Page 55 of Play Along With Me
"That's true," I concede, examining my reflection in the mirror. The hoodie looks... fine. Normal. Unmemorable. "But what if I run into Jake after the game? I don't want to look like I'm wearing a costume."
"Ah," Leila says knowingly. "So that's what this is about. Jake."
"It's not about Jake," I lie unconvincingly. "It's about not embarrassing myself in public."
"Since when has that been a concern of yours? Last month you performed an interpretive dance to 'Bohemian Rhapsody' at karaoke night. While stone-cold sober."
"That was art," I defend. "And completely different."
Mr. Darcy watches from the doorway with an expression that can only be described as judgmental.
"Even your cat thinks you're overthinking this," Leila points out. "Look at him. That's a face that says 'my owner has lost her mind over a hockey game.'"
"He always looks like that," I mutter, but she's not wrong. I am overthinking this, and I know it. It's just a hockey game. With a guy I barely know but am inexplicably drawn to. Who'll be busy doing hockey things anyway. No big deal.
I check the time. "We need to leave in ten minutes, and I still don't have an outfit."
"Wear what you have on under that hoodie," Leila suggests. "Jeans, boots, that sweater. Normal human clothes. It's perfect."
I look down at my outfit—dark jeans, ankle boots, and a cream-colored sweater I'd put on as a base layer while trying on other options. It's... fine. Not spectacular. Not embarrassing. Just fine.
"Fine," I sigh, removing the hoodie and tossing it onto the discard pile. "But I reserve the right to be retroactively outraged if everyone else is wearing sequins and I told you so."
"Noted," Leila says, already heading for the door. "Now can we please go? I want to see if the rumors about arena beer prices are true. I need to know if I should have pre-gamed harder."
Twenty minutes later, we're making our way through the crowded concourse of TD Garden. The place is buzzing with energy—fans in Saints jerseys streaming in every direction, the smell of overpriced concessions filling the air, music pumping through speakers.
"This is... intense," I murmur to Leila as we navigate through the throng of people. "I feel like I've wandered into some kind of secular sports cathedral."
"That's not entirely off-base," she laughs. "People take this stuff very seriously. Oh look, nachos! Didn't Jake recommend those?"
My stomach rumbles at the mention. I hadn't eaten much today, too nervous about... well, everything.
"He specifically endorsed the pulled pork variety," I confirm as we join the concession line. "Said the neon orange cheese contains essential... cheese... nutrients."
"A nutritional expert as well as a professional athlete," Leila nods solemnly. "Impressive resume."
We order the nachos—which cost roughly the same as a small car payment—along with beers that definitely justify Leila's pre-gaming concerns. As we wait for our order, I take in the scene around us. Families with kids in miniature jerseys, groups of friends already several beers deep, couples on what appear to be dates.
"So many jerseys," I observe. "Should I have bought a jersey? Is that the expected uniform?"
"You're overthinking again," Leila warns. "Plus, jerseys are like two hundred dollars. That's a big commitment for someone who called hockey 'the ice batting sport' yesterday."
"I was being intentionally obtuse for comedic effect," I defend.
Our food arrives, and I snap a picture of the massive pile of nachos topped with pulled pork and what can only be described as radioactive cheese. I send it to Jake with the caption:
About to consume my recommended daily allowance of essential cheese nutrients. If I die, tell Mr. Darcy I loved him and that his diabetes was fake.
I don't expect a response—he's presumably busy with pre-game hockey rituals, like sharpening skate blades with his teeth or whatever it is hockey players do—but it feels nice to maintain the banter we've established.
"Let's find our seats," Leila suggests, balancing her beer precariously atop her nacho container. "Section 104, right?"
We make our way to our section, which turns out to be impressively close to the ice. "These are good seats," Leila comments as we settle in. "Your hockey boy must like you."
"He's not my hockey boy," I protest automatically. "And he probably gives these seats to random baristas and Uber drivers too."
"Sure," Leila nods, clearly not believing me. "Random baristas he texts with constantly and invites to games."
