“Hey, Dad! That’s a good sign, right?” Charlie says, pointing. “That he’s going to play?”
“God, I hope so.”
“Sir?”
When I look up, I find a guy in an Ice Cats jacket holding a tray out to me. “Are you Forest? This is for you and your guests.”
I blink.
“That’s us!” Charlie says, holding out his hands for the tray. The guy hands it over, and it contains two of those pretzels with the cheese, a basket of popcorn chicken, soda for Charlie and a few beers for the rest of us. “Whoa!”
“Um, are you sure this is for us?” I ask.
“Yup,” he says. “Here’s a jersey for your boy.” He hands me the shopping bag that was looped over his wrist. “And here’s the note. Have a good game.”
“Omigod! A jersey?” Charlie hoots.
I fish it out of the bag. It’s a men’s small, and it says JAMES across the back.
“Cool! Hold the tray so I can put it on!”
I take the tray, and I also slide my finger into the envelope holding the note. The moment Charlie’s head disappears inside the jersey, I flip it open and read.
* * *
Hey Forest?—
You’re always the one pouring me drinks, so here’s one for you. Consider this a scientific experiment in fluid dynamics. Does beer taste better when you’re not the one serving it? Let me know your findings.
I hope you don’t mind that I got Charlie a jersey. They don’t sell very many of mine so I’m basically funding my own fan club at this point. One member stronger! Woulda got you one, but that seemed a little presumptuous. Like “hey sexy, how about you wear nothing but this after the game while I demonstrate my superior puck-handling skills in your bedroom.” Too much?
Thanks for coming. Now I have to get a shutout or I’ll have to fake an injury and be carried off the ice to preserve my dignity. If I let in more than two goals, please pretend you don’t know me. If I get a shutout, I expect you to tell everyone within earshot that you’re with the goalie. No pressure though.
Later!
Beck
* * *
“Ooh, the note!” Charlie says. “Can I…”
“No.” I shove it in my pocket.
Charlie and Scully practically disintegrate with laughter. My son passes out food and dunks his pretzel in the cheese. “This is the best, Dad. I’m so glad we came. And look!” He points up at the Jumbotron.
STARTING LINEUP, it reads, followed by a bunch of jersey numbers.
Including number 6, Beck’s jersey.
“It’s on!” Charlie hoots.
“This is the best,” Divina says, reaching around to poke me in the shoulder. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“My pleasure.”
“Puck drop!” Scully announces. “Now we get to watch Beck, and also watch Forest get all clenched up over this guy.”
I shove a pretzel in my mouth, so I won’t say anything I regret.
