About five minutes later, I’m definitely clenched up. The game is off to a weird start. Beck makes an uncharacteristic fumble on the first shot—a lazy wrist shot from the point that somehow squeezes through his pads. The crowd groans, and I feel my stomach drop.
Even Charlie shoots me a look of concern.
“It’s fine,” I mutter, more to myself than my son. “Just nerves.”
Beck slams his stick against the post in frustration, and I can practically feel his embarrassment. He glances toward our section briefly, then snaps his mask back down and settles into his stance.
But the next ten minutes are pure torture. Beck seems to be fighting the puck, making routine saves look difficult. The Ice Cats’ defense is hanging him out to dry, allowing odd-man rushes that have me gripping my armrest with white knuckles.
“Dad, did we jinx him?” Charlie whispers as Beck gives up a second goal—this one a deflection he had no chance on, but still.
I shake my head, trying to appear more confident than I feel. “He’ll settle in.”
When Beck lets in a third goal—a shot that bounces off his glove and trickles over the line—I feel genuine concern. This isn’t the same confident goalie who stonewalled the Plague. He looks rattled.
“Dad,” Charlie says during intermission, “maybe you should text him or something?”
“What? No. That’s not how this works.”
“But he’s totally bombing because you’re here.”
The thought had crossed my mind, but hearing Charlie say it makes my chest tighten. “That’s ridiculous.”
Charlie rolls his eyes. “You’re so oblivious sometimes.”
When the second period starts, Beck is still in goal. That has to mean something, right? His coach still believes in him.
But the same can’t be said for Beck. He still looks shaky.
“We’ve got to do something,” Scully announces.
“Like what? Drink another beer?” We’ve already crushed everything Beck sent us.
“That’s not what he means,” Charlie says. “We gotta turn this ship around, before they pull Beck.”
“They can’t pull Beck,” I say automatically. That is the worse-case scenario. I’ll feel guilty for no good reason, and I’ll be reluctant to ever come to another game.
“Yeah, but I got a plan.” Charlie tugs his jersey over his head. “We have to make a shirtless men section.”
I play those words back again, and it still makes no sense. Except Charlie is shedding his sweatshirt, too. “Wait. No. That’s a football thing, not a hockey thing.”
“Omigod, Dad. The idea is the same.”
“Your kid is a genius,” Scully says, rising from his seat. He pulls off his sweatshirt, too.
“What are you doing?”
“Dad, let’s goooo!” Charlie says, his pasty chest on display now. He raises his jersey over both our heads and swings it around.
“Charlie, jeez,” I plead. “This isn’t a shirtless men section! First of all, not everyone wants to be in a shirtless crowd. Women?—”
“I’m into it,” Divina says, popping up to unzip her coat. “IT’S RALLY TIME.”
Oh my God. We’re going to be arrested, aren’t we?
What will my ex-wife say when she bails us out of jail?
Fifteen
