My phone buzzes in my bag.
I almost don't look. Then I do, because it's Talia and she only texts during working hours if something is either wrong or extremely interesting.
It's not wrong.
Talia:
Talia: the quiet one keeps finding reasons to stand near the media section
Talia: he has cheekbones Toni
Talia: I don't make the rules
I look up from the phone. Along the boards, where the media credential area meets the tunnel mouth, Talia stands with her camera lowered and her eyes on the ice. Lucas McKenna is six feet to her left. He is not watching the ceremony. He is watching the media section.
He notices me noticing.
He looks back at the ice immediately.
I put my phone away.
Elena's hand closes over mine on the armrest. I look at her. Her expression is very still in the way that means she is paying more attention than she wants anyone to notice. "Toni, I’ll be right back,” she says. Then she stands and points.
The scoreboard is running a tribute reel — Max at nineteenin AHL footage, the early NHL seasons, the penalty box footage I spent weeks analyzing in a film room while telling myself it was purely professional. The Boston game. The Rourke reads. Clean plays that built upon the previous, less clean ones.
I look at the ice. At Max with Christopher on his hip, at my father shaking hands with the team's general manager, at Piper wiping her eyes, at forty-three children in Stevens jerseys milling around center ice with the chaotic joy of small people who have been told they can be on the actual NHL ice and have decided to make the most of it.
The second increment is Piper. She's two seats down, Luke on her lap, watching the ice with her hand pressed flat against her sternum. The specific gesture of a woman holding something in. Her eyes are bright. She's biting the inside of her cheek. The kicker is when she looks over at me and says, "If only my parents were here to see this!"
The third increment is Trey. The team reveals the alternate captain, with the new 'A' emblazoned on Max's jersey. In that specific hockey way, the bench pounds sticks on the boards —one of us, one of ours. Trey is the one who puts the jersey on him. Not a coach. Not management. Trey, who has been the first person to believe in Max for three seasons, and the last person to say so out loud, because that's what captains do. He smooths the jersey over Max's shoulders and says something into his ear that nobody else hears, and Max's face shows me all. The tell. The millimeter that means something is costing him. Trey pulls him into a brief, hard hug, thehug of men who speak through contact. The building crumbles.
The fourth increment is my father. He comes out of the officials' area, which I did not know was part of the program, and the arena goes loud. Frank Amato. The most decorated official in the league's recent history. He crosses the ice to Max. They face each other at center. My father extends his hand. Max takes it. They shake — not the three-second assessment grip, not the firm-brief conclusion of a business meeting. A real handshake. The kind that means I see you and I am choosing to say so in front of everyone.
My father says something. Max nods once. My father nods back. Twenty thousand people cheer for two men who spent a year as obstacles to each other, choosing something else instead. I sit in the stands, cream silk blouse, hands in lap, insides doing something I can’t describe.
The fifth increment is the smallest one. Christopher breaks from the group of children and charges across the ice with the specific grenade energy of a three-year-old who has identified his target and is committed. He hits Max at approximately knee height. Max catches him without looking, just like he did during the family skate in September. He swings Christopher up, and Christopher raises his wrist, pointing to the superstar bracelet. Max holds up his wrist. Matching bracelets. The crowd in the nearby sections can’t see, but they react to the enormous man and the small boy, wrist to wrist, checking something important between them.
I look at the arena.
The overhead lights are full game-day brightness, gold and white, the kind that make everything feel larger than it is. This place tried to swallow me in September. Badge and clipboard and twelve inches of professional distance, measuring things I told myself didn't matter. Now my father is on that ice. My friends are in these seats. The arena didn't change.
I did.
I stand up.
Chapter Forty-One
Toni - The wedding
Elena is already back, holding my bag. She has been holding it for the last four minutes. She knew. Of course, she knew. She has known things about me since before I knew them myself. A rented house in Rockford. Two years. This building. This man.
I look at Elena. “When,” I say.
“About six weeks ago,” she says. “He called me first. Which shows excellent judgment.”
“Piper.”
“I lasted longer than you think,” Piper says, completely inaccurately based on her expression. “Almost four days.”
