Page 54 of Play Along With Me
We part with a slightly awkward hug, and I watch her walk to her car before heading in the direction of my apartment. My phone buzzes in my pocket—a text from Audrey.
Audrey: Just to be clear, I need to be at will-call, not the will-power line, right? Because my willpower around arena nachos is nonexistent.
I smile, the tension from dinner fading.
Me: Definitely will-call. And the nachos with the pulled pork are worth the complete absence of willpower. Trust me on this.
Audrey: A professional athlete advocating for processed cheese and pork products? I'm screenshotting this for blackmail purposes.
Me: All part of my comprehensive nutrition plan. The neon orange cheese has essential... cheese... nutrients.
Audrey: Can't argue with that flawless nutritional science. Also, random question: do I need to dress up for a hockey game? Like, are sequins appropriate, or is that only for figure skating?
Me: Definitely sequins. And a tiara if you have one. Hockey is very formal.
Audrey: Perfect. I'll break out my formal hockey ballgown and opera gloves.
I laugh out loud, drawing curious glances from passersby on the street.
Me: Now I'm disappointed that's not actually what people wear to games. Though some fans do get... creative with their outfits.
Audrey: Don't worry, I'll maintain my dignity. Mostly. Unless there's a dance cam. Then all bets are off.
Me: I'll alert the production team to keep the cameras away from your section.
Audrey: Coward. The world deserves to see my interpretation of the YMCA. It involves a lot of flailing.
Me: That sounds both terrifying and entertaining.
Audrey: The Audrey Mazzone experience in a nutshell. Anyway, I should sleep. Big day tomorrow pretending to understand sports. Good luck with your bench-sitting! Do the Saints proud!
Me: I'll try not to pull a muscle passing water bottles. Goodnight, Audrey.
Audrey: Goodnight, Hockey Jesus.
I put my phone away, still smiling despite the impending disaster that tomorrow promises to be. My ex-girlfriend, my overeager parents, and Audrey all in the same building, watching me sit on a bench for three periods.
But somehow, those few minutes of texting with Audrey have made the whole situation seem less daunting. Something about her inability to take anything too seriously—including me—is exactly what I need right now.
Chapter 9
"No. No. Absolutely not. I look like I'm trying too hard," I say, yanking off the fourth top I've tried on in the last twenty minutes. "But the blue one made me look like I wasn't trying at all, and the green one made me look like I was auditioning for a woodland creature role in a children's play."
Leila sits on my bed, surrounded by discarded clothing, watching me with the patient expression of someone observing a toddler attempt a physics experiment. She claimed she was busy and then apparently rearranged her schedule so she could bear witness to the fool I will make of myself tonight. She said she wouldn't miss it for the world.
"Audrey," she says calmly, "it's a hockey game, not a presidential inauguration. No one cares what you're wearing."
"I care," I insist, digging through my closet for the fifth time. "I want to look casual but not sloppy, interested but notdesperate, sporty but not like I'm pretending to know anything about sports."
"That's a lot to ask of a single outfit," Leila observes. "Maybe try for 'warm and comfortable' since we'll be sitting in an ice rink for three hours?"
I emerge from the closet with a Saints hoodie I bought in a panic last night. "Is this too obvious? Like I'm trying to look like a fan when I don't even know the rules?"
"It's a team hoodie. It's literally designed for exactly this purpose."
"But what if people ask me questions about hockey? What if they expect me to know things? What if they have a pop quiz before they let me in the arena?"
Leila sighs deeply. "No one is quizzing you on hockey knowledge. And if they did, you could just say you're new to the sport. People love explaining things to newcomers."
