AllFreeNovel
Share Us
There’s still time before the game starts, but most of the seats are already full. The air is crisp, but not frigid. It smells of metal and popcorn, with a sour undertone of beer and sweat. And okay, it’s already better than I expected. Better than the mad crush of people lining up to get inside. It’s not great. I’d still rather be home, but it’s only one evening. I can handle anything for a few hours.
I pick my way down the rows, keeping a close eye on each end seat. There are no letters, just numbers, and I can’t figure out if the seats are counting up or down. I feel the stares of the other people following me. I’m used to staring. I’m used to commentary. That’s one perk of being tall my whole life. I was the tallest in my class by first grade, and I’d held onto that title until two boys surpassed me in my senior year of high school.
Six feet is tall for everyone, but it isn’t just my height that draws attention. I’m big everywhere. Not willowy, not waiflike. Solid. Ursula from the little mermaid. I have rounded hips and a soft belly that folds when I sit. My thighs have dimples. My copper orange hair draws attention too. It’s supposed to be curly, but it can’t decide what to do most days and frizzes around my shoulders and down my back. Who has the time to constantly blow dry and straighten? Okay, many people, but not me.
I’m not expecting the buzzer from the Jumbotron, although I should be. It’s not like I didn’t see the numbers count down. I feel my foot slip on the edge of the step and I grip the center railing for support as I sit down hard on the cold concrete. Better than falling face-first down the steps, but still embarrassing. I glance around to see if anyone is staring, but everyone nearby has their heads buried in their phones. Small miracle. I use the railing to lever myself upright and dust off the back of my leggings. Nothing wounded but my pride, and even that is relatively unscathed, since no one appeared to have noticed.
“Good thing you weren’t holding a beer, eh?”
The voice startles me all over again, but this time I stay on my feet.
I look up into a pair of hazel eyes, mostly brown with green streaks fanning out from the center of the dark pupils. Pupils that shift and expand as I stare up at him. The lashes are a dusty blonde color, but so long that it’s genetically unfair. He is looking right at me, not up, not even from a step down, which means he’s tall—well over six feet—besides having gorgeous eyes. His hair is shorter on the sides, almost spiky, with a longer swoop of sand blond falling over his forehead. A stylish cut that he probably perfected before coming here. His face is clean shaven, jaw and cheekbones sharp enough to slice bread. Something hot and liquid unfurls in my belly, and it’s enough to make me snap out of it.
I turn away, staring past his shoulder at the slick of ice. “Uh yeah.” I’m ever the picture of eloquence. “Good thing I don’t drink beer.”
The man’s lips pull up as if he wants to smile.
“What is your drink of choice?”
“Rum and coke,” I try not to let the statement sound like a question, but he’s attractive enough to fluster me. Hot enough that I’m struggling for words. I thought that kind of thing only happened in books.
“Good choice.” He nods, stepping around me to continue his walk up the stairs. “Careful the rest of the way.”
He gifts me the last words when we’re shoulder to shoulder. When he’s close enough that I can feel his body heat even through his clothes. Anyone else might consider this moment a meet-cute. Locking eyes with a handsome stranger, exchanging some banter, feeling the tingles start low. They’re all classic signs, but there aren’t any romantic possibilities here and I won’t see him again. Not with nineteen-thousand other people here to watch the game.
I refuse to turn and watch him go, instead focusing on the confounding seat numbers. I’m headed in the right direction, but I’m also nearing the glass partitions that block the ice from the crowd. That can’t be right, can it? Hockey-illiterate or not, even I know that this is exceptional seat territory. If only that couple at security could see me now, they’d for sure be pooping themselves. Even if it were true that I am less-deserving of an amazing view of the game than, say, a genuine fan, my dad is one hundred percent deserving. He should have the best spot in the house.
He might have one.
The seat is in the second row, one spot in from the very end. There’s barely enough room for me to crabwalk past the first seat. My thighs touch both the back of the chair in front of me, and the folded plastic seat next to me. I stare down at my spot, and just know that I’m going to feel those armrests cutting into my body. My knees are going to touch the seat in front of me, too. So not comfortable at all. I’ve been on commercial airlines with better economy seating and in smart cars that have felt roomier.I’m doing this for Dad,I remind myself. He’d much rather be here, and he isn’t a tiny guy either. If he can stick out games multiple times a month, then I can suck it up and survive one.
I’m right. My knees do press against the seat in front of me, and I have to bend my legs at an unnatural angle to avoid kicking the person in front of me, too. My shoulders are wider than the seat back and I’m increasingly aware that I’m taking up more than my allotted space, but honestly, who were these seats even made for? Children? Maybe no one will sit next to me. Unlikely, but not impossible. How many single seats sell? Aren’t people more likely to watch the game in pairs? Maybe whoever bought the end seat would swap? It would at least provide extra leg room.
The music changes and men in bulky padding and arctic blue jerseys trickle out onto the ice. Someone throws handfuls of pucks out in front and the players skate looping circles as they send the black discs barreling towards the net. At the far end of the arena, white jerseys edged in red and black are doing the same thing. It’s kind of cool to watch, like holding a kaleidoscope up to the sun and spinning the wheel to watch the patterns shift. I like this better than the bare-knuckle brawling. It’s also nice to see where the puck is as the players move. Everything goes too fast for me to follow during actual gameplay, and then I feel like an idiot.
My phone vibrates in the pocket of my leggings and I dig it out, swiping to answer the call.
“Hi Dad. You didn’t tell me you have the best seat in the house.” His seat looks right out on the Arctic bench.
“You made it!” He sounds tired even through the phone.
“Of course I did. The little hockey men just started skating and I swear I’ll watch some of the game before I pull out my book.”
Dad laughs, and it’s a boom of sound I’d recognize anywhere. I can almost see him with his head thrown back, mouth wide, nose scrunched as he belts his amusement into the air.
“You’re a good girl, Quinnie Bee,” he says, and I feel guilt sucker punch me in the chest. I’m not good. I can at least pretend to be enjoying this a bit more. An amazing seat at a professional hockey game? There are people who’d pay through the nose for this opportunity.
“I love you, Dad,” I say instead, heat prickling the backs of my eyes.
“I love you too. Go. Have fun. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The call cuts off and I snap a few photos of the players on the ice. If nothing else, at least they’re fun to look at. Okay, some of them look like infants, but a few of the older ones are handsome in an oozing-testosterone-and-sex-appeal kind of way. I read somewhere that the average height of NHL players is six foot one, but at least one player—for Boston, maybe—is six foot nine. I’ve seen enough advertisements with chiseled abs to know that hockey players are in incredible shape, but with all the padding it’s easy to forget. I’ve gone feral over my fair share of fictional hockey players, but I’d never understood the appeal of the real thing. Maybe tonight will change that. Not that I have time for any of those pesky things like feelings or relationships. Not right now.
My dad’s favorite player stops by the bench and smiles at one of his teammates. I try not to feel like a stalker as I zoom in and snap his picture. He’s probably used to having fans take his photo, but I still cringe as I send it to my dad. The response I get back is full of unintelligible emojis. Dad’s not the best texter.
The buzzer goes off again and the players file off the ice. A glance at my watch tells me we’re about fifteen minutes from the start of the game. A family slides into the row on my left, an elementary-aged kid taking the seat next to me. I give him a friendly smile and nod at the harried looking parents who are shepherding two younger kids into the row as well.
“I like your jersey,” the kid says, and I laugh.
