As we gather our things and head toward the exit, I catch sight of Dex through the glass doors. He’s already back with his teammates, joking around during their own practice, completely in his element.
That’s who he really is, I remind myself. Not the guy making casual conversation in the bleachers, but a professional athlete with a life I can’t even imagine.
The reminder should be comforting.
It’s not.
The following Saturday,the rink has transformed into something I don’t recognize. News vans line the parking lot, local TV crews test their equipment near the entrance, and there’s an actual red carpet leading to the main doors. A red carpet. At a hockey rink.
“This is so much cooler than I thought it would be!” Tyson is almost awestruck with excitement as we make our way through the crowd. His youth hockey teammates are clustered near the player entrance, all wearing matching team shirts and looking like they can’t believe their luck.
“Stay with your group,” I tell him, though he’s already gravitating toward the other kids. “And remember?—”
“Don’t touch anything, listen to the coaches, and have fun,” he recites with the patience of someone who’s heard these instructions three times already. “I know, Mom.”
The lobby buzzes with an energy I wasn’t prepared for. This isn’t just a casual charity game—it’s an event. The mayor is here, shaking hands and posing for photos. Local business leaders mingle with firefighters in dress uniforms. A silent auction table groans under donated prizes.
“I had no idea it would be this big,” I murmur, suddenly feeling underdressed in my jeans and sweater.
“Me neither,” Blythe agrees, wide-eyed. “Look, there’s a guy with a really big camera!”
The youth hockey kids are escorted toward the player bench, Tyson disappearing into the group with one last excited wave. I find seats in the stands with a good view of the bench, settling in to watch what promises to be either very entertaining or a complete massacre.
“Golda! Thank god!”
I turn to find Kyla, the teams PR director, rushing toward me, clipboard clutched to her chest and panic written across her face. Her usually perfect hair is slightly disheveled, and she’s moving with the frantic energy of someone whose carefully planned event is falling apart.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“No. Everything is very much not okay.” She drops into the seat beside me, breathing hard. “Our anthem singer just called in sick. Food poisoning. And the backup singer is stuck in traffic from an accident on I-5, and the news crews are here, and the mayor specifically requested live anthem, not recorded, and?—”
She pauses to take a breath, looking at me with something approaching desperation.
“You don’t happen to sing, do you? I mean, I know you do voice work, but actual singing?”
“Not really…”
“Because I’m literally out of options here. I’ve called everyone I can think of, and we’re supposed to start in twenty minutes, and?—”
“Mom totally sings!” Blythe announces with the perfect timing of someone who’s been eavesdropping. “She has trophies and everything!”
I shoot my daughter a look that promises we’ll be having words later. “Blythe?—”
“She does! In the garage! There’s like a whole box of them from college!”
Kyla’s eyes light up with the fervor of someone who’s just been thrown a lifeline. “Really? You have vocal training?”
“It was a long time ago,” I say quickly. “I don’t perform anymore. I do voice-over work, that’s completely different?—”
“But you could do it,” Kyla presses. “It’s just the national anthem. Ninety seconds. And honestly, Golda, if you save my ass here, I can guarantee you’ll be my first call for every voice project that comes through our office. We’ve got campaigns launching all season, promotional videos, player interviews that need narration...”
The offer hangs in the air between us. Steady work. Reliable income. The kind of financial security that would make eight-hundred-dollar monthly hockey fees feel manageable instead of terrifying.
“I really don’t think?—”
“She knows all the words,” Blythe adds helpfully. “Sometimes she sings it in the shower.”
“Blythe!” I hiss, but the damage is done.
