I swing the door open and find Brayden standing on the other side, looking sexy as hell. He’s changed out of his sweats and hoodie and is dressed in a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved Reebok shirt, and matching Reebok tennis shoes.
When I get done eye-fucking him, I notice he’s holding a small bottle of whiskey in his hand. “I didn’t want to get too girly and shit,” he says with a shrug, “so I went with a bottle of liquor instead of flowers.” He hands it to me and my heart warms at the sentiment.
“Never understood why women always want flowers,” I joke.
“Right?” he deadpans. “Flowers just wilt away and die, and I swear every girl who sniffs them always says they smell beautiful. Have you ever smelled flowers? They’re so fragrant they make your eyes water.” His nose scrunches up in disgust, and I laugh.
“You ready to go?” he asks, stepping inside and giving me a quick kiss.
“Yeah, let me just put my bottle in the freezer. For later.” I wink, and he laughs. It’s the best fucking sound in the world.
As Brayden drives through town, we make small talk about the game tomorrow night, the upcoming holiday break, and how he’s doing in his classes. I don’t know where we’re going, and I guess I could ask, but I’d rather wait to see what he has planned.
When we get out of town, my heart drops. I should’ve known wherever we’re going would require us leaving Hawk’s Landing. I know Brayden is only doing what he has to do so we can be together in public, but it’s still a reminder that in order to do so, we have to drive past the town limits.
An hour later I’m starting to wonder where we’re going when he gets off the interstate and I see the sign. “Bray…”
“Yeah?”
“Tell me we’re not going where I think we’re going.” There’s no way he would bring us here of all places.
“Where do you think we’re going?” he asks, pulling into the parking lot of the Michigan Wolves stadium.
“To watch a Wolves game.”
“Yep,” he says as he swings into a parking spot.
“This is awesome, but we can’t go in there.” I might’ve only played in the NHL for a short time, but I was one of the top paid players. Any smart hockey fan will recognize me.
“Trust me?” he asks, turning the vehicle off.
“Of course I do.”
“Then, c’mon.” He drops a Wolves ball cap into my hands. “And put that on.” He shakes a matching one out and pulls it over his head.
As we walk through the parking lot, memories of when we were younger flash through my mind. Coming to this stadium to watch the Wolves play—my dad play. My dad would offer to get us seats up close, but Brayden’s dad insisted we sit in the higher level cheap seats. He said you have to work your way down to appreciate the view up close. So, we would come to the games and, with our binoculars stuck to our faces, commentate the entire game. Some of my best memories with Brayden were up in those shitty seats.
When we get to the ticket window, Brayden tells the woman he purchased tickets online and gives her his confirmation number. She hands him the tickets and we head inside.
“Let’s get our food,” he says, stopping at the concession stand. “Two boxes of popcorn, an order of nachos, two blue raspberry slushies, and two hot dogs, please,” he orders. “Did I get that right?”
My heart damn near explodes in my chest that he remembers exactly what we used to order. Since Tim insisted on buying the seats, my dad insisted on paying for the snacks. Looking back, it’s kind of ironic that we probably paid more for the food than the seats.
“Yeah,” I choke out. “It’s right.”
With our food piled high in our arms, we head into the stadium. The game has already started, but it doesn’t fucking matter. This is already the best damn date I’ve ever been on.
“What are our seat numbers?” I ask, glancing at the signs.
“Q 42 and 43,” he says with a smirk.
I laugh, fucking elated that he got us the nosebleed seats.
On our way to our seats, he stops a man selling binoculars and buys two pairs. I laugh, remembering how we used to bring our own to every game. Once we find our seats, we drop into them and set our food down in the empty seats next to us. Then, we both bring our binoculars up to our faces so we can see what’s going on.
We spend the next couple hours watching Michigan kick New York’s ass. We commentate the game, eat the shitty food, and laugh as we reminisce about the past.
“What’d you think?” Brayden asks on our way home. “Good first date?”