NHL 12

—Did you watch the game today?

“Yes, I did. It was interesting. Oh, right. Congratulations on scoring a goal in your return game. And for winning, too.”

—Thank you.

As he offered his congratulations, a low laugh followed the short reply. It felt like he was whispering right next to his ear, so Joeon stealthily moved the phone away from his ear.

—But you didn’t see my message?

“Ah…”

A hesitant Joeon rattled off the excuse he had prepared in advance.

“I just saw it now. It was too chaotic after the game ended. I rushed home and showered right away, so I checked it a little late.”

—I understand. It was nothing important, I just contacted you to see if we could meet for a moment.

“Aren’t you tired?”

—Me? Not at all. I’m in top condition.

“I guess worrying about your injury was pointless.”

—Of course.

Dylan’s voice, which seemed to still be elated with the joy of victory, was more excited than usual and overflowing with confidence. It even felt as if there was an arrogance of one who had survived the competition between males and seized the peak. Joeon was like a herbivore who had never survived in such a pack on his own strength. He somehow felt intimidated, and dealing with him became awkward.

—Um, so what I mean is.

Just as Joeon was trying to time how he could end the call, a sound like a thunderbolt struck his ears.

—Can you spare a moment? I have something to give you.

“Right now?”

Sensing his hesitation, Dylan quickly took back his words.

—It’s too late, isn’t it? I know. I’m sorry. It’s not anything important, so let’s just forget about it.

“No, wait…”

—I’ll leave it with the concierge, so you can pick it up.

“Pardon?”

Saying he would leave it with the concierge meant that he would be stopping by Joeon’s condominium.

While he hesitated in confusion, he heard the sound of Dylan getting out of his car. He seemed to be walking somewhere, then stopped and was silent for a long while. He brought the still-connected phone back to his ear and muttered in a dejected voice.

—Come to think of it, I can’t leave it if you don’t tell me what unit number it is. I’m not asking you to tell me. I’ll give this to you when we meet later.

Will there be a day when we meet again later, as he says? That itself was a question. He was also curious about what on earth he was trying to give him that he would come all the way here after a game. It felt too heartless to send away someone who had come to his neighborhood, which was not even close to the arena, on a fool’s errand, and Joeon’s soft heart would not allow it.

He put a hand to his forehead and let out a sigh-filled response.

“It’s fine. Find my name and press the call button. I’ll open the lobby door for you.”

After finishing the call, Joeon sent his unit number via message. Not long after, a call came through the lobby interphone. Joeon, who had opened the door, anxiously waited for Dylan, combing through his hair, which had just been dried and was puffed up like a chestnut bur, with his fingers.

Telling him the building he lived in last time had been a coincidence that happened in the flow of conversation, and at that time, he had not felt particularly hesitant because there were over 500 households living in the same condominium. He had never anticipated a situation where Dylan would come to visit.

But this time, he had blurted out his unit number, so the smokescreen of 500 households was now meaningless. That being said, was Dylan a suspicious person? That was not it.

Wasn’t he a person whose name and face were widely known? He had been good to him, too. The strange sense of rejection and anxiety enveloping Joeon now was a different kind from the wariness one would have towards an unspecified stranger.

While he was lost in thought, the sound of the elevator arriving could be heard from a distance. At the presence approaching his door, Joeon finally noticed that he was still in a bathrobe and froze.

It seemed impolite to greet a guest like this. Well, if it came to being impolite, Dylan was more so.

In any case, it did not seem like Dylan would stay long. Joeon figured he would understand since they were both men, and opened the front door as soon as he heard a knock. Standing in front of the door was Dylan, dressed in light clothing, looking as if he had rushed over right after showering post-game.

“You’re here?”

“Sorry for being so late at night…”

Dylan paused for a moment, then slowly looked Joeon up and down, and with his gaze fixed on his reddish cheeks that were flushed, he gave a sociable smile.

“…I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

Joeon, who was looking around, could not just leave Dylan standing idly in the empty hallway and stealthily opened the door wider. It was an excessively quiet night to stand in the hallway and talk.

“Come on in for now.”

Dylan, who seemed to be lost in thought, soon muttered, “Excuse me,” and carefully stepped inside.

The inside of the apartment was quite warm, with the heat of the heater air pouring out through the vents, and the faint smell of soap and moisture lingering in the air, as if someone had just finished showering, spread throughout the place.

Dylan’s body, which had been chilled by the cold winter air, heated up in an instant. While he took off his shoes and changed into guest slippers, Joeon led him to the kitchen.

“Aren’t you cold? You’re in a short-sleeved shirt in this weather.”

“I train on the ice every day, so this is nothing.”

“True, I suppose so.”

Joeon showed a faint smile at Dylan’s boastful banter. It was a statement with considerable validity rather than just empty bluffing, so he felt no room to refute it.

