"Suit yourself."

My first game back at The Ren is an afternoon matinee, after having just returned home Friday night. I haven't had a chance to see Francine yet. Warmups don't afford me much more than a wave of my hand in the direction of the box before we skate off and get ready for the lineup to be announced, and it is torturous to sit across the ice from her, on our bench, knowing that she's just meters away from me. The blaze of her hair under the lights keeps my attention in a way that I know it shouldn't; I should be watching the action on the ice, following the puck so I know what we're up against when my line goes out for our shift.

On the ice, the action is too fast. I never slow down. Near the goal, our defenders get wrapped up trying to assist Gabriel in front of the goal as a skater bears down on me. Without thinking, I reach out with my stick and catch him on the skate. If I'm going to serve a penalty, it's not going to be for something as dumb as tripping, but here we are.

"Detroit, number fourteen," the ref skates to center ice and announces my penalty, "two minutes for tripping."

The door to the penalty box opens and, for the first time in over a week, I see Francine face to face. I wish we were anywhere but here. Anywhere but this sold out arena. In this penalty box, where I'm sure there's a camera trained on me right now, and we both have a job to do.

"Evening, Francine." I sit on the bench, watching the ice and my time ticking down. Watching as our penalty kill team controls the play for the first minute of my penalty.

"Good to see you, Morrow." At the sound of her voice, I turn, wishing I could wipe the tears off her cheeks, but grateful when she offers me a smile. "It's really good to see you."

When she opens the door again, my skates hit the ice, and we're back to full strength. I know, I know, we have a game to play, but my mind is on the girl in the box and the look on her face when I skated in.

After the game, a decisive Union victory, I head straight to the showers and hope that Francine will stick around. After changing clothes and answering questions from the media – grateful, for once, that I had an unproductive game and don't have to give the post game comments – I head straight for my car in the garage. Hers is still here, but I don't see her anywhere, so I wait. Somewhere, a door opens and closes, the sound echoing in the nearly empty parking garage. Looking up, I see her, bag over her shoulder, team hat on her head, eyes downcast as she walks to her car.

"Hey, Stats." She startles, looking up and locking eyes. It takes me a minute to register the tear streaks on her cheeks. "What's wrong?"

Francine closes the distance between us, dropping her bag when she gets to me and wrapping her arms around my waist, crushing our bodies together.

"I was so worried," she whispers against my coat.

"Stats," I feel her reluctant smile at the nickname I gave her after that night at the diner, "I'm just fine. It was a hard hit, but it looked worse than it was."

"You're sure you're okay?" She whispers, pulling back, eyes searching mine. Moving one gloved hand to my cheek, she gently touches the area around my fresh stitches. "You scared me."

"I'm sorry I scared you, Stats. How can I make it up to you?" Our bodies are pressed together, my arms around her waist. There's a part of me that hopes. Dreams. Begs…

"Kiss me," she whispers. "Please."

"I thought you'd never ask."

Francine doesn't wait for me to lead. She frames my face with her hands and bends me to her, crushing her lips to mine. Wrapping my arms around her waist, I press our bodies together, deepening the kiss. For the first time, I realize she's got a hockey player's body, and I love it. She's solid. And strong. And when she breaks the kiss, she presses her forehead to mine, catching her breath.

"When you went down that night," her voice cracks, betraying her emotion, "I was so scared and I realized that I don't want to lose you. And I don't mean lose you in a morbid sense but in a ‘I really like having you in my life and think we have a good thing going and kind of want to explore…more' kind of sense."

"Stats," I smile, kissing the corner of her mouth, "are you saying you want to date me?"

"I'm saying," her fingertips brush the now-healing cut on my cheek, concern flashing in her eyes, "that I'm willing to risk my heart with you. That I'm more scared of what life looks like without you than with you."

"I really am sorry I scared you, Stats," I thumb away the tears silently falling down her cheeks, kissing the trail left behind. "I'll try not to do it again."

"You and I both know the reality of this game," she says, wrapping her arms around my neck, "but it'll be easier together. Right?"

"I hope so."

After one last kiss, I reluctantly let Francine go to her car, and with her address programmed into my phone, I follow her through the city to her apartment so I can pick up Stevie…who is less than happy to see me when I walk through the door behind Francine. Stevie greets Francine before giving my shoes a cursory sniff and curling up on one end of Francine's couch.

"Stevie," I sit down beside her on the couch, rubbing her ears the way she likes, "you know I don't like leaving you, but do you have to do this to me every time I come home?"

I swear my dog rolls her eyes at me, and from behind me, Francine laughs.

"She's been great," Francine passes me a bag with all of Stevie's toys, dishes, and a box of treats that I know I didn't send, but her ears perk up when it shakes. "We've had walks every morning and evening. She's played at the dog park. And she doesn't judge when you watch hockey and yell at the refs for terrible calls. Not that I'm speaking from experience."

"No, of course not."

"You know," Francine shifts nervously beside me and I reach out, pulling her down on the couch. She leans into me, an arm around my waist. "You two could stay a little while longer. Maybe for dinner?"

"I think we could do that." Leaning in to kiss Francine, I'm met with empty air, falling forward into her couch. "Francine?"

She's standing, wringing her hands, shifting her body between the living room and kitchen. "Can I get you anything?" She asks. "I have tea, coffee, water."

"Francine," I catch her wrist in my hand, gently tugging her toward me, "I don't need anything but your company. But if you need a few minutes away from me, coffee would be fine."

"Sorry. I'm a little nervous," she laughs,"I'm more nervous today than I was on my first day on the job."

"I don't want to make you nervous, Stats. You say the word, and I'll head home."

