Page 48 of Play Along With Me
Audrey: Said no one ever. So does your ticket offer for tomorrow's game still stand? Or have you come to your senses and realized I don't even know what "offside" means?
Me: Offer definitely stands. Your hockey ignorance is refreshing in my world of people who can recite my save percentage from three seasons ago.
Audrey: Is that good? The save percentage thing?
Me: .924 is very good, thank you for asking.
Audrey: I'll pretend to know what that means and be appropriately impressed. So how do I get these alleged tickets? Secret handshake? Password? Blood sacrifice?
Me: Much simpler. I'll leave them at will-call under your name. Two tickets, Section 104, which is pretty good. Lower bowl, attack end twice.
Audrey: That means nothing to me, but I will nod and smile when Leila inevitably explains it seventeen times.
Me: It's where the Saints shoot at the opposing goalie in the 1st and 3rd periods. Decent view of my end in the 2nd period too, though I'll be on the bench unless something goes terribly wrong for Ambroz.
Audrey: Is it terrible that part of me hopes something goes terribly wrong so I can see what all this goalie fuss is about?
Me: Yes, that's terrible. And exactly what every backup secretly hopes too.
Audrey: Your secret is safe with me. Though if you do play, you better not let any of those little black discs into your net thing. I have standards for my athlete acquaintances.
Me: I'll do my best to uphold your extremely specific standards. Also, "little black discs" and "net thing" might be my new favorite hockey terminology.
Audrey: I have more gems like that. "The flat stick guys" and "those dudes who keep getting in timeout" are particular favorites.
Me: Please use these terms exclusively if you meet my parents after the game. They're coming in and think I'm the second coming of hockey Jesus.
Audrey: Hockey Jesus? Is that the one who turned water into Gatorade and walked on ice without skates?
I snort with laughter, drawing a curious look from the maintenance guy who's fixing my kitchen sink.
Me: Exactly that one. Though according to my mother's Facebook page, I've surpassed him in importance by making it to an NHL bench.
Audrey: Ah, the proud parent syndrome. I'm familiar. My dad still has my 3rd place ribbon from the 5th grade spelling bee framed in the bathroom.
Me: What word did you miss?
Audrey: "Necessary." Ironically very necessary to spell correctly in a spelling bee.
Me: If it helps, I couldn't spell it correctly now without autocorrect.
Audrey: Your secret shame is safe with me. I should get back to work (bartending tonight), but I'll see you tomorrow? Or at least, see you sitting on a bench while I pretend to understand why everyone keeps yelling "SHOOT!"
Me: They always yell that. Even when it makes no sense. Hockey crowds aren't known for their tactical sophistication.
Audrey: Sounds like my kind of people. Good luck! Stop those... pucks? Is that right? See, I'm learning already.
Me: Pucks is correct. You're practically an analyst now.
Audrey: ESPN, hire me immediately! Okay, really going now. Bye, Hockey Jesus.
Me: Goodbye, Hockey Heathen.
I set my phone down, still smiling. There's something refreshing about Audrey's complete lack of hockey knowledge or pretense. In my world, everyone either knows everything about me as a player or pretends to. Coaches, management, other players, fans—they all have opinions on my game, my potential, my future.
Audrey just sees me as a guy who can't spell "necessary" and sometimes likes to pretend he's Hockey Jesus.
It's... nice.
