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“We’re grabbing snacks,” Pat tells me, interrupting my eavesdropping. “You want some popcorn?”
“No, I’m okay, thanks.”
“Really? You said you never turn down popcorn.”
I did say that. I spent a solid ten minutes babbling about why popcorn is the superior snack on our second date because I didn’t know what else to talk about. The only other time I’ve spent any stretch of solo time with a guy was with Elliot, and that felt different.
“I know. I’m not feeling great, actually. The sandwich I had from the dining hall for lunch tasted a little funky.”
Pat’s face instantly transforms into concern. “Oh no. Do you want me to take you home?”
I hesitate before replying to the offer. Leaving is tempting…but I know I won’t. That’s always been the problem when it comes to Elliot: I know how it’ll end, but I can’t help but hope things will go differently.
“No, I’m okay. Just not hungry.”
Pat nods. “Okay.” He disappears with a couple of the other guys.
Sadie nudges my side and giggles. “Just let the guy buy you something next time, Harmon. You’ll make his night.”
I smile, but I’m barely paying attention. White jerseys have flooded the far end of the ice for the warm-up. I scan them, finally finding number twelve. Elliot isn’t skating. He’s standing by the side of the away bench, talking intently with a middle-aged man in a suit who must be his coach. Another man in a suit—maybe an assistant coach?—joins them, listening to whatever Elliot is saying. He laughs, then claps Elliot on the shoulder.
Elliot says something else before he shoves away from the bench, skating toward his teammates. They scatter, parting for him as he heads for the goal. He talks with the goalie for a minute, then beckons the rest of the team forward with a glove. They huddle around him, blocking my view.
“Scoping out the competition?” I startle at the sound of Sadie’s voice. “You haven’t looked away from Boston’s players since we got here.”
I shrug. The boys return, and she gets distracted.
The lights suddenly go out in the building, and the chattering ceases entirely. An eerie silence fills the air as we sit together in the darkness until a series of colorful lights flashes on the smooth surface of the pristine ice. A highlight video begins playing on the jumbotron set to upbeat pop music. This is my first college hockey game, so I have no idea if this is a regular occurrence or not.
The display garners an answering roar of appreciation from the crowd as a mass of first green and then white jerseys make their way out onto the ice. Each team stays on one end of the rink, skating in rapid circles before gathering around their respective benches. The flashing lights disappear, a bright spotlight taking their place as a group of girls make their way out and sing the national anthem.
The entire rink’s lights are reignited, and I immediately spot Elliot’s jersey. The speakers crackle to life as the announcer’s booming voice fills the arena, welcoming everyone to the game before introducing the away team’s starting lineup.
I watch as Elliot skates from where he’s been leaning against the boards to his position in the very center of the ice. He glides across the surface effortlessly, demonstrating his natural skill as he comes to a crisp stop in the very middle. The girls behind me start talking again, and I have to forcibly block out their commentary.
The home team is announced. Stanford’s first line takes their positions on the ice. The official skates out to the center and drops the puck between the two waiting sticks. Both teams leap into action as Elliot swipes the puck and passes it to the right winger, starting a sequence of passing that sets a rapid pace as the white and green jerseys circle and race across the ice.
The quick action continues for another fifteen minutes, until Elliot emerges from the pack of players and flies toward the green-guarded goal. A powerful swipe of his stick sends the puck into the back of the net.
The light behind the goal flashes. Elliot’s tall frame disappears as he’s surrounded by his teammates’ celebrations before he skates alongside the bench so the rest of the team can congratulate him.
He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him.
Can I really resent him for choosing this over everything?
Over me?
* * *
When the final buzzer sounds two hours later, the scoreboard reads 5-1 in favor of the University of Boston. Elliot scored another goal in the second period and assisted on another one. It was a dominant performance, which everyone expected. I was well aware of Elliot’s celebrity status in Canmore. I couldn’t count the number of times we’d get food or go to the town pier and he would get stopped, and not just by people our age, but by people my parents’ or grandparents’ ages. Even if he had no athletic ability, I would still think he is something special. As I hear snippets of conversation while we progress down the bleacher stairs, I realize Elliot probably deserves more credit for the turnout tonight than Stanford’s team. People came here to seehimplay, even though his victory meant our defeat. He’s the type of athlete people want to see play now, before they have to shell out a significant sum to do so.
It’s humbling. Shocking.
“Putnam’s?” Sadie asks once we’re all gathered together again out in the parking lot. The overwhelming consensus is yes, so the group migrates toward the parked cars.
The local bar is packed when we arrive, but we find a booth tucked in the corner. Sadie and Lauren head to the bar to grab beer while I remain seated with everyone else. They’re discussing the game, so I pretend to be looking at something on my phone.
When Sadie and Lauren return with pitchers of beer, the conversation turns to a party the guys’ frat is hosting this weekend. I nod when they ask if I’m going, resisting the urge to pull my phone out and reply to Elliot’s text. Should I tell him I was at the game? Would he care?