"Stay, please. Sit down, make yourself comfortable, and I'll go start on some coffee."

Francine steps into the kitchen and Stevie and I sit together on the couch. At least until Stevie abandons me and joins Francine in the kitchen.

"Hey girl," Francine's voice is soft, "I'm fine. But your dad makes me a little nervous. It's not his fault, I just haven't done this in a while."

Stevie's collar jingles, her toenails click on the tile floor, and soon she's back in the living room with me, sitting in front of me, staring intently. Then she paws at my leg.

"Do you need to go out?" I ask. She stares. Paws. Stares some more. "Well, okay then. Let's go out."

"I left her leash on the hook by the door," Francine calls from the kitchen. "I usually take her for a lap around the block."

"Sounds good," I call back, finding Stevie's leash and getting her hooked up. "We'll be back soon."

When Stevie and I hit the sidewalk outside of Francine's building, I breathe deep, grateful for a few minutes to collect myself, and I know Francine is doing the same. Stevie guides me around the block like she already knows the place, and I suppose after nearly a week she knows the neighborhood, and knows her host better than I do.

"What do you think, Stevie? Should I take her out for dinner? Make tonight a date?"

Stevie stops at a mailbox and turns to look at me with a "duh, you stupid human" kind of look, and on the walk back to Francine's building, I start working out how to ask her out.

"Want to go skating?" I ask as soon as I open the door to her apartment. I probably could have done that a little differently, judging by the look on her face as she looks up from the phone in her hand. "I mean…do you want to go out? Tonight? I was thinking dinner and…"

"And skating?" She fills in with a smile. "I think we could do that."

As if agreeing with the plan for the night, Stevie heads straight to the nest she's made on Francine's couch and curls up in a tight ball watching us both as if to say "you can leave now." So we do.

Detroit's Campus Martius Park is a hub of winter activity downtown, beginning with the annual tree lighting leading up to Christmas, and continuing until March when the outdoor skating rink shuts down until the next winter. Francine and I pick up dinner from a nearby food truck and find an unoccupied table near the rink. It's an unseasonably warm late February in Michigan which seems to be keeping a lot of skaters away, but once our burgers are gone, we lace up our skates and hit the ice.

"This is fun," I hold Francine's hand as we skate a lap around the perimeter of the rink, "but I'd love to really skate with you sometime."

"Oh really, " she bumps into me with her hip before turning around and skating backward. "A little one-on-one when you're off injury protocol?"

"Careful Stats," I reach for her hand, pulling her into my chest and skating us to a slow stop, "I just might take you up on that."

Francine seals her lips over mine, arms wrapping around my waist as the world skates on around us. Bunching the fabric of her overcoat in my hands, I press my body to hers, holding on tight as she teeters a little on her skates. The night turns cold, but with Francine in my arms it doesn't matter, I can't feel it anyway, all I feel is her solid strength against me.

After another lap around the rink, Francine and I skate off, removing our skates and getting hot chocolate from a nearby vendor. There's room for us on a nearby bench, and Francine sits first, pulling me down beside her.

"Why hockey?" I ask as we sit side by side, watching the remaining skaters on the ice.

"I grew up in Houghton," she says, putting her left hand up to serve as a map of Michigan's Upper Peninsula, and pointing to a spot near the top of her hand, "and there wasn't a whole lot to do, but hockey was, and still is, pretty big up there. Youth hockey was just the thing we all did. We had a pond in our backyard that served as a small outdoor rink, and I grew up playing with my dad and my brother. I loved the game. I watched with Dad every chance I got. I was fascinated by the speed and precision And a little bit with the freedom to knock people into the boards."

"Do you have a bit of a vengeful streak, Francine?" I grin, quickly kissing her cheek.

"Pot, meet kettle," she laughs, "but yes. A little bit. Although girls hockey doesn't allow hits and boarding. Except for my current league. When we negotiated our beer league's rules we did it with that in mind. Some of us grew up playing with the boys and wanted to get back to our roots, which includes more physicality. What about you? How did you get into hockey?"

"I grew up in Windsor, right across the river, so I grew up watching the same Union team you did. Those guys, The Assembly Line, were my idols. As soon as I could walk, my dad had me in skates. We had an outdoor rink in the neighborhood where I grew up, Dad played beer league with borrowed equipment, and we watched every game we could. But," I stop, overcome with memories of a different time, "we couldn't afford the game. It's not all that accessible for working class families. The gear, the travel, the league fees. A neighbor saw me on the rink one day with my brothers. We were playing a pick up game with other kids from the neighborhood, using borrowed equipment, and they approached my dad about helping pay for me to play."

"Why are youth sports so prohibitively expensive?" Francine asks, frustration in her voice. "They exclude so many kids who could use the outlet, the chance to play on a team, or the chance to just play a game they love."

"If it wasn't for that neighbor I don't know where I'd be, but I know I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't have played junior hockey, or made it to the developmental league in college. I owe a lot to Mrs. Cleary. She didn't have kids of her own, and was kind of the neighborhood grandmother. She's the reason I'm here now."

"Well in that case," Francine slips an arm around my waist, nestling herself closer to me as she softly kisses my cheek, "I think I owe her my thanks, as well."

"She passed a few years ago." I was grateful the team allowed me bereavement leave. She wasn't my grandmother by birth, but Mrs. Cleary was my grandmother. "But I was able to get her to my debut in Detroit. She got to see me skate for the Union."

Francine and I sit together until the air takes on a chill neither of us can stand. Bundling her close to my body, she looks up at me with heat in her eyes, kissing me one more time under the lights strung across the sidewalk.