“Still, if you’d like, shall I get you a cup of warm tea? I only have one kind, though. It’s a tea that Koreans enjoy drinking in the winter. The taste is similar to lemon tea but a little sweeter and…”

Joeon, feeling awkward in the silence, began chattering and explaining about the tea. Dylan was about to say it was fine but then watched the back of Joeon putting water in a kettle and nodded his head as if mesmerized. He had no interest in the tea.

“I’ll take you up on that, then.”

Because the belt of his bathrobe had loosened and was draped over his shoulders, the white, straight line of his neck below the back of his hair was completely exposed.

The slow, leisurely movements of pressing the switch on the electric kettle and then opening a drawer to take out a glass jar of citron tea blended together in a strangely enchanting atmosphere.

When he opened the upper cabinet door and looked inside the shelf, there were no decent teacups suitable for serving, perhaps because he had never invited guests over. He was hesitating, embarrassed to serve tea in a mug he had received as a promotional gift at a university or company event, when Dylan’s presence drew very close behind him.

“I’ll help you.”

The adjoined shadow loomed large over Joeon. The moment his body flinched, an arm extended long over his shoulder. It was so close that if he took just one step back, he would touch the other’s torso.

Dylan’s hand took out a white cup with the University of Toronto’s name emblazoned on it. A strong scent of perfume, as if freshly sprayed, came from him, who had washed up cleanly after cooling down right after the game.

“Two cups should be enough, right?”

This time, his hand reached for a cup with a tacky company logo on it. It was something that had been distributed to employees as a commemorative item when a new product was launched.

After taking those out, the shelf was utterly empty. Like his narrow and shallow human relationships or his unremarkable, short, and shabby life, nothing was left but dust.

“I can reach it myself.”

At the words he spat out expressing his dissatisfaction, Dylan, who had put down the cups, smiled as if sorry for having bruised his pride and held his palms up in the air. It was a sign of surrender.

However, instead of stepping back or looking around the apartment, he stood right behind Joeon and quietly watched the process of him spooning citron tea into the cups. For some reason, his face grew hot from the blatant stare he felt next to his ear.

“This is citron marmalade, and you just have to mix it in hot water.”

Joeon, mistaking his gaze for curiosity about the tea, began an unasked-for explanation.

“I think it’s good for colds because it has a lot of vitamin C. That’s why people drink it a lot in the winter.”

While waiting for the water to boil, Joeon stealthily rolled his eyes to observe Dylan’s movements. Although he was facing him, Dylan’s gaze was directed a little lower than Joeon’s face, on the path leading down past his collarbone.

“People also drink a lot of ginger tea.”

Joeon said, re-tightening the collar of his robe, which had stealthily come open while his guard was down for a moment. Then he turned around and looked at the dining table. It was a basic island bar, embarrassingly small to be called a dining table.

“Why don’t you sit and wait? It’s almost ready.”

“Ah, sure.”

Dylan, who had been standing blankly for a moment, willingly complied and moved to a stool. The electric kettle made a bubbling sound and then switched off with a click. In front of it, Joeon cinched his belt once more. It was quite bothersome.

Soon, two cups with sweet, warm steam rising from them were placed on the table.

“Here you go. I mixed in some cold water, so it won’t be that hot.”

The cup with the company logo was placed in front of Dylan. It was because that one was at least less old. At the same time, as he placed the other cup on the opposite side from Dylan, Dylan gestured with his head toward the stool next to him.

“Don’t just stand there, sit here. There’s no chair on that side.”

Isn’t the picture of two men sitting side by side a little odd? A useless thought crossed his mind, but he was also worried that if he deliberately brought the empty stool from next to Dylan over here to sit opposite him, it would seem like he was creating distance, so Joeon obediently did as he was told and went around the table to sit next to him.

Even though he tried not to sit too close, their elbows bumped because of Dylan’s broad shoulders. In the end, he compromised by placing his left arm on his thigh to avoid him. Dylan, noticing this, deliberately nudged Joeon’s left arm.

As he turned his head with a quizzical look, Dylan’s hand tapped the object on the island bar with his fingertip. There was an object there that he had not seen before.

Inside a square-shaped, transparent plastic case that seemed to be for storing memorabilia, there was a round, black object. The object, which anyone could see was a puck, had the Polar Bears’ polar bear logo engraved on its rubber surface, and in the empty space, today’s date and Dylan’s signature, scribbled with a pure white marker, were shining dazzlingly.

“…What is this?”

“It’s the puck from the commemorative goal on my first day back.”

“You mean the puck from when you scored a goal earlier, Dylan?”

“Yes. I got it.”

“Are you allowed to do that?”

“Of course. There are tons of pucks on the rink.”