Page 64 of Julian

“This is us,” I say, stepping into the row.

A few heads turn, a couple of double takes, but before anything can register too clearly, a familiar voice cuts through.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

I look over and grin. “Evening, Al.”

Big Al is exactly as he’s always been—broad-shouldered, arms inked from wrist to collar, a Vipers beanie pulled over his head. He’s been sitting in this section longer than I’ve owned the team, inherited seats from his father, a retired fireman who used to bring Al to games when the building was a very different place.

“Didn’t think we’d see you here,” he says, standing to clap me on the shoulder.

“Figured I’d check in on the real fans,” I reply.

He snorts. “About time.”

His eyes turn to Harper, taking in the jersey, the name across the back, the fact that she’s with me.

“Who’s this?” he asks.

“This is my date… Harper Hawthorne.”

Al nods once, offering her a smile. “You picked a good night. We’ve been waiting for Philly all week.”

“And I’m here for all of it,” she says, fitting right in.

We settle into the seats. Harper leans forward, elbows on her knees, eyes already tracking the ice as players make their final adjustments before puck drop.

The lights dim slightly, the opening sequence beginning, and the excitement in the building shifts. It’s different here than it is in the suite. The energy here is palpable.

The puck drops, and the game starts fast.

Philadelphia presses early, trying to establish pace, but we match it cleanly. The passes are crisp, the spacing tight, the kind of execution that reflects what I’ve been seeing all week. All month, really.

We’re playing well. Really well.

Midway through the first period, we capitalize—Grizz drives the net, pulls the defense just enough out of position, and Tanner buries it top shelf. The section erupts, Al on his feet immediately, his shouting unintelligible but enthusiastic.

Harper laughs beside me, caught up in it, her reaction unfiltered.

“You see that?” she says, turning to me.

“I did.”

“That was—”

“Awesome,” I finish.

She high-fives Al and the rest of the people nearby.

During a TV timeout in the second, the Jumbotron sweeps across sections until it lands—predictably—on Al.

The crowd recognizes him before the camera even stops and focuses on him, a ripple of cheers building as he stands, already preparing.

“Here we go,” I mutter.

“What’s happening?” Harper asks, already smiling.

“Signature move.”