Scott does not want to be here.

It’s nothing new to him — just another event he has to show his face too. Another event he has to do alone. Another event he has to give a dazzling smile and speak to people about hockey, as if every other aspect of his life doesn’t already revolve around it.

He would much rather be at home. Watching a movie. Reading. Anything but this. He’s drinking whiskey that is burning worse than the sip before and he’s talking to a woman that he is really not interested in. She’s a few years older— okay, Scott’s being generous, she’s much much older, and he’s also certain that her husband is around here somewhere.

But Scott does what he does best. Smile. Talk in that smooth voice that people seem to love.

The woman, Cynthia, he thinks her name is, is talking about how the team has been playing. Scott doesn’t tell her that she’s using the wrong terminology. Doesn’t tell her that she definitely does not understand the rules of hockey like she thinks she does. And truly, the only time he smiles tonight is when she calls an Odd-Man Rush an ‘Old-Man Rush’. But he likes to think of himself as a gentleman, so he remains polite.

They stand near the front of the kitchen door, where he can smell the food. The double doors swing open, and Scott intends to move out the way, but if anything, he’s more in the way as the waiter carrying his plate of food crashes right into him.

Scott stumbles back. The waiter, you, drops to his knees, scrambling to pick up the mess on the floor. When you apologise, Scott shakes his head. “No worries, seriously, are you okay?”

You keep going, apologising and picking the foot up. Scott looks down at you. “Seriously, it’s okay. No damage done.” He smiles.

A genuine one.

He extends a hand to help you up. “It was my fault, anyways. I shouldn’t be standing in front of the door.”