“Is it that obvious?” I ask with a laugh that doesn’t quite disguise my discomfort.
“Only because you’re looking around like you might get kicked out any second,” she says kindly. “Relax. You belong here.”
Do I, though? I glance around at the other families—the comfortable way they interact, the ease with which they occupy this space. They belong. I’m just... visiting. Playing a part in a life that doesn’t quite fit.
A buzzer sounds, and the crowd noise picks up as the team skates out for warmups. Tyson stands immediately, pressing as close to the glass as possible without actually touching it. I rise too, scanning the ice for number 19.
Dex emerges from the tunnel with Brody and Roman, all business as they begin their warmup routine. He skates a circuit, then casually glides toward our section of the glass, ostensibly retrieving a puck but clearly looking for us.
His double-take when he spots us—all three wearing his number—is both comical and endearing. The smile that spreads across his face is the biggest I’ve ever seen.
Tyson waves excitedly, and Dex skates closer, tapping the glass in greeting. He points to Tyson’s jersey, then gives an exaggerated thumbs up that makes my son practically glow with pride.
Blythe, having spotted Dex, abandons her coloring and rushes to the glass, twirling to show off her complete ensemble. He can’t hear what she’s saying through the glass, but the wild hand gestures and spinning make her enthusiasm clear. Dexclutches his heart dramatically, as if overcome by her fashion statement, which sends her into fits of giggles.
Then his eyes find mine, and even through the glass and helmet, I feel the connection like a physical thing. He taps his jersey, then points to mine, a gesture that seems to say:we match.
It’s silly and sweet and makes me feel like a teenager with her first crush. I respond with a small smile and an eye roll that’s more for show than genuine exasperation. He grins wider, taps the glass once more, then reluctantly rejoins the warmup drills as his coach shouts something from the bench.
“Well, that’s adorable,” Kimmy comments beside me, amusement clear in her voice. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen Dex Malone this smitten before.”
“We’re just—” I start automatically, then stop myself. What are we, exactly? “It’s new,” I finish lamely.
“The jerseys say otherwise,” she observes with a knowing smile. “But don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. Though it might not stay secret much longer if you guys keep making eyes at each other through the glass.”
I feel my cheeks warm. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to everyone with eyes,” she laughs. “Come on, let’s head up to the box. My kids are getting hungry, and trust me, you want to get to the food before the first period rush.”
We collect our children—Blythe protesting loudly that she “WASN’T FINISHED WITH HER RAINBOW HOCKEY STICK DRAWING”—and make our way back to the elevators. As we wait, a young woman with a camera hurries past, nodding to Kimmy before disappearing through a door marked “Staff Only.”
“Team social media,” Kimmy explains, noticing my curious glance. “They’re always running around during warmups, getting content for the feeds.”
Something uncomfortable settles in my stomach. I hadn’t considered the social media aspect of being here, of wearing Dex’s jerseys, of essentially declaring ourselves as... what? His family? His guests? His...?
The elevator arrives, interrupting my spiraling thoughts. The family box is as impressive as promised—comfortable seating, tables for food, a private bathroom, and an array of snacks that makes both kids wide-eyed with delight.
“This,” Blythe declares with rare solemnity as she surveys the chocolate-covered pretzels, “is the BEST DAY OF MY ENTIRE LIFE.”
“Better than the time we went to the aquarium and you got to touch a starfish?” I remind her.
She considers this seriously. “The starfish did not have CHOCOLATE. So YES.”
I can’t argue with that logic.
As the game begins,I try to relax into the experience, to enjoy the obvious happiness radiating from my children. Tyson is engrossed in every play, occasionally explaining technical aspects to his sister, who nods with exaggerated seriousness before returning to her steady consumption of chocolate-covered everything.
But part of me remains on edge, hyperaware of our visibility here. Of what this means. Of the potential complications.
Kimmy introduces us to several other team families, all of whom are welcoming but curious. I catch the occasional speculative glance at my jersey, the subtle assessment happening behind friendly smiles.
“First time Dex has had family in the box,” one woman comments casually. “He’s usually more of a... solo act, if you know what I mean.”
I force a smile, unsure how to respond to what’s clearly fishing for information. “The kids are big fans,” I say, which is true but deliberately evasive.
By the first intermission, I’ve fielded at least a dozen similar probes, each more thinly veiled than the last. Blythe has charmed approximately everyone with her outfit and enthusiasm, while Tyson has found a kindred spirit in Kimmy’s son Parker, the two of them engaged in intense hockey discussion.
I excuse myself to use the private bathroom, needing a moment away from the curious eyes and probing questions. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, cheeks flushed from the heat of the box or perhaps from the constant awareness of wearing Dex’s name across my shoulders.
