It takes a nail

One of my favorite truisms on dating came from an unlikely source: the Fort Myers-based Florida Everblades. Turns out, our own minor-league professional hockey team, its ranks populated with Michiganders and Canadians, taught me a thing or two about love.

It was the winter of 2003, and I was back home in Florida after a year-long stint in France, a sojourn that had begun on a disastrous note. And, by disaster, I mean me, weeping inconsolably in my recently turned ex-boyfriend's Parisian apartment, snot running down my face, eyes puffing and reddening, as he said apologetically in his beautiful French, "I'm just not in love with you."

I lasted out the year (he had the courtesy to dump me in the first month of my teaching contract), slinking back to his place in the middle of the night for post-break-up make-out sessions, alternately berating and congratulating myself the next morning. When the school year ended, I declined the option to renew my contract and headed back to the blue skies and balmy weather of south Florida.

But the memory of him lingered, reminding me of the way my skin would still smell of his cologne on the gritty, early-morning metro rides back to my apartment. Even in Fort Myers, an ocean and a heartbreak away, that love haunted me.

Burrowing my bruised heart in literature, I stumbled across a book of witticisms at the local library. Flipping its yellowed and coffee-stained pages, I came across this gem: "It takes a nail to drive out a nail." At the time, the implications barely registered. It was only later, flushed with triumph and singing the praises of professional hockey, that I understood what the expression really meant.

At the beginning of the hockey season, the paper printed a roster of all the Everblades players, complete with height, weight, hometown and - best of all - color photos. To my girl friends and I, hockey neophytes, it was a veritable menu of good looking bachelors.

Overnight, we became Germain Arena regulars, eating nachos and chili dogs like the other long-time fans. We stood up and cheered with the crowd when the Everblades scored and cheered louder still when a fight broke out (secretly hoping that more than gloves would come off in the throw down).

On New Year's Eve of that year, a source in our groupie network revealed where the players would be celebrating after the game. We couldn't believe our good luck. After months of watching from the nosebleed section, we had a chance to meet the team up close.

Decked out in mini-skirts and plunging necklines that even now make me cringe, we made our way to the swanky venue. We were all nerves and anticipation, unsure if they would be at the bar or if we would even catch their eye.

Our fears were unfounded. The stars of professional hockey had aligned and the night was, in a word, magic. We not only met the players, but spent an evening of revelry that, now, can only be described as debauchery. Champagne circulated and drinks flowed as the bar welcomed in the New Year with a raucous cheer.

As my favorite player, heretofore seen only from the stands, draped a chiseled arm around my waist and pulled me in for a kiss, my mind barely registered the light tink! tink! tink! in the background.

I didn't recognize his handiwork immediately, but when I finally did, I was grateful. The French thorn in my side had finally been driven out . . . and by a hockey stick, at that.