August?

It looked a lot like him when he showed up to the Brooklyn Lines Café wearing his suit at the end of the day. His hair was slicked back the same way. His stance all the same.

But something felt off. He felt off. He was stiff and looked like he felt out of place.

“You seem nervous. Don’t worry I won’t look while you’re working.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m certain you won’t be tearing your eyes off the game.”

Blindly, I started a light doodle of the bleachers, with fans in the distance. They were what kept this game alive. All I needed was some action on the ice to get me going.

When he finally got on, my chest bloomed. His helmet was on, but I knew it was him. The way he moved. There was a certain gruffness to it, purpose, aim. Not arrogance and misplaced confidence.

That’s how I knew the August impersonator in the bleachers was really Troy.

What the hell were these two up to tonight?

By the first intermission, I had a rough draft of one option; number nineteen passing his fans with signs. You only saw the back of him in this one, but the fans with the signs would say it all. For the second, I started a new sketch, depending on how the game went, I’d choose which one I’d detail later.

When the game ended, Hartman proudly welcomed praise from his team, but I saw the underlying frustration. The clenched jaw. It occurred to me this was the first time I’d seen him since our playing hooky date in Manhattan. August tensed before tentatively waving up at the stands before disappearing with the rest of his team.

Pleased with one of the two options I had to work with later, I shut my sketchbook and stood.

Frankie raised his brows. “You gonna clean those up, right?”

“You said you wouldn’t look.”

“It’s the reason we’re here, Harp, I had to look over at least once.”

I shook my head and pushed the man playfully to guide him up the ramp. “Let’s get out of here, I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” he rubbed his stomach. “Come on, I’ll take you out for a bite.”

We came in Frankie’s car and started toward the parking lot, exiting the building from the back exit, which was less crowded.

I wrapped my coat tighter as the cool wind blew against us.

“Harper?” I heard someone call behind me and turned.

“Oh Harper, I thought that was you.” Grace Hartman tapped her husband on the shoulder, as he seemed to be waiting for someone to emerge from the crowd.

Oh jeez.