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“How sweet,” Mom says, and it’s a leading statement. This is probably the only time I still know what my mother will do. She’s waiting for me to agree with her, to open the door to the other things I like about Quinn Cooper. The list is long. My mom’s determined to partner me up with someone, anyone. Determined to know that I’m not alone even as I hold myself apart. This is when our conversations always end. She asks about dates, I say nothing, and then we say goodbye. I don’t want to say nothing about Quinn.
“Does she look happy?” I ask, swallowing past a lump in my throat. “Hockey isn’t something she watches.”
“And she still came with her father?” If I’m not careful, Mom really will plan our wedding. If I’m not careful, I’ll let her. “She looked happy enough when they showed them last time. You can always text her.”
I can, but that feels intrusive. I don’t want her to think she owes me insight into her feelings. Seeing a smile, or hearing about it secondhand, is different. It’s not sliding into her messages and demanding that she talk to me. Something she might feel obligated to do because of the ticket, even if she’d rather keep our distance.
Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I don’t know how to communicate with anyone, not just with my family. I don’t want distance from Quinn, but I don’t think I get a choice.
“I’ll let you get back to the game. Vic needs his good luck charm.” I tell my mom instead.
“He does! I’ll talk to you on Monday, and we’re so excited to see you again! I love you.” She hangs up the phone without waiting for my response. Ending the call like she has places and people to see. For the first time, I wonder if she might run off so fast because she’s afraid I won’t say it back. I should work on that.
I turn on my TV and flip through channels. I’m barely paying attention to what’s on. The itchy feeling is back, and I want to dig my nails into my skin and scratch until I’m raw and bleeding. Until things are back to normal. I scroll right past a hockey game and either I’m a lucky bastard or I’m cursed because I backtrack just in time to see a closeup of the Arctic’s bench. There’s my brother, scowling and grumpy—his team is still trailing by one—and then there she is.
Quinn’s red hair is up in two curling ponytails that swing around her ears. Ears covered with a baby blue fleece headband. My cheeks ache as I smile. I’ve never met anyone who wears so many layers in a hockey rink. It isn’t all that cold inside, especially not surrounded by fans. No jersey tonight. She has on a baby blue hoodie with the howling wolf on the front, her hands shoved into the front pocket. My heart lurches at the sight of her, my mouth goes dry. Sean sits next to her. He has the knit hat and the jersey. Their heads are tipped together and yes, she’s smiling. Right as the camera shifts, Quinn glances up, grinning right at the feed.
It’s like someone is reaching right into my chest cavity, wrapping a fist around my heart, and squeezing.
The puck drops and focus is once again on the gameplay. I see my brother hit the ice and take possession. Mom’s right. He’s a little sluggish in his movements. Almost like his left leg isn’t keeping up with his right. He probably overdid it at practice, but he’s working through it. It wouldn’t be noticeable to someone who isn’t his twin or his mother or his teammate. Vic’s center takes a shot from the top of the crease and Tampa’s goalie holds the puck.
My phone buzzes.
Quinn Cooper:
Thank you again, Erik. I hope you get to watch some of the game too.
The only thing stopping me from jumping to my feet at her name on my screen is the cat curled into my lap. It’s a good thing Loki’s there, because without my leg on I’d have one-hundred percent eaten shit. Balance on one foot? I can do that. I’ve perfected hopping around my apartment when I don’t want to grab the scooter. But a sudden launch off the couch? I’d be down for sure.
My heart is pounding in my throat and my stomach twists. Should I tell her about my trip? I want to. What if she isn’t going to be in town? What if she doesn’t want to see me? I haven’t felt this nervous over something in… years. That’s a lie. If I don’t count any of my previous interactions with Quinn, it’s been years. She has me tied up in knots every time I even think of her name. I’ll tell her later. This isn’t the right time. She’s supposed to be enjoying the game.
Erik Varg:
Just turned it on. Vic is slow as fuck tonight.
Quinn Cooper:
Be nice, Erik. He’s doing his best.
Did you see me?
Erik Varg:
It’s a big arena, Quinn. How on earth would I find you?
Of course I’ve seen her. Of course I know where she is. Even if I didn’t, I think I could find her blindfolded. Even if I spun around in three million circles, I’d still turn toward her every single time.
Quinn Cooper:
Find me Erik. I have faith in you.
She’s flirting, right? This is flirting? This is interest and fun and everything? We flirted before, but this time I can do something about it. We’re playing and I want to play back. I want her faith to be put in the right spot. Even if this is all I can give her—flirtatious messages and random trips to town—this is something worth holding on to. At least for now. How can I let her know that I’m in this? That I’ve found her?
I could keep my camera open and snap a picture the next time the feed pans to the bench. I could tell her I like her pigtails, so she’ll know I’ve seen her. I could…
Smiling, I pull up my brother’s contact and type out a quick message. Hopefully, he’ll check it between periods, or at least when the game ends. Then I send a text to my mom to put my plan into action. On the TV, Vic sends a shot arcing towards the Tampa goalie. The puck whizzes past his blocker and into the net. I pump my fist from my couch, earning an accusatory glare from Loki, and I don’t feel nearly as restless as before.
The Arctic is up by two when The Stand starts emptying out. It feels like an oxymoron, fans willing to miss the end of the game just to reach their cars ahead of the crowds. Then again, people will miss the end of concerts to do the same. There aren’t words for how grateful I am that Erik set this up. Have I watched every second of the game, riveted to each pass and shot? Well, no. Have I spent the whole time reading? Also no.
