#mmarner

The first bar had been “boring”, mostly just people sitting at tables eating and drinking and calmly watching the game. Part of you wishes you’d just stayed there and had a calmer night. At least you don’t have work tomorrow, so you don’t have to worry about the headache tonight and inevitable hangover tomorrow. The current bar is much rowdier, with people getting too drunk and shouting passionately at the TVs. Nathalie is well on her way to drunk, and you’re right behind her, with the shots she’s been making you take. Jameson always makes your hangover worse, but green tea shots are her favorite, and you don’t know how to say no. Besides, she keeps buying you all rounds, and you’re not about to reject a free drink from a friend.

Your friends are switching between cheering for the game and talking to each other, which you think is a pretty good combination. You really do love hockey, whether you like certain players or not. There’s something about the fast pace, the skill, the physicality that draws you in every time. The game ends eventually, and the group of you turn away from the post-game broadcast to continue chatting. Nathalie has the attention span of a particularly excitable golden retriever, so you hop to another bar to do exactly the same thing you were doing at the second one.

It’s only at the fourth and final bar that something both exciting and nerve wracking happens. The group of you have been at the bar for maybe fifteen minutes before a deafening cheer goes up. Everyone seems to be facing the front door across from your table. You have to twist around to see from your position, but yup, that’s your luck.

Everyone else is probably thinking this is great luck, to be at the bar the Leafs decided to go to after a win. Except the third person in the line of players is Mitch, and your stomach drops. He looks good. You’re definitely going to embarrass yourself. It’s weird to be entirely cognizant of that, while knowing that you’re too drunk to stop yourself. Hopefully they just won’t notice you guys.

Nathalie jumps up and waves for their attention. Nice.

Mitch notices her first, nudging Nylander to point at all of you. They’re the two that came to Nathalie’s party, so they clearly recognize her. Their little gang follows as they move through the crowd like fish swimming upstream. Nylander introduces Nathalie and “her friends”, and all six of them shake all six of your hands. You’re more excited than you probably should be to shake Campbell’s hand, but you can’t help it, he’s your favorite player. After the pleasantries, everyone but him and Mitch depart for their apparently special table, inviting all of you to stop by any time. You’re not sure if this place has bottle service, but they’d probably make an exception for the Leafs either way. Must be nice.

Campbell immediately starts an involved conversation with your friend Diane, both of them forgetting about the rest of you. Pretty privilege. Good for her, though.

Mitch spends the next ten or so minutes entertaining the other five of you, mostly answering questions about the game. He must get tired of that, right? Talking about hockey is nice, especially when it’s your passion, but it must be annoying to have it be the only thing anyone ever wants to talk about. Nylander comes back over, and you expect him to take Mitch and Campbell back to the group. Or at least Mitch, considering how engrossed Campbell is in his conversation. Surprisingly, he asks Nathalie if she wants to dance. You’re not sure if the two shots he’d downed beforehand had anything to do with it, but you’re willing to bet that they do.

Nathalie says yes, of course, and gets led to the dancefloor by a hand in hers. You know your friends are hot, but you’re still a bit shocked at how well they’re pulling. You’ve been more focused on the fact that this whole outing is for her birthday, already having refused a drink from a guy at the second bar. Now that she’s off to have a great night herself, you consider trying to find someone to take home. You’re really not in the mindset for it, though. Not like you’ve seen anyone here that you’d be interested in anyway.

The remaining three of your friends seem to decide that dancing is a good idea, giggling their way to the floor. It’s a bit disappointing that they didn’t even ask you if you’d like to join, but you just accept it and settle back into your cocktail at the table. Like a good friend, you ignore Diane’s conversation happening three feet away from you. Scrolling your phone and drinking essentially alone doesn’t actually seem that bad. You like a little time to yourself.

Except Mitch is still here. He hadn’t stolen one of your friends, hadn’t joined them to dance, and hadn’t gone back to his table with his own group. He can probably tell how confused you are as he sits down next to you, considering you lose all control over your facial expressions when you’ve been drinking.

“How have you been?” he asks, after flagging down a waiter to order a drink. He’d been so sweet with the guy, and it helps ease your anxiety. For the moment, at least.

“I’ve been alright; same old same old,” you reply, “How about you?”

“Not bad,” he says, “Same old same old.” There’s an awkward stretch of silence after that, as if he’s just as unsure of what to talk about. The waiter comes back with the drink, and Mitch slips him a couple dollars. The guy had probably run back to the bar as fast as he could to bring it that quickly. It helps break the silence, though, and luckily you’re able to come up with a question to get you both talking. He’s a good conversationalist, Mitch is, but you can tell when someone is in work mode. His responses seem bottled, like you’re a reporter interviewing him rather than a random girl at a bar. That simply won’t do.

“If you were a kitchen utensil, what would you be?” you ask, a complete non sequitur. You’re expecting hesitation, or shock, or anything but a quick, confident answer.

“Spatula,” he says. You ask why. “You can make anything with a spatula.” It’s a good answer, you’re not going to lie. Most people think that question is weird, so it can be a great way to break someone out of their shell. You use it at work, actually, to throw people off enough that they end up showing their true colors. Also, it’s just a fun little thing to know about someone.

“How about you?” he asks in return. You have enough experience with the question to know your answer already.

“Ladle,” you respond confidently. He asks why. “Does everything a spatula can’t.” The reasoning isn’t your usual, but it works out nicely with his own. A smile grows across his face and his shoulders visibly relax. Success.

