Page 56 of Play Along With Me
I'm saved from responding by the sudden dimming of lights. The crowd noise rises to a roar as the arena goes dark, replaced by swirling spotlights and pulsing music.
"What's happening?" I half-shout to Leila over the noise. "Is this normal or is there a power outage they're trying to distract us from?"
"It's the pre-game show," she explains. "They're about to introduce the players."
Sure enough, a spotlight appears at one end of the rink, and players begin skating out one by one as an announcer calls their names. The crowd cheers for each, with varying levels of enthusiasm depending on the player.
"How many players are on a hockey team?" I ask Leila. "Is this going to take all night?"
"Twenty-ish," she guesses. "And yes, they announce every single one."
As the introductions continue, I scan each player, looking for Jake. When they finally announce "Number thirty-five, Jake Marshall!" I find myself cheering louder than I intended, earning a knowing look from Leila.
"Shut up," I tell her preemptively.
"I didn't say anything," she smirks.
"You were thinking it very loudly."
The national anthem follows, then some ceremonial puck drop involving a local celebrity I don't recognize, and finally, the game begins.
"Okay," I say, settling in with my nachos. "Explain the basics to me. And please use small words and frequent nacho breaks."
"Weren't you just here with that Kevin guy?" Leila asks.
"Mr. Wooledge? Yes, and I didn't pay attention to anything he said. I was just there for his entertainment. I think I may have blacked out honestly."
Leila, who apparently knows more about hockey than she let on, sighs and gives me a surprisingly coherent overview of the rules. "The goal is to get the puck—that little black disc—into the other team's net. Each team has six players on the ice at a time—three forwards, two defensemen, and a goalie."
"And Jake is a goalie," I clarify. "The one who stops the little black disc from going into the net thing."
"Correct. Though he's the backup tonight, so he'll be on the bench unless something happens to the starter."
"And where is this bench?" I ask, craning my neck to see where Jake might be sitting.
Leila points to an area at ice level where players in Saints uniforms are seated. "There. That's the Saints bench. Ruggert's is on the other side."
I spot Jake immediately, even from a distance. There's something about the way he holds himself—straight-backed but relaxed, focused on the game. Even sitting on the bench, he has a presence.
"Found him," I murmur, more to myself than to Leila.
"You're staring," she informs me, popping a cheese-laden chip into her mouth.
"I'm observing," I correct her. "For research purposes. Character development for my novel."
"Right. Because your protagonist is a hockey player now?"
"You never know where inspiration might strike."
The first period is a blur of action I barely understand. Men moving impossibly fast on skates, chasing the puck, checking each other into walls, and occasionally stopping while a referee waves his arms around for reasons that remain mysterious to me.
"Why did they stop?" I ask after one such whistle.
"Offsides," Leila explains. "The offensive player can't enter the attacking zone before the puck does."
"That seems needlessly complicated," I observe. "Why not just let everyone go wherever they want? Chaos would be more entertaining."
"That would be basically be ice rugby, and people would die."
