Page 21 of Must Love Hockey
James is the last man to step off the ice, in his purple Bruisers jacket, a toolbox in his hand, and several hockey sticks tucked under his arm. His eyes find me for the briefest of moments. I get a flicker of a smile before he files down the row, behind the bench, his back to me.
After the anthem, the game kicks off. I lean forward in my seat and forget about James. I forget about my fight with Charles. I forget everything except for the glory that is hockey.
The pricey seat next to mine sits empty for the first period, but at least I tried.
It’s a good game, too. We’re favored to win against Tampa, but the Florida team wants it badly. The speed of play is super-fast, and I can seeeverythingfrom this vantage point.
Charles is crazy. Who wouldn’t want more of this?
During the intermission, I realize that I’ve been too excited to eat. So I finish my falafel and my beer and hit the ladies’ room.
I might be alone tonight, but I’m still having a great time. This is much more fun than kissing some stranger’s ass in a SoHo art gallery.
After the second period starts, there is a brief flurry of activity beside me when someone arrives to sit in the empty seat.
It takes me a few minutes to even look at my new companion. Because hello, Brooklynscores! I scream for Tankiewicz’s goal, and Charles isn’t here to silence me for it.
Eventually, though, I notice that people nearby are sneaking looks at the woman in the aisle seat. When I finally sneak my own glance at her, I find a dark-haired beauty beside me. She looks vaguely familiar.
Another woman, wearing an earpiece, arrives a moment later to hand her a bottle of beer, top still on, and a bottle opener.
“Thank you,” the beauty says. She pops open the drink and hands back the opener and the bottle top.
Some people are eccentric. Whatever.
I turn my gaze back to the game, which is very exciting right now, as Tampa tries to answer our goal.
They almost get a goal of their own, too, but Silas Kelly deflects two in a row in a blur of speed.
“YES BABY!” yells the woman next to me. “CRUSH THAT REBOUND!”
He does. Then Trevi gets the puck back and breaks for our attack zone.
“That was close,” the woman mutters. Someone brings her a box of popcorn. She seems to have a lot of helpers. It’s weird.
And it gets even weirder when her bodyguard person brings her a strange collection of hockey programs, cards, and a hat. The woman pulls a Sharpie out of her bag and quickly signs all of them before handing them back and refocusing on the game.
I sneak another look at her, because I’m getting the feeling I should know who she is. But I don’t. Unfortunately, she catches me staring.
“Um, are you someone important?” I stammer.
She laughs. “Everyone is someone important.”
“Fair enough,” I say, even though it doesn’t always feel like the truth.
“And while we're on that topic, hold on.” She digs into her bag again and comes out with a notebook. She opens the cover, then flips a couple of pages. “I have a few things to tell you about Jimbo.”
Wait, what?
“Heidi Jo wanted me to emphasize that he has a heart of gold and a lot of friends, all of whom would lay down in the road for him,” she says, consulting her notes. “Oh, and he's polite and generous. It also says here that he helps old ladies cross the street. But I can't be sure if that’s literal or metaphorical.” She raises her eyes to mine. “New goal in life—never become someone who needs help crossing streets.”
“Right?” I laugh uncomfortably.
I’m about to ask several follow-up questions when I notice all the other fans leaning forward in their seats. Trevi has been fouled, giving Brooklyn a power play. Brooklyn is trying to capitalize.
And then—whoa! Bayer sneaks the puck past a Tampa sniper and onto Castro’s stick.
Castro fires, and the lamp lights a split second later.
