Page 12 of Full Contact

“Thank you.”

“Eleven million views and you’re at the gym with us on a Tuesday. What a waste,” Felix said.

“Of the views or the Tuesday?”

“Of you,” he said. “Do you know how many people in that comment section want your number? You could be out every night this month.”

“I was out last Saturday.”

“With us.”

“I had a good time.”

He looked at Dana. She was watching the clip again.

“Who’s the guy you’re laughing with? The one with the cat.”

“Trier. He’s a defenseman. He’s been an Ironhawk for over a decade. We’ve known each other a long time.”

“That answers none of the useful questions.”

“What are the useful questions?”

“Is he single? Is he funny? Why are you both laughing like that?”

I sat on the bench and loosened my shoes. At the wedding, Trier and I had found chairs in the shade. His jacket had been off, and every so often he’d stopped talking to brush a few strands of orange cat hair off his pants. I’d been sorry when someone came to collect me for the toasts.

“He’s funny,” I said.

“That’s one.”

“He’s single. And he’s attractive.” I flexed my toes inside my loosened shoes. “I don’t remember what the joke was.”

Dana glanced down at the screen. “Well. It worked.”

She handed the phone back to Felix and pointed toward the far wall. “The red one just got reset. Loser buys smoothies.”

I looked at the route. Near the top, a long reach led away from a hold barely wide enough for a few fingers. I saw how I’d have to turn to make it, and I wanted to find out whether I was right.

Unfortunately, I lost by one hold and bought the smoothies. Felix chose the most expensive thing on the menu. Mine was cold enough to hurt my teeth, mango with enough lime to make me take another drink anyway. We sat by the front window with our shoes off while the evening session filed in behind us.

“Same time next week?” Dana asked at the door.

“Same time,” I said. “I want another try at the red route.”

***

A couple of days later, Felix took over my stove and Dana took over my speakers when they came over for dinner.

“This playlist is wrong,” she said.

“It’s jazz.”

“It’s dinner-party jazz. It’s the music a realtor would pick.” She scrolled through my phone and changed it. A piano came in, quick and bright, followed by bass. “There.”

Felix didn’t look up from the pan he was stirring. “She’s right.”

“You can’t hear the difference from there.”