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The teams separate and take their positions for the first puck drop.
So she’s a super fan. That’s not a surprise. Not only is she wearing a jersey, like most of the arena, but she’s here alone. Not with a date, not with a friend, not with a family member. She clearly came to watch the action, and that’s fine. Even if I’d been hoping we could chat more over the next few hours, it’s not like I don’t know the game. I can hold my own and I can always strike up conversation during intermission. If she’s interested.
I didn’t want to come to the game tonight, but I should have known better than to fly into town and think I could avoid this. My mother had been appalled to hear that I had planned to stay on the couch of my hotel room and not even put the game on in the background of whatever else I planned to do. I’d planned on working, I always plan on working, but even I’m not immune to my mother.
I wonder if she knows I don’t watch any games. Not Vic’s, not my hometown, not the All-Star Break or the Olympics. The last game I watched was Vic’s professional debut, but even that was from the comfort of my home. The last time I set foot into an arena was… damn. Almost half my life ago.
None of that matters in the face of maternal guilt. My mother had a single ticket waiting in my email in a matter of hours. This is what I get after avoiding my family for so long. All those carefully maintained boundaries crumble. I do better at a distance. I do better via text or email. But it’s easier to make excuses from a thousand miles away.
The Arctic takes possession from the face-off, and I settle back into the too-small seat to watch the action. The worst part about hockey is how much fun it is to watch. The snick of blades cutting through fresh ice, the slap of sticks hitting the puck with each pass and shot, the boom as the boards rattle under the force of a hit, and the siren when the rubber finds the back of the net. Music. It’s a tune I’ll never forget. One that plays on repeat in my brain whenever it finds an opening. And as thrilling as that song is to hear, as fun as hockey is to watch, it’s more fun to play. Too bad I didn’t get a choice there.
I shouldn’t have come tonight.
In front of me, Vic stands and hops over the boards, skating onto the ice with the speed and power he’s known for. My brother plays right wing, and a long time ago I played opposite him, left wing on the same line. We’d dreamed of playing in the NHL together, with our best friend Robbie Oakes—Bo, as the hockey world now knows him—playing center. We’d been invited to the USHL draft the May after we turned sixteen and no amount of caution from the adults in our lives could convince us that this wasn’t it. The break. We’d play two years in the top Juniors League in the states, then put our names in the NHL draft.
And then… well, ithadbeen the big break for Vic and Robbie. The two of them taking on the world.
I hadn’t made it to training camp.
The lines change again, still no score, and I chance another look at the woman next to me. I expect to find her glued to the game, bright green eyes following the line of the puck as it moves back and forth from stick to stick. I have no intention of trying to impress her with my hockey knowledge—a douche move—and I definitely want to steer clear of mentioning my brother—an even douchier move. Is douchier even a word?—but I want to talk to her, and I can’t explain why.
I couldn’t have been more surprised, not even if the redhead morphed into my mother and told me this was all a dream, to look over and find her nose buried in her book.
Fascinating.
She’s pulled a knit Arctic hat down over the top of her copper hair, and the bottom of her curls twist away from her body as though trying to escape. I wonder if they’ll be hot to the touch, like an open flame, even though that makes absolutely zero sense. Hair doesn’t take on body heat. It stays at room temperature. Ice rinks aren’t nearly as cold as people think. It’s colder closer to the ice, colder with fewer fans in the stands, colder if it’s cold outside, but Red is bundled from head to toe with a bulky sweatshirt, the heavy jersey, and a hat. Maybe she’s always cold. Or maybe some part of me is still used to this even years later. I’m in a Chicago jersey and jeans and still feel perfectly comfortable. My gaze slides over the smooth curve of Red’s cheek. Actually, I might be a little overheated.
“What are you reading?” I can’t help the question. Not even when she jolts like I poked her with a cattle-prod. She meets my eyes over the top of the device and a blush stains her neck and cheeks and even her forehead until she is as red as my jersey. I can feel myself smiling. The wide, uncontrollable smile that shows all my teeth and makes my cheeks ache. She really is absolutely fascinating.
“Nothing.” Her voice slips over me, just like I remembered. She snaps the cover of her reader shut with an audible click and looks out over the rink, busying herself with a study of the back of the Arctic’s heads.
I hold both my hands up in self-defense. “No judgment. I’m all for reading.”
Her blush doesn’t dim, not even a little, but she flits her eyes back toward me. She opens her mouth to respond, and I can’t wait to hear what she’s going to say when a small voice from her left breaks into the conversation.
“I hate reading.” The kid makes an exaggerated face of disgust. “It’s boring.”
“It’s important,” Red says without missing a beat, like maybe it was me who took the words away from her. Me, she couldn’t respond to. Her complexion returns to its normal color. Maybe it was me who made her blush. I shouldn’t like that thought as much as I do. Not about a stranger.
The kid’s eye roll is so dramatic that even I can’t miss it, and I’m surprised that his face doesn’t get stuck that way. Then he winces, since clearly he’s heard Red’s point before now.
“No,” the kid shakes his head. “I’m eight. I think I’d know by now if reading was important.”
“Well…” Red shoots a help-me glance in my direction and I shrug but temper it with a raise of my brows. Red looks highly unamused, but soldiers on. “If you couldn’t read, you wouldn’t be able to read your favorite books,”
I try to hold back my laugh because even I know that was a lame response. An elbow presses against my ribs as the kid sighs.
“I don’t like books,” the kid’s tone is that of a beleaguered parent trying to explain the obvious to an uncaring toddler, “because reading is boring.”
“If you can’t read, you’d have a hard time following the hockey game.” Red beams at the kid like she’d put him in checkmate. I have doubts, but it’s a valiant effort.
“Got to read those names somehow,” I try to help, “and the trivia on the Jumbotron.”
“I can look at the numbers and my mom reads me the Jumbotron.”
Well shit, we’re being out-logicked by a second grader, but at least we’re going down together.
“Reading numbers is a kind of reading,” Red tries again and the kid rolls his eyes…again.
