Hockey Hotel

A dozen or so 10-year-old boys descended upon an Extended Stay continental breakfast.¹ Each had a matching navy blue knit cap. A traveling hockey team?

I watched one boy lift the top of the hot water dispenser and pour the contents of what I assumed was an oatmeal packet into its tiny aperture. He then closed the lid and pumped. A trickle of water flowed into his cup. He looked at me, puzzled.

“What did you put in there?”

He held up the packet for me to see. It was powdered hot chocolate.

“You could just pour the hot chocolate mix in a cup first, then put the hot water on top of that.”

“That’s a really good idea,” he said as if I’d just solved something quantum related.

Then he reopened the dispenser lid and attempted to remove the brown powder with his fingers like a carnival crane claw game.

“Or you could just start over,” I said, promising.

I thought about alerting hotel staff about getting a replacement hot water dispenser, but I still hadn’t procured my first cup of premade coffee. So, I pumped an urn, pocketed the prepackaged foods I thought would give me the best shot at food pyramid success, and left as if I’d never seen it happen.

Doors parted, and I elevated to my room, showered, then returned to floor zero from the sixth floor. I got more coffee, walked to the smoking area, and braced myself against the winter wind.

Kid Troop, led by an adult, marched by. Hot Chocolate-less Boy locked eyes with me. Whether his look was with gratitude or “Please don’t tell anyone what I did” is a toss-up.

Later, I was assessed for what I earlier guessed while walking past another faction of blue-capped boys (and a girl) seated on benches between the lobby and a rear exit.

“You guys are 10, right?”

“I’m eleven,” said one of the boys.²

“Hockey?”

“Yes,” said the boy.

Then they giggled because that’s what tweens do when strange adults engage children they don’t know.

I recalled seeing a motor coach bus in the parking lot and asked, “What state?”

“What?”

“Where are you from?”

“Tibet.”

“Huh?”

“Quebec. Quebec City.”

“I’ve been to Quebec City,” I said, lying but feeling justified that I’d at least been to Montreal. Twice.

1. I didn’t know if they were 10 or not. They were for sure under 16, so I couldn’t just card them.

2. While no one admitted they were 10, it’s obvious they were because the 11-year-old made an effort to tell me he was 11, which showed he wanted to set himself apart. That’s not proof, you might assert. Fine. Then you tell me—if most of them were 12, what competitive sports boy on Earth would offer they were younger than the rest? I would, and I did, because I embraced the fact that I was the youngest boy in all my classes in school. I stand corrected. For now.