You know where to find me.
PATTY
Good luck bro.
The SUV pulls into the VIP entrance at Ozark Ice Arena, rolling to a slow stop behind a set of doors marked “Private Access.” I step out first and escort Lou out, and two security guards in Yetis-branded jackets lead us through a back hallway. The chilly air smells like concrete and barbecue, and pregame warm-up music vibrates through the walls.
We slip through one back hallway and then another, past catering carts stacked with barbecue sliders and trays of nachos, until we reach the lower-level VIP section. Our section is right above the glass, close enough to feel the boards rattle when a hit lands. We take a couple of wide leather seats, smiling at some of the other VIPs who also got here early to avoid prying eyes.
I recognize a few pro athletes—two linemen for the Chiefs and a pitcher for the Royals, each with their families—as well as a popular folk band from before I was born that’s probably performing in Branson. They make small talk with Lou, and a couple of the kids in the box get pictures with her, and as much as I appreciate how relaxed the environment is, I just wish we were alone.
Soon, the players are taking the ice, the announcers are calling out the starting six for each team, and the national anthems for both Canada and America are being sung.
Then the puck drops, the centers face off, and the game is on.
Lou leans toward me. Her big blue puffer coat rides up around her chin. “What is he doing?”
I get close enough to kiss her and point to a player. “Volkov plays left wing, so he’s trying?—”
“No, I mean Sean. Why is he tapping the side of the goal? The goalposts? What do you call ‘em in hockey?”
“He always taps the posts when we win a face-off. It’s superstition.”
She nods, and while I’m watching the action on the ice, Lou’s eyes are fixed on Sean. “Why is he moving back and forth like that?”
“He’s trying to keep warm so he can stay loose. You get stiff quick on the ice, and Sean’s got bad knees.”
“Did you ever play?”
“No. I was always on the piano or picking up a new instrument.”
I can feel Lou’s gaze on me. “So I guess this means we won’t have one of those romcom moments post-game where you take me out on the ice and teach me how to skate, and when I fall, you catch me.”
“Sorry to disappoint. But I can teach you how to play a didgeridoo.”
She laughs as one of the Yetis smashes our right wing into the boards right in front of us. “Even better.”
We watch as gloves hit the ground, fists start flying, and the crowd erupts. One of our guys gets a handful of the Yeti’s jersey, yanking him forward as he swings. The ref blows the whistle, but no one’s steppin’ in yet.
Lou grips my arm. “Are they just gonna let ‘em keep going?”
“For a bit,” I say, my eyes on the fight. “As long as they stay on their feet.”
Another punch lands, snapping the Yeti’s head back, but he stays upright. They grapple, turning in a slow, brutal circle, each looking for an opening. Then, with one final shove, our guy sends him sprawling to the ice. The crowd roars as the refs rush in, peeling them apart.
Lou exhales, wide-eyed. “And that’s … normal?”
“Pretty much.” I chuckle. “Welcome to hockey.”
Lou watches the game intently, asking questions and giving me the opportunity to stay close.
During a TV timeout, the iconic first line ofHeartbreak Hustlestarts playing. Then, the entire crowd shouts Winona’s first line in unison, “‘Hustle up!’”
The people in our box all laugh as Lou drops her head into my shoulder.
“I will never escape this song,” she says with a laugh.
But I’m not thinking about the song now or Winona’s legacy and the way it follows Lou like a shadow.
