said all those things,” she admits. “It sounded really good anyway. I thought how cool it was that I know you.”
I like that she’s maybe a little impressed with me since I’m kind of intimidated by her.
Traffic is nuts. We’re barely moving. The driver keeps honking, but there’s nowhere for the cars in front of us to go, so I don’t get the point of it.
We keep talking, but after a while I pull out my phone to check the time. It feels like we’ve only traveled two blocks. “Shit,” I mutter.
“What’s wrong?”
“Our reservation is for seven. This traffic is nuts.”
“Of course. It’s Saturday night in Manhattan.”
I hate being late. I hate rushing. I hate not being in control. “We could get out and walk there faster.”
She laughs softly and pats my leg. Well, that’s distracting. “Not in these heels, dude. Don’t worry. If we’re a few minutes late they’ll hold our reservation.”
“I’m going to take a different route,” the driver announces, jerking the wheel to turn off onto a side street. “I don’t know what’s going on up there. Maybe an accident.”
Unfortunately, his other route isn’t much better. My knee is bouncing and my jaw aching by the time we finally pull up in front of Allettante. It’s two minutes after seven, but it might as well be an hour for how stressed I am.
I pay with my credit card and jump from the taxi, holding out a hand for Sara to follow. Then I hustle her inside the small, unassuming entrance. But, as Sara said, there’s no problem that we’re late.
We check our coats and are shown to a table for two against one wall. The place is tiny, with dark blue walls and floor, white and light wood furniture, and subtle lighting.
“Lovely.” Sara takes a seat and looks around.
I already checked out the menu online because I like to be prepared, but I pick up the heavy folder anyway. We first order a bottle of wine, then decide to share a starter, Mediterranean chicken salad cups. Once we’ve ordered our meals, the menus have been removed, and the wine poured, Sara smiles at me over her wineglass. “Okay, explain more hockey to me.”
“Really?” I study her across the table. In the candlelight, she looks like she’s glowing. She’s wearing makeup tonight, lips shiny, her eyes shadowed, making the light-colored irises really stand out. Her hair is somewhat tamed into shiny waves.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t even know where to start.”
Sara peppers me with questions about the game last night, which I try to answer. I could talk about hockey all night. I can’t imagine that would be interesting to her, but she keeps going. “Okay, tell me about too many men. That doesn’t sound like a problem to me.”
It takes a second for that to sink in, then I bark out a laugh. “Jesus. Okay, well, a team is only allowed a certain number of players on the ice, including the goalies. Usually it’s five plus the goalie, but if you have a penalty it’s one less.”
“Oh yeah, I have questions about penalties too. Go on.”
Suppressing a smile, I continue. “Sometimes we’re changing lines on the fly, meaning the play is still going on when some guys are going off and some are coming on, and if we screw up and have too many players on the ice, it’s a penalty.”
“Okay, I can see that. It seems like kind of a dumb mistake when you know how many you should have.”
“It is a dumb mistake,” I say wryly. “What about penalties?”
“You guys actually have to have a time-out when you get a penalty?”
“Time-out? No…oh.” I start laughing. “You mean like a little kid being put in the corner.”
“Yes. Punished.”
“Okay, yeah, that’s pretty much it.”
“Except it wasn’t always two minutes. One time we—I mean, you—I mean, the Bears—had a penalty and the guy got out after only about forty seconds.”
“Because the other team scored.” I grimace. “If they score, the penalty’s over.”
“Ah.” She tips her head back, pondering that. “Interesting.”
Our appetizer arrives—lettuce cups filled with chicken, feta, chopped tomato, and olives in a sort of creamy dressing.
Sara picks up one cup and takes a bite. “This is so good! Do you like olives?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Good, good.”
“That sounded like a test I just passed.”
She smiles back. “I have more.”
“Really?”
“No. That’s bullshit.” She rolls her eyes. “I have friends who test guys, though—they’ll tell a guy they’re cold just to see if he offers his jacket.”
“Huh.”
“Right? Then they get mad