Page 117 of Brooklynaire
Then I go home to primp andpack.
* * *
Ithoughtit would be odd to fly with Nate as his date instead of his assistant, but it isn’t. Not yet, anyway. For starters, Lauren is with us. This was unplanned, but it turns out that she’s been carrying on with Beacon, the goalie, and asked Nate if she could ride along to watch thegame.
“We can finish these reports during the flight,” she said, setting up her laptop on the Gulfstream’stable.
“You go nuts, girl,” I say, taking one of the wide leather reclining seats. I haven’t explained my presence to Lauren, and Nate hasn’t either. I wonder how long it will take her toask.
With Lauren’s back to us, Nate runs a hand over my hair. He gives me a secretive smile and goes to sit across fromher.
I spend the flight flipping through aVanity Fairmagazine and feeling lazy. I can’t remember the last time there was nothing I was supposed to be doing. But when I told Heidi Jo she could manage this overnight to Dallas, I made myself let her handle things no matter what. She’s still gushy and she still talks too much. But somehow she gets things done. My boys are probably in good hands right now. If she has a problem she can’t solve, I’m sure I’ll get atext.
The flight attendant brings me a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice in a crystal glass, and a small bowl of roasted almonds. Then she hands me a beautifully printed card with the Wi-Fi password on it. “Can I get you anything else? There are magazines and books in the seatpocket over here…” She points at the other reclining chair. “And dinner will be served in anhour.”
Fine—so there are one or two little perks to being Nate’s girlfriend. “I’m good for now,” I tell her. “Thankyou.”
* * *
When we touchdown in Dallas, there’s a stretch limo waiting on the tarmac. That’s how it is traveling with Nate. The car whisks us to the stadium. We hit traffic, but we still pull up to the stadium doors before the puckdrops.
The door flies open and Heidi Jo starts talking immediately. She’s babbling about getting an extra hotel room at the last minute for Lauren, and how she had to give the grounds crew a stiff talking to when they changed the ice time schedule for our boys’ warm-up.
But I tune her out when we reach the corporate box, because Nate takes my hand in his and steers me toward a pair of seats in the center front. As if we do this everyday.
My heart rate kicks up a notch as I slide my palm against his and squeeze.I’m all in, I’d told him. Let the weirdnessbegin.
And it does. Rightaway.
“Rebecca!” Nate’s mother says from the seat next to mine. “How lovely to seeyou!”
I give her a giant smile that’s more confident than I feel. “Hello, Linda! Are you ready for game five?” And then I hold my breath, wondering if she’s the kind of mom who’s sure that nobody is good enough for her baby boy. But I don’t let go of Nate’s hand. I hold on tight. He gives mine a squeeze and greets hisfather.
I watch Mrs. Kattenberger’s gaze travel down to our clasped hands. Then her eyeswiden.
And then? She smiles like she’s won a prize from Oprah. “Iamready,” she says. “Let’s do this. Sit down; I’ll get us both abeer.”
I watch her trot over to the beverage table and some of the tightness leaves my chest. It seems Nate’s mom isn’t going to be an issue. One down. The whole world togo.
The next two hours are not relaxing. Our boys are fired up but Dallas isn’t going to give up the game without a fight. I forget about behaving like Nate’s arm candy and instead do a lot of yelling at the ref. “SLASHING!” I scream during the second period. “That’s a two-minute minor atleast!”
Nate chuckles without taking his eyes off the ice. He’ssmiling, in spite of the lack of a penalty called on Dallas! People always remark on what a stoic guy Nate is while he’s watching hockey. But tonight I discover that it’s worse when he’s sitting right next to you. I’m foaming at the mouth and he’s calmly sipping his third DietCoke.
Nate’s mom makes small talk during the intermissions, but I’m too keyed up to do more than ask generic questions about how she’s been. I nod and smile at all the right moments. I hope I do,anyway.
My team is two and a half games from winning all the marbles, and I cannot contain my nervousenergy.
The game goes to overtime, and I’m completely strung out. Until Trevi sinks a goal in the overtime period, and every Brooklyn fan in Dallas jumps to her feet withglee.
“YAY!” I shriek. “Thank you, babyJesus!”
Nate laughs and then hug-tacklesme.
* * *
IputNate’s parents into a car after the game. They’re headed to a different hotel than the one where the team is staying. And if I’m not mistaken, Mrs. Kattenberger’s hug is extra tight. “Goodbye, sweetie. Hope to see you again soon,” shesays.
I’m too keyed up from the game to get into the waiting limousine. There will be an impromptu party in the lobby of the hotel, and the idea makes me feel twitchy. “Can we walk back?” I ask. It’s only twoblocks.
