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The kid in question has escaped to the bathroom now that we’re once again between periods. On the ice, two men in inflatable hamster balls are trying to run from the center line to the goal and back without falling. Howl is on the Jumbotron, letting a group of middle schoolers in hockey jerseys teach him how to do some dance moves I don’t think my limbs can imitate.
“I’ll take second place. That’s fine with me.” Erik pulls his buzzing phone out of his pocket and it must be a crazy coincidence, but mine goes off, too. I hold mine up to see texts from both my dad and my roommate.
Jen’s message has a grainy, blown-up photo of a red and blue blob sitting with a white and blue blob. At some point, Erik and I had made it onto the game feed and my roommate has a screenshot of the evidence.
Jen Peterson
Did you kiss that beautiful man? Because I have so many questions. And a lot of jealousy.
I’m not sure how Jen determined Erik is beautiful. He is, but the picture looks more like pieces of play dough smashed together than actual people. My dad’s message is similar, and I can practically hear him teasing me through the phone.
Dad
I think I saw you on the feed. Hard to tell with these damn tiny televisions. Are you sitting with the Varg brother?
Of course Dad would recognize Erik, even on the tiny television in his private room. Next to me, the man in question lets out a bark of laughter and tips his phone in my direction. He has a similar message, too.
Mom
Looks like you’re having fun. I’m glad I got you that ticket.
She also attached a photo. It looks like the same one Jen tried to send, but with better quality. We’re angled toward each other, both smiling as he holds both of our hands against the top of his leg. The details in the picture are still hazy—I can’t see the shade of his eyes or the sparkle in the irises—but it’s a sweet picture, intimate. It looks like two people on a date. Two people who are crazy about each other.
“We’ve been discovered.” I show him my messages, including the abstract photograph. Erik’s eyes flare as he reads the lines on my phone.
“Your dad,” he laughs, one big hand cradling the back of his neck. “No pressure or anything.”
“He’s a teddy bear,” I assure him. “My roommate is the one to worry about.”
“I thought you said she was a teacher,” Erik said.
“That’s why you should be scared. She teaches kindergarten. She can find out anything anytime and get you to do whatever she wants without you even realizing that it wasn’t up to you. Kindergarten teachers are some of the most terrifying people I’ve ever met. Except for anyone who willingly teaches middle school.” I grin because it’s true. Jen has one of the best-behaved classes I’ve ever taught. And every single one of those kiddos adores her. “Besides. I don’t think you get to throw rocks. What about your mom?”
Erik nods, lips pursed together. “Yeah, you’re going to need to move to Siberia and change your name.”
“What?” I rear back, shocked. “But she thinks you’re having fun!” I point an accusing finger at his phone. It shouldn’t matter at all if his mother approves of me. This isn’t a thing between us, but now that her name has crossed his screen, I want her to like me.
“Exactly. You’ll have to move or she’ll probably file a marriage license for us and send out the invites.”
“That seems a little premature,” I say, but relief has my heart pounding so hard that I can feel it in my throat. I’m absolutely ridiculous.
“You made me smile in the photo.” Erik shrugs his shoulders. “My mother will do more than commit a crime to try to make me happy.”
There’s a frown teasing the edges of his mouth, and I’m not sure what to make of that. My dad would do the same thing. There’s something I’m missing. About why he rarely comes to games, the flat look in his eyes when he mentions his mother or brother. There’s history there. Something most likely intertwined with his fake leg and as much as I want to press, want to know everything about this man sitting next to me, that line of thought is absolutely ridiculous.
Three hours ago, I didn’t know his name.
“She won’t actually do anything,” Erik says. “She just uh—” he rubs the back of his neck and looks out over the ice. The men in the balls are gone, replaced by a teeny tiny figure skater leaping around in a floaty blue skirt while Idina Menzel sings about the cold.
“My leg’s the reason I stopped playing. I had surgeries and had to take time off right as my brother and I were drafted into United States Hockey League. It’s been a bit of a sore spot for me over the last decade. I love seeing my brother succeed, but it was supposed to be both of us. We aren’t as close as we used to be, but my mom is still fiercely protective of me. And my siblings. I guess most moms are.”
“I get it,” I say as the little girl curtsies and leaves the ice. “My dad has some health stuff going on, and this was the first game ever that he was going to miss. I might not love hockey, but I love him. I think it’s okay to be a little crazy for the people we care about.”
“This is the first game I’ve come to in a long time,” Erik says, voice low and hoarse, and I know—Iknow—that he’s telling me something important. “In theory, I know I shouldn’t still avoid these after all this time, but—”
“Feelings aren’t always logical.”
He turns to face me. Not just his head, but his entire body, twisting at the hips to look into my eyes. He isn’t watching as the camera turns on, the animated hearts appearing as another song about kissing blares through the speaker. He’s completely focused on me, his eyes on the hands I’m twisting in my lap.
