The seats in the arena were almost empty. Alison thought back to her time as a figure skater and watching the occasional peewee hockey game played by Michael or Patrick. At least those had a small smattering of parents and family members to make some noise. Here, for the in-house league, aside from a few girlfriends, clustered together just above the bench, the game was played strictly for the enjoyment of the participants. There wasn’t even a referee or team uniforms, only a vague distinction between light and dark jerseys. On Patrick’s, she recognized the McGill insignia.

Still, as she sat alone from her vantage point, it occurred to her only later to go right down to the first row and watch from ice level. She became caught up in the speed, strength and agility of the players, and the intensity of the competition as they marshalled the puck back and forth across the rink. Her thoughts trickled back to a few long-ago high school tournaments she watched. She had a crush on the team’s centre and scoring star, Steven. Being a year ahead of her, he wouldn’t have even been aware of Alison’s existence; she was at that age she had a lot to learn about make-up and how to dress. Still, Steven was always a major presence whenever he was around at school: in the cafeteria, hallway, and even a distraction if he was in the library at the same time.

On the ice, bulked up with pads, his movements became much more primal, animal-like. He moved with a predatory menace. She often felt herself in a prolonged sense of swoon when he was on the ice and the competition heightened late in an exciting game. The two centres facing off for the puck became rutting animals in her imagination, the race for the puck to the corner a clash of lions, leaving the foe vanquished, sometimes in a heap on the ice. Or the charge to the net on the breakaway, with the opposing goalie falling to his knees, only to watch the puck fly past helplessly. Later, in her daydreams during afternoon classes, these images would come back with an erotic charge, only this time it was she alone facing him on the ice. She in her white figure skates and flared tunic. In her thoughts, she was the one to feel his weight crushing her to the boards, she was the one left crumpled on the ice. He would come again to her nighttime dreams, this time she was less clothed again, outside the locker rooms back at the school gym. Steve was the last one still inside. Tentatively, with a vague sense of terror, but unable to stop herself, she would venture past the closed door, follow the sound of the water, past the lockers, towards the showers.

After the game, she found herself waiting in the reception area, which was close by the entrance to the men’s change room. She, and the small clutch of girlfriends she had seen earlier, were treated to a steady parade of men: fitter, leaner and more muscular than most men she saw in her average day. Unmistakable too was the way the men looked at them as they walked past: hungry, searching, like the girls were a bin of fresh fruit at a market, to be picked, fondled and taken or left at whim. Eventually, Andrei came out, lugging his stick, skates and a heavy-looking bag. In the European fashion, they greeted each other with kisses on alternate cheeks. Up close, he smelt of soap and shampoo. His hair was still wet.

Patrick was not long behind, coming out with similar gear in tow. “Andrei said you’d be in the stands today.”

“I’m not even sure what the score was. Who won?”

“The score doesn’t really matter,” there were lots of goals, Alison remembered, “but our side out-played them a little, not by much,” Andrei ventured, probably with some feigning of modesty. She remembered he was a fast and adept skater.

She looked at Patrick and said, “We’re going to see Forbidden Planet. Everyone’s talking about it. Do you want to come with us?”

Patrick winced at the choice, given Andrei’s recent reassignment. “Thanks. I’ll pass. I’m really beat.”

“Robots, space ships, I thought it would be right up your alley.”

“Naw, thanks. You two go. Besides, I have a stack of assignments waiting to be marked.”

By now they had made their way out to the parking lot, the last of the late-afternoon light had all but faded. A cool wind swept between the campus buildings. Alison congratulated herself on wearing slacks. “Throw your stuff in the trunk; I’ll drop you off at home. We still have some time to kill before the film.” The two heavy bags all but filled the trunk; a detectable odour lingered for more than a week after. In deference to the situation, Patrick took the back seat, leaving Andrei to ride shotgun.

“You sure you won’t come with us?” Alison said one last time outside the rooming house. And with a teasing peck on the cheek, “I bet you’d come if it was Doris Day.”

Having dropped Patrick off, and watched the film, they tried to decide where to eat. Being a Sunday, the choices were few. “I remember going to a place called the Manotick Inn once. It’s open Sundays – not too far south of Ottawa. Beside the Rideau River.”

“You’re the driver,” Andrei shrugged, having no better suggestion, but feeling apprehensive about how far south Manotick might be. He had only heard the name.

At the edge of town, the roads opened up into farmland, now fallow for the season, with traces of snow catching the moon’s rays with ghost-like forms. The big Chevy engine devoured the intervening miles. Alison was used to the darkness and twistings of the country road, Andrei less so. Aware of his form beside her, she thought again of Steve’s from so many year’s back. Andrei’s frame was nowhere near as imposing, but her imagination traced the muscles which must still be fired and rippling from the afternoon’s workout. She was also detecting the sense of fatigue that had settled onto his body, noticeable at first during the movie, now more so in the darkness beside her, illuminated at intervals by on-coming headlights. At the Inn, they both ordered hamburgers, with draft beer.

“How did you learn to play the piano so well?” Alison poked at her side salad, envious of Andrei’s french fries. The room was quiet and they were left to feed the jukebox with dimes to give the place some semblance of atmosphere. The waitress had seemed to forget anyone was in the dining room at all after bringing the meal.

“My mom played. She had learned back in the old country. She played at the church on Sundays and took in students after school.”

“Back in Timmons?” Andrei nodded. “What did your father do?”

“He was a miner. He’s retired now. Health problems. They all have them, or develop them quickly.”

“Was he in the union?”

“They all were. He went to the meetings, although he wasn’t receptive to their Marxist rhetoric.”

“Why not?”

He suddenly recalled that Patrick had warned him about what he said to journalists, even in casual conversations. Queen’s pawn gambit. There it was laid out in front of him. He dipped a French fry thoughtfully into the gravy. “Well, unions are, of course, almost essential for people like miners. There’s no denying, they’re exploited. The worst of the worst. But he never lost the memories of how things were when they had to leave Poland.”

“How was it?”

“Desperate. German spies, Bolshevik sympathizers. Whatever it took to get through the day. Whatever it took to get your hands on a few morsels of food. Human nature is seldom noble, easily debased.”

“You said something about your family owning a farm.”

“Correct, my father had an inheritance from a local bourgeoisie family with commercial interests. My mother had ties back to Tsarist Russia in the east. She had memories of when her family almost had life and death over the serfs. Even to me, and my brothers and sisters, she was a terror in some ways. Spare the rod, spoil the child. You know the type.”  He caught himself talking about things he normally kept bottled up. He looked at Alison pleadingly.

“You don’t believe what they say about worker’s paradise, or things like that?”

“My idea of paradise doesn’t involve work.”

“But isn’t work somehow ennobling, at least if it’s not exploitative and debasing?”

“You’re in a union at the newspaper, aren’t you? You probably know more about such things than I do.”

“I pay the dues, certainly. And attend the meetings. But the kicker is, at the time they start to talk about anything of importance, they suddenly look at the women, expecting us to serve the coffee and sandwiches.”

“See what I mean about human nature? Who serves the coffee and sandwiches in paradise?”

Back in town, Alison angled for an invite for a drink (she normally didn’t have to angle). But she could tell the beer and drive back through the country had sapped the last of the energy in his muscles. He made a drowsy excuse about an early meeting, leaned forward for a half-hearted kiss. Then he lugged his hockey equipment out of the trunk and up the stairs of the Glebe apartment.