It’s easier from there, the both of you quipping back and forth between genuine inquiries and statements. It takes you a while to realize his demeanor isn’t what you had expected. From your previous interaction, you’d thought he would be overconfident, even arrogant. But he just seems… normal? Like he’s acting like he’s just some guy. Which he is, really, but he’s also “some guy” with more fame and money than you care to fathom. You’ll take this version of him over the smug one any day.

While hockey players seem a bit dim, for the most part, Mitch has thoughtful responses and insight that’s more impressive than you’d like to admit. Playing any sport at a high level involves a lot of observational skills, but you hadn’t foreseen him being able to deduce how you feel about your coworker Josh from one sentence. Guy was a dickhead, yeah, but you’re usually pretty good at hiding that opinion. All jobs require their own specialized skills. Like pretending your bitch of a contemporary isn’t the bane of your existence.

What you haven’t mentioned, however, is that your boring job is at Scotiabank Arena. Working in the sound booth during games.

You did other events too, obviously. Pretty much anything that takes place in a venue that big needs a sound crew. So you work for the arena and not the team, which is why you’ve yet to meet any of the players. Any of the players on any team, really. You’d met Yuta Watanabe from the Raptors once, but that was about it. That’s why it had been kind of funny when Mitch told you to come to a game some time– you were at almost all the games, all the time. He doesn’t need to know that, though.

For a time– you’re not sure how long– you manage to avoid embarrassing yourself. You’re actually distracted enough by talking that you’re getting more sober even with a drink in your hand. It’s only after a guy in a Tavares jersey comes over to the table to congratulate Mitch and Campbell that you manage to put your foot in your mouth. The guy squeezes some questions in during his couple minutes with the guys, giving them some unoriginal advice as they sign his jersey. He’s maybe three steps away when you catch Mitch’s eye.

“Do you ever get tired of talking about hockey?” you ask. You’re pretty sure of the answer, and you want to slap yourself for asking. Hey, do you ever get tired of your job? Of course he does! Everyone does! But it’s probably kind of rude to ask it outright like this. It’s only the genuine laugh you startle out of him that makes you think he may not mind.

“Yeah, sometimes,” he says, that blinding smile plastered on his face again, “When I’m trying to have a conversation with a pretty girl.” Instinctively, you roll your eyes. It’s not the first time a guy has said something along those lines, and it’s corny every time. It’s kind of nice to be called pretty by him, though.

Your response doesn’t seem to deflate him any, and he even smiles wider. Maybe he’s one of those guys who likes it when women are mean to him. You’re very good at being mean. Anyway, he holds your gaze for a long moment before looking down at his hand curled around his drink, flexes the hand, clears his throat. When he turns his focus back to your face, his smile seems more wry than anything.

“It sucks when people ask me the same question a million times, or give me stupid advice,” he says, “Like I don’t know what I’m doing, or something.” His honesty hits you right in the heart. He doesn’t have to be telling you this. In fact, it’s probably in his better interest not to tell you. You know that you’d never spread it around, but he doesn’t. He barely knows you; you could be some attention-seeking asshole who’ll run to the media with the first thing he says that you could spin to be negative. There’s a level of trust here that you’re not sure you’ve earned.

“Just,” he continues, “I hate it when people treat me like an idiot. I know that’s not what they’re trying to do, but it feels that way anyway.” You don’t think he’s an idiot. Maybe you’d had some doubt about his intelligence before this conversation, but you know better than that now. But if you hadn’t had this time to get to know him, would you still assume that he’s not that bright? Just because of the stereotype of hockey players? You think again of Josh, who tries to overtake everything you do, like you somehow got this job without knowing anything about it. Yeah, that’s irritating. You can’t imagine an entire swath of the population treating you in the same way.

“On another topic,” he continues, changing the subject after being met with your stunned silence. He launches into an anecdote about his family up in Markham, and it’s genuinely funny. It would be funnier if you weren’t overwhelmed with the urge to hug him and tell him he’s worth more. At least you can do part of it.

“You’re not stupid, you know,” you say after both of your laughter has died down, “And you deserve to be treated better than that.” He looks at you like he’s never been told that before. If he hasn’t, you’re glad he at least gets to hear it now. He reaches out, brushing his knuckles against yours where your hand rests on the table.

“Thanks,” he says. You let the moment sit, make sure it sinks in for him. He had dipped back into his work persona when he told the story, like he was protecting himself. Luckily, he hadn’t fully retreated, so it’s not difficult to get him back into his natural state. You’re growing to like this version of him. The one that’s open and doesn’t feel the need to constantly fill the silence and is somehow both extroverted and easygoing at once.

All good things must come to and end, unfortunately. It’s not until the waiter tells you guys that it’s last call that you realize the bar is nearly empty. What time is it? Where did your friends go? Rebecca was supposed to drive you home. Now you have to pay for a Saturday-night-Leafs-game Lyft. The prices at this time are insane. Fuck.

“Do you want a ride home?” Mitch asks, as if he can read your mind. It’s more likely that he can read the worry on your face, and knows that you got left behind. Normally, you’d be pretty pissed if your friends left without you. This time, you’re almost grateful they did. You prefer this time with Mitch over saving some money on a rideshare.

“You don’t have to,” you reply, even though you really want to just come out with it and say yes. Yeah, you don’t want to burden him by making him drive you around, but you also don’t want to leave the warmth of his company.