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“I like yours too,” he is also wearing a baby blue Arctic jersey, but his swallows him whole.
“Varg’s my favorite player,” the kid is bouncing in his seat; “but Dad says I can’t get his jersey until I outgrow this one.”
Considering jerseys are sixty plus dollars—I know because I bought this one for my dad for Father’s Day—I can understand his dad’s point of view. I don’t say that, though.
“He also says we got to make sure Varg doesn’t get traded first.” The kid grins at me. He’s got his two front teeth, but he’s missing a few others and it makes me think of the players. I know some of them are missing teeth, too. “I think he’s gonna stay forever.”
“Well, whose jersey do you have on now?” I ask. Hockey jerseys only have names on the back. There’s a little number on the front chest, but I don’t know the roster well enough to recognize them.
“This one is Oakes.” The kid shows me the back of his jersey where the number sixteen is stitched on in perfect lines. When he turns to face me, his face twists into a glower.
A cup appears under my nose. It’s held in a sinewy, masculine hand. A golden-tanned hand that is attached to a red and black jersey from the opposing team. No wonder the kid’s glaring. The drink-giver is clearly enemy number one.
“A virgin rum and coke,” the deep male voice says, and I recognize the cadence even if I shouldn’t. I snap my eyes up to see the man from the stairs. The one who’d seen me trip. The same man who is lowering himself into the seat next to me.
“It’s just a coke.” He smiles a crooked grin. He has perfect teeth to match his perfect hair and face. Perfection shouldn’t do anything for me, but there’s that heat again. “I’m not sure The Stand sells liquor.”
How big of a fan do you need to be to wear your team’s jersey to an away game? How big of a fan do you need to be to travel to an away game alone? A pretty big one, right? So great. Not only am I going to spend most of the game crammed into a seat that is two sizes too small, I get to do so while sitting between two people who love hockey.
The kid leans right over my body, his lean frame pressing into my stomach, and I suck in air to avoid any more contact.
“You suck, sir.” He points an accusatory finger at the drink-bringer.
So yeah. On my right is a pint-sized super fan. On my left is one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen.
Fuck.
I don’t know why I felt the need to buy the redhead a soda, except that she looks as miserable as I feel and that is something I can appreciate. I settle into a seat better suited for an eighth grader and try to send her my least creepy grin. She still hasn’t taken the cup, more concerned with shushing the kid sitting next to her. I don’t think the tiny human belongs to her, considering he’s the spitting image of a woman sitting on his other side, but Red seems invested enough in his manners. It’s cute. She’s cute. Not why I bought her a drink, but still cute.
She looks up into my eyes and, just like on the steps, my stomach heats and my breath gets shorter. She has the kind of eyes only seen on cartoon princesses. A little too big for her face, round with a color that looks like it’s been painted on. Lighter green around the pupils with a darker green band around the irises. Her lashes are red, orange-red like her hair, and they curl. I noticed those eyes right away. Most people probably do. Those eyes and that hair and that height. No wonder she almost took me off my feet, too.
“Look.” Her smile is all sugar sweetness, but her eyes stay wary. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture, and I hate to accuse you of anything, but I know better than to take a drink from a total stranger.”
I can’t fault her there. I am a complete stranger offering her a drink that I could have done anything to. I didn’t, but she doesn’t know that. She’s right to be cautious. I lift the cup to my mouth and take a long sip from the straw, letting the icy sweetness burst over my tongue. Then I fish an extra straw out of my pocket and hold the drink out again. Just in case.
“If you still don’t want it, it won’t offend me,” I say, but she takes the cup from my hand, making sure our fingers don’t touch. Then she turns to the kid next to her.
“Do you know how to call 911?” She asks, and he rolls his eyes.
“Duh, it’s 9-1-1.”
“Great. If I fall asleep or out of my chair, then take my phone out of my pocket and do that.” She grins at me, “no offense.”
I’m not offended at all. I have a sister. Anna is older than me by about five years, and already married to a great woman, but I’d have lost my mind if she’d taken a drink from a stranger without mitigating some risks, too.
The kid rolls his eyes again. “I have a phone, you know.”
“Of course you do,” the redhead shakes her head at me as if we’re sharing some private joke.
The announcers call out the starting lineup, and I force myself to watch as the home team players take the ice. They file to the bench as the announcer asks everyone to stand for the national anthem. I get to my feet. The cold always makes my thigh muscles ache and I rub my fingers into my left quad as everyone around me crosses their hands over their chests.
Vic is out at center ice, but I catch his eye. My brother grins at me and then rolls his eyes, probably at my choice of jersey. So sue me. I’m here. That’s rare enough as it is. I don’t need to wear his name plastered across my back. That brings back too many memories I’d rather avoid.
The music finishes and the organ launches into theO Canada. Roughly forty-two percent of all NHL players are Canadian and I’ve known the words to both anthems since I was a kid, but not every team plays both. The redhead sings along. Her voice is husky and deep, with a soothing lilt. I want to turn toward her, cup a hand around my ear so I can hear her better.
“I’m impressed you know the Canadian anthem,” I say as the last notes bleed away.
“That’s what happens when you’ve been watching Arctic games since birth.”
