Page 36 of Hockey Nanny

The thought was a lifeline as I crossed the concrete, breath steadying just enough to believe maybe, for a few hours, I could feel like myself again.

*

The lights were already up to full blast by the time Henry and I found our seats, the ice below a clean white sheet waiting for violence. Screens looped hype videos overhead. The crowd kept swelling, bodies funneling down the aisles, jerseys flashing gold and black in every direction. The T-Mobile Arena never did subtle. It pressed in on you, sound and motion stacking higher by the minute.

Henry wriggled beside me, legs swinging, sneakers knocking the seat in front of us until I caught his ankle.

“Hey,” I said under my breath. “Indoor feet.”

He scowled, then twisted again, craning his neck toward the ice. “When are they coming out?”

“Soon.” I checked my phone. No new messages. I tipped it face down on my thigh, then picked it up again almost immediately.

My dad should’ve been here already.

Henry shifted again, tugged at the collar of his Knights jersey, then leaned across me to wave at someone three rows down who definitely wasn’t waving back.

Disappointed, he changed the topic. “This shirt’s itching me.”

“The shirt’s fine.”

He’d been fussy all day, five times worse after I’d gotten back from my flight practical. Too loud, then sulky. Asking questions he already knew the answer to. Stomping, getting bored every ten seconds…

He stared wistfully at a kid two seats down in our row. “Can I have some cotton candy?”

“No.”

He huffed, crossing his arms in a way that made his elbows jab my side. A few seconds later, and, “Can I have some popcorn then?”

Around us, people stood and sat in uneven waves, checking seats, arguing good naturedly over beers, pointing at the ice. A kid behind us kept chanting Dawson’s name, over and over, until his dad bribed him into a lull using a pretzel. I scanned the lower bowl again, instinctive, useless. My dad wasn’t going to be on the ice, but my eyes kept going there anyway. Like he might materialize through wishing.

Henry tried to get a look at the tunnel. “Why’s it taking so long?”

I followed his gaze, then glanced at my watch. “Any second now.”

“This is boring.” He sank into his seat with a hard sigh, rolling his eyes.

“It hasn’t even started.”

“That’s the boring part.”

I smiled despite myself, then felt it slide right off when my phone buzzed. I flipped it over too fast, heart kicking in my chest.

Not Dad. Just a team alert.

The screens cut to black, and a ripple went through the arena. People rose to their feet. Henry scrambled up on his seat as if he’d been shot out of a cannon. I had to grab the back of his jersey to keep him from toppling head first into the next row.

“We could always go home and watch this on TV,” I warned.

He dropped back down, eyes wide now, attention finally locked in. The anthem singer took her place at center ice, and the arena held that strange pause that happened before everything tipped forward.

My phone vibrated again, and this time it was the person I’d been waiting to hear from.

Relief hit first. I unlocked it with my thumb, already smiling.

Hey kiddo. I hate to do this, but I’m not going to make the game tonight. Last-minute tour, first thing tomorrow. Rain check on dinner? I’m so sorry.

The words blurred, then snapped back into focus just as the singer hit the high note. Roars of approval. Confetti cannons. Celebrations that didn’t give a shit about the disappointment sinking in my gut.