Page 57 of Play Along With Me
"Again, entertaining."
The crowd suddenly erupts in cheers as a Saints player scores. The goal horn blares, music plays, and everyone around us high-fives.
"That's good, right?" I confirm. "The puck went in the net thing?"
"Yes, Audrey," Leila laughs. "That's the entire point of the game."
"Just checking. The mechanics seemed obvious, but I didn't want to make assumptions."
By the second period, I find myself actually getting into the game. I still don't understand all the rules, but there's an undeniable excitement to the speed and skill on display. The crowd's energy is infectious, rising and falling with each scoring chance and save.
I glance periodically at the Saints bench, spotting Jake in conversation with teammates or watching the game intently. Once, I think he looks in our general direction, and I duck behind my beer cup reflexively, like a middle schooler avoiding their crush.
"Super mature," Leila comments.
"I am so mature," I reply.
The second period ends with the Saints leading 2-1. During the intermission, Leila and I debate the merits of morenachos versus the financial wisdom of taking out a small loan to afford them.
"Second mortgage or no, those nachos were life-changing," I admit. "Jake wasn't wrong about the pulled pork upgrade."
"Relationship foundation: solid nacho recommendations," Leila nods approvingly. "That's at least as important as shared values or whatever."
"We're not in a relationship," I remind her for what feels like the hundredth time.
"Yet," she adds with infuriating confidence.
The third period begins with a Ruggert goal that ties the game, causing a collective groan from the home crowd. The tension in the arena rises noticeably as the clock winds down with the score still tied.
"Is a tie possible?" I ask Leila.
"Nope. If it's tied after regulation, they go to overtime. If still tied after that, a shootout."
"Like a duel? Hockey players with pistols at dawn?"
"Yes, exactly that," Leila deadpans. "Definitely not players taking turns trying to score one-on-one against the goalie."
"Your version sounds far less dramatic than mine."
With just under two minutes left in the game, a Saints player I've now identified as Horak (thanks to Leila and the crowd chanting his name) scores on a breakaway, putting Boston ahead 3-2. The Garden erupts, and I find myself jumping up and cheering along with everyone else.
"Look at you," Leila teases. "A hockey fan in the making."
"I'm just acting the part," I insist. "Cultural immersion."
The final seconds tick down with Ruggert desperately trying to tie the game again, but the Saints hold on for the win. As the final horn sounds, the players on the ice celebrate while those on the bench—including Jake—pour out to join them.
"Now what happens?" I ask as fans begin filing out around us.
"Now everyone leaves and complains about traffic," Leila explains. "And the players go to their locker room, shower, change, and eventually leave through some private exit where fans can't harass them."
"So no chance of seeing Jake, then," I say, trying to keep the disappointment from my voice.
Leila gives me a knowing look. "Aww, someone's sad they won't get to congratulate Hockey Jesus in person."
"I'm not sad," I lie. "Just curious about post-game protocols. For my novel research."
As if on cue, my phone buzzes with a text from Jake:
