Page 6 of Tough Call

“Oh yeah? A lot of embellishment there?”

He groaned and rolled his eyes. “Fucking hell. Like it’s probably no worse than it is in North America, but I’ve played against some absolute drama queens.”

I chuckled. “It seems to be cyclical. One season… oh my God. I swear I was calling it every other game. Then the next, there was nothing.”

Madars quirked his lips, then shrugged. “Yeah, it’s like that there, too. I think this season, everyone’s trying to play hockey like it’s football.” He put a hand to his face and dramatically added, “That high stick knocked half my teeth out and dislodged my eyeball! Look at all this blood! He needs a major penalty!”

I was almost wheezing by the time he was done. “Okay, so those aren’t isolated to North America, then.” I reached for my wineglass. “No joke, there was this clown last season who wanted to draw a double minor so bad, he scratched the underside of his nose with his own nail.”

Madars blinked. “Seriously?”

I nodded.

“Did he… not realize there’s fifty cameras on him at all times?”

“Not to mention four officials, thousands of fans, and all the other players and staff.” I scoffed as I brought my glass to my lips. “You ain’t that slick, pal. Nice try.”

Madars laughed, and once again, I damn near choked on my wine. He really was so damn pretty. It was hard to believe this was the same kid who’d lived across the hall from me way back when. At the same time, it was impossible to look at him and not see that kid. He was an adult now, just like me, but he was still Madars, and I could still hear him laughing in one of our bedrooms just like I heard him laughing now.

God, I missed you, and I didn’t even know it until I saw you again.

I was a tongue-tied stupid mess of nostalgia, but mercifully, I was saved from making a fool of myself when our server arrived. She apologized for taking so long.

Madars, effortlessly charming as always, insisted it was no trouble at all. “Gave me a chance to catch up with my old friend.” He glanced at me and winked, unaware of how that liquefied my spine.

Connor. Dude. Get a fucking grip already.

He ordered a glass of wine—“whatever he’s drinking, please”—and she left us to look over the menus. I hadn’t even opened mine yet, not even to distract myself when I’d been coming unraveled waiting for him.

At least opening it now gave me something to focus on. The restaurant was a mix of Czech cuisine and some more familiar dishes like pastas and steaks. Everyone had told me I absolutely had to try the Knedlíky, which was a traditional bread dumpling, so I settled on that with a beef goulash. Madars, ever the indecisive one at restaurants, hemmed and hawed between a similar dish with a tomato-based sauce and Šunkofleky, which consisted of ham and noodles. Both were tempting me, too, and I second-guessed my own choice a few times. But then I reminded myself I was here for a little over a week; I’d have time to try more than one dish.

Our server returned with his wine, and we ordered our meals. Madars had finally settled on Šunkofleky, and I stuck with my original choice.

After the server had gone, Madars sipped his wine, and I tried not to think too much about how much I liked his “mmm, that’s good” face.

Oblivious to me being an idiot, he finally said, “So, how are you doing, uh, outside of hockey?” He studied me, his expression unusually shy. “How is the family?”

“Family’s good.” I turned my glass between my hands just to keep my hands busy. “My brother’s—well, that’s hockey, too, I guess.” I laughed with renewed nerves. “He’s doing well, though.”

“Good. And you’re…” There was intense curiosity in Madars’ eyes, but I couldn’t put my finger on what he was searching for.

I tilted my head, not sure how to answer. “Hmm?”

A blush rose in his cheeks. Clearing his throat, he shifted in his chair. “Sounds like your brother is doing well. In the NAL, I mean.”

I hesitated to answer, only because I swore he’d meant to say something else. I ran with it, though. “Yeah, yeah. He’s doing great. He just signed a four-year extension with Denver.”

Madars whistled. “That’s awesome. He’s been there his whole career, hasn’t he?”

Why did it make me warm all over to realize Madars had kept tabs on my brother’s career?

I nodded, though. “He was drafted by New York, but they traded him while he was still a prospect. He went to one New York training camp, and like three weeks later, he was traded.”

“Wow. I wonder if New York is regretting that now.”

I wobbled my hand in the air. “Maybe. Michael was dealt as part of the Harris-Kinsey trade. Harris has done better in New York than he ever did in Denver, and Kinsey has been a rock-solid goaltender for Denver. Denver got Michael, but New York got the draft pick they used to get Cory Cooley. So… I think it shook out pretty evenly in the end.”

“Nice,” he said. “Wouldn’t it be great if every trade worked out like that?” The faintest hint of sadness tinged his words.