With that, he leaves me, and I smirk because I can’t even argue that he’s wrong.
AMANDA
“I feel like I should warn you,” Greg says as we weave through the crowd outside the Amalie Arena. “I get a little crazy when it comes to hockey.”
“You don’t say?” I tease, tugging on the sleeve of his Stamkos jersey before stealing the blue foam finger from his back pocket.
“That foam finger is nothing compared to the decibels I reach when we score a goal.”
I chuckle, tapping his nose with the foam finger before slipping it on my hand. “I like crazy. I just hope you won’t get annoyed with me asking a bunch of questions, because I’ll have absolutely zero idea what’s going on.”
“I could never get annoyed with you.”
I flush as he shows our mobile tickets to the employee scanning them at the door.
I tried to stay away from him.
Truly, I did.
After Halloween and the dangerous game we played under that damn blanket, I knew putting distance between us was the only safe bet. I was solid in that decision, even insisting that I would take the bus for the week since David was close to finding me a car, anyway.
I was ready to let him go.
Or, so I thought.
But the longer I ignored his texts, the more time that passed without seeing him or talking to him, the more I realized how much I’d come to love his company.
I wasn’t lying when I told him I didn’t have any friends. I used to, when I was younger, when David was younger. I made friends with the moms of his friends, with the baseball parents and the PTA volunteers. For the brief time he was involved in church, I threw myself into every youth group task I could just to have people to hang out with.
But when he moved out, those relationships diminished — mostly due to Josh. I didn’t realize it at the time, how he isolated me, convincing me I wasn’t being an attentive wife unless I was spending all my time with him.
It happened slowly, subtly, and before I knew it, he was the only person I had.
And he abused me.
That word still makes me shiver, still makes me feel like I’m being dramatic or overstating the truth. My therapist has been working through all of it with me, but being a victim isn’t my favorite role to play.
I want to be the survivor, the one with the pen in hand changing the narrative.
I’ve tried reaching out to some of my old friends since Josh and I separated, but they’ve all moved on with their lives — and I wouldn’t blame them if they’re a bit upset at how I just stopped showing up.
I have David and Julia. And Tucker, who doesn’t count since he can’t even speak yet.
That’s it.
My parents disowned me when I told them I was pregnant, especially when I told them I wanted to keep the baby. My grandparents took pity on me and helped me and Josh in the beginning, but he even found a way to separate me from them.
And they’re both gone now.
I know I can’t have Greg in the way I want, but the thought of not having him in my life at all makes me ill.
So, I convinced myself I could do this, that I’d rather have this fucked-up friendship and secretly pine for him than lose him altogether.
Besides, I’m going on a date with Samuel tomorrow night.
That will totally reinforce this line between me and Greg.
Totally.
“Do you want something to drink before we head to our seats?” Greg asks, snapping me back from my thoughts.
“I’m good for now,” I say with a smile. Then, I point to the escalators. “Do we need to take these up?”
He gives me a sheepish look. “Okay, don’t freak out, but… I’m kind of a snob when it comes to where I sit at a Lightning game.”
I blink. “Where are we sitting, exactly?”
I get my answer roughly five minutes later, when Greg guides me all the way down to the front row, a thick piece of plexiglass the only thing separating us from the players warming up on the ice.
“This is ridiculous!” I say with a grin splitting my face as we find our seats. “And cold,” I add.
He chuckles, handing me the hoodie draped over his arm. “Here, wear this.”
“Don’t you need it?”
He shrugs. “I’ve got my jersey on, I’ll be fine. Besides, once this game starts, I’ll be screaming and jumping around enough to stay warm. Trust me.”
I laugh. “I seriously cannot even picture that. You’re always so… chill. Quiet.”
“Like I said… I’m a different man when I’m watching a hockey game.”
“This is insane, Greg,” I say, shaking my head and taking in the impressive view as I shrug on his hoodie.
The moment it covers me, my body warms — both from the fabric and the smell of him still lingering on it. I internally debate whether he’ll ask for it back or not if I just pretend I forgot, wear it home, and keep it forever.
“These had to cost a fortune.”
He scrubs the back of his neck. “Gotta use that anesthesiologist paycheck on something, right?”
I snort, and then the crowd roars as the lights in the building start to flash on and off, the announcer welcoming us to the game as the players make their way off the ice after warmups.
Everything rushes at me at one-hundred miles per hour after that.
The game starts in a frenzy of cheers from the crowd, coupled with the Tesla coils sparking lightning at the top of the arena, and the organ player in the club section getting everyone pumped up. Once the anthem is sang, the game begins, and I’m immediately enraptured with trying to keep up.
The puck flies from one end of the rink to the other, over and over, the gargantuan players chasing after with their skates slinging ice in their wake. Tampa’s team is wearing blue tonight, the Capitals wearing red, and it’s a blur of patriotic color each time they pass us, occasionally running right into the plexiglass wall — which earns a roar of approval from our section every time.
Especially from Greg.
He wasn’t lying about his enthusiasm, and I feel like I’m watching him more than the game, laughing when he screams and jumps up and down like an animal, or cries out in frustration at a missed goal, or curses at the referee for a bad call. I especially love when a player “gets checked” on the plexiglass in front of us and Greg beats on it with his fists like a banshee, screaming more curse words than I knew existed in the English language.
Throughout it all, he answers every question I have, leaning in to point out players or spots on the ice and explain to me what every referee call means. I’m particularly confused between offsides and icing, which he tries to explain three different times before giving up, but I do enjoy watching the fight that lands one of our players in the penalty box.
I learn the cheers, chanting Let’s Go Bolts! with the rest of the crowd and drawing out the name Kuuuuuuch in a deep voice when the rest of the arena does. Still, I’m so mesmerized by the way Greg looks when he’s this passionate about something that I have a hard time taking my eyes off him — regardless of what’s going on.
Before I know it, the last buzzer sounds, the Lightning winning by one point to the approving roar of the thousands of people in the arena. When Greg finishes celebrating and high fiving every other fanatic around him, we slowly follow the crowd marching out like a line of ants, eventually spilling out into the streets of downtown.