Darkroom: A Moo U Hockey Romance

that crunchy, cheesy edge.”
“I always thought deep-dish pizza came from Chicago.”
“It does, but the Detroit kind has the sauce drizzled on top and is baked in pans that aren’t quite as deep as Chicago’s. They say that the original Detroit deep-dishes were baked in pans sourced from the automotive industry.”
“So we’re actually having not-quite-as-deep deep-dish pizza.”
“Shut up,” I said, laughing. “It’s good. You’ll see.”
The pizza was excellent. Hudson was surprised to see a rectangular pan arrive and I was happy to see a nice crunchy edge with the highly anticipated cheese bark. It crunched when I took a bite and a rich tangy umami mixture of the crust, toppings and sauce exploded in my mouth.
“Oh my God, this is so good,” I said, panting a little because it was still piping hot.
“I don’t even have words,” Hudson said, after taking a bite. “This is the best damn pizza I’ve ever had.”
For a couple of minutes, we didn’t speak. We reveled in pizza nirvana. The beer was the perfect complement and we clinked bottles when we started on our second.
After he polished off his first piece, Hudson said, “We have two more questions to get done, right? So choose a number.”
“Let’s go with our table number, 16.”
He scrolled down the list. “Okay, I’ll go first with this one. ’What do you strongly suspect but have no proof of?’ I strongly suspect you like me, but I don’t have any solid proof. I’ll have to kiss you some more to be sure.”
My face turned red but I gave him my flirtiest smile.
“I plead the fith,” I said. Damn it. “Fifth. I plead the fifth.”
“I also strongly suspect someone is a lightweight, and I think I do have proof.”
I scoffed, even though he was right. It didn’t take much to have me stumbling over my words.
“Whatever. I’m not sure why being able to drink a lot of liquor is such a laudable thing. The way I see it, I can get the same buzz as everyone else but for a lot less money.”
“Touché,” he said, tapping my bottle with his. “Your turn. What do you strongly suspect but have no proof of?”
Unfortunately, this question hit a little close to home.
“Hey,” Hudson said, sitting up in his chair. “What’s wrong? All of a sudden you look like you got bad news.”
He reached across the table and took my hand. His was cool and damp from the condensation off his beer bottle, but I didn’t mind. I was heating up from the way he was looking at me, his eyes full of concern.
“It’s nothing,” I said. “The question reminds me of something that happened when I was a kid that I really should be over by now.”
“You want to talk about it?” he asked, his thumb stroking across the back of my hand. “I’m a good listener.”
“No, it’s ancient history. I don’t think about it that often.” I shook my head to clear out the bad memories. “To answer the question,” I said, “I strongly suspect money can buy happiness. No, there’s no real proof of that, but I’d be happy to test the theory any time.”
“Has your family had to struggle?” he asked, concern still shadowing his brow.
“Oh, no,” I assured him. “No, we’ve always had food, a roof over our heads, all the necessities. I just meant I fantasize about how much easier life would be if I didn’t have to worry about money.”
“Honestly, my family has money.”
Ha. They were wealthy.
“But if you don’t have money worries, you end up worrying about other things. And it doesn’t guarantee happiness. That’s for damn sure. Not the real kind anyway, not the lasting, deep-in-your-heart kind of happiness.” He frowned and scratched at something stuck to the table. “I think real happiness comes from things like loving and being loved, doing good things, fulfilling some kind of purpose. The work you’re going to do, for example. Helping those kids live normal lives.”
My heart did a little somersault when his eyes met mine. Tonight, they were the color of the hydrangeas that bloomed in my parents’ garden—deep blue with a hint of lavender and that intriguing green ring around the irises. I couldn’t look away.
“That’s the kind of thing that will make you happy.”
“What about you?” I asked. “Does hockey make you happy?”
“Sure it does. It’s what I’m meant to do.”
“That’s what your family thinks. I want to know what you think. Does hockey make you happy?”
This time he was the one who looked thoughtful.
“It does,” he said after a long moment. “I love being part of a team, because there’s nothing better than being in sync with your teammates and executing a perfect play. There’s a lot of trust that has to occur on the ice and when you give your trust to a teammate and they come through, or vice versa, it’s the best.”
“And there’s the satisfaction of putting everything you know into practice too,” I said. “Using skills you’ve honed with hours and hours of work.”
“Exactly. I love that too. Hockey is never easy, but that’s what I like about it. All the highs you experience—scoring a goal or killing a penalty or winning the game—they’re sweet because of the challenge.”
“So meeting challenges can bring real happiness, too,” I said.
“Yes, absolutely. We should write a book,” he said with a laugh.
After tackling one last question—an easy one since we both just wanted to be done with it—he paid the bill and we headed back to the campus.
I was pretty drowsy—a result of the delicious pizza and the two beers. I must have fallen asleep on the five-minute drive back because I woke to find we were parked in front of Carter Hall.
“Oh my gosh. I can’t believe I fell asleep.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“How long was I out?”
“Not long. About five minutes. You were so peaceful, I didn’t want to wake you.”
The air was cold, but I was warm with anticipation. He was going to kiss me again and oh, did I want him to.