Page 1 of Must Love Hockey
ONE
NINETEEN THOUSAND MINUS ONE
Emily
“Come on, Brooklyn!” I shriek. “Let’s do this!”
Charles—my boyfriend—gives me a sideways glance. It’s a look that says I’m being a little louder than he likes.
Butcome on. We’re at a hockey game, and it’s tied 2-2 with only five minutes on the clock. Now is not the time to be the demure corporate girlfriend. His clients don’t care, anyway. They’re all enjoying themselves tremendously.
It’s a Wednesday night, and I have class at eight a.m. tomorrow. I shouldn’t even be here. But I love hockey. “Get there!” I scream as Mark “Tank” Tankiewicz lunges for the puck.
This earns me another sideways glance from Charles.
But I ignore him. Two or three nights a week, he asks me to accompany him to client events. He’s twenty-two, only a year older than I am. But while I’m still in college, he’s already an analyst for the high-net-worth division at Merrill Lynch. This outing is part of his job. And he takes his job very seriously.
When Charles was interviewing for the position, we had no idea that it would include all these nights out with clients. Who knew rich people like to be entertained by the people who manage their money? Or by the people who get coffee for the people who manage their money. Charles is barely more than a trainee, but he’s very ambitious.
“Charles will run the world someday,” my mother loves to say. She’s probably right. In her next breath, she always adds: “And he needs a good woman at his side.”
My mother and Charles are on the same wavelength. I’m not sure why it annoys me so much. But either Charles really is God’s gift to humanity, or she just appreciates the fact that I found a nice, respectable man. The fact that he’s also Asian American is just a bonus.
In fact, there are days when I’m sure Mom likes Charles more than she likes me. Quite a few of them.
But none of that matters right now, because Brooklyn has the puck again, and I want this win. I lean forward in my seat, as if I could somehow affect the game from way up here in row Q.One more goal!My palms actually itch from clenching my hands.
Now Crikey has the puck. He stick-handles it past the defender. “Come on!” I shriek. “Let’s do this!”
I hold my breath as he fakes a pass to Wilson and then slots the puck to Castro, instead.
“Shoot!” I scream.
“Emily,” Charles hisses. “My ears!”
Castro fires back to Wilson, who shoots so fast I can barely register the movement. The lamp lights. Nineteen thousand people stand up and scream.
Well, nineteen thousand minus one. Charles doesn’t scream. Not even at a hockey game. But the rest of us are on our feet. The tie has been broken, and three minutes from now, Brooklyn is bound to be the winner.
“No Sleep till Brooklyn” comes blaring through the speakers, and I wiggle my butt in time with the music. I catch Charles looking at me like I might have lost my mind. “What?” I demand. “We’re at a hockey game.”
He just shakes his head.
Deflated, I sit back down beside him. My hands are tingling. It’s weird. My palms are still itchy. When I inspect them, there’s some redness, but it isn’t very dramatic. I reach for my soda and find it completely empty.
Heck. When did I drain that? And why am I so thirsty?
“Where shall we go for drinks after the game?” Charles asks his two clients and their wives.
“How about Stokers in Alphabet City?” one of the guys says. “That place cracks me up.”
Crap. I really don’t need to go into Manhattan on a school night.
“Sounds great,” Charles says, ever the pleaser.
I watch three more minutes of hockey and try to craft my sorry-I’ve-got-to-go-home speech. I live deeper into Brooklyn than where we are right now. Stokers is in exactly the wrong direction.
The clock runs down, and loud, happy music starts playing again right after the buzzer. All the fans are on their feet, this time grabbing their coats. I put mine on, too. We’re up pretty high in the stands and getting out of here is going to be slow work. We won’t get to the bar until almost midnight.
