* * *
EMERIE
* * *
“Well, this is different,” Vince says as Cat and I settle ourselves in the box. “Having you here.”
“I know.” I adjust my sweater and take a seat at the counter that runs along the balcony we’re in.
“We’re so high,” Cat says. “I love this!”
Cat actually likes hockey, and I momentarily feel bad that I don’t bring her to more games. Vince wouldn’t even think of it. For me, it’ll be about two and a half hours of excruciating boredom.
“Too bad you don’t have Owen’s jersey,” Cat chatters. “You could have worn it! And maybe painted his number on your cheek!”
I blink at her. Good lord. “Maybe next time.”
I had to carefully tiptoe around when she asked if he’s my boyfriend. I hate lying to her. But I need Vince to believe he is. So I made up some shit about we’ve been seeing each other and I’m not sure if it’s serious, but I really like him.
Ugh.
It’s not that I dislike him. He wouldn’t eat the snacks I got us because they weren’t healthy enough for him, and he doesn’t drink, and all he talked about was hockey, so my impression is that he’s a jock who’s interested in hockey and not much else. But I also don’t like him. Like that. You know what I mean.
Vince and I had a weird conversation last night, the day after the party, where he asked a bunch of questions about Owen and I gave him vague answers, trying to sound as if I really like Owen.
“It’s just odd,” Vince said, eyeing me. “You hate hockey.”
“I know! I didn’t know he was a hockey player when we first met. I thought he was a hedge fund trader.”
Vince’s eyebrows shot up.
I pressed a hand to my chest. “The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of.”
“What?”
“It’s a quote. Blaise Pascal. A French philosopher.”
He couldn’t get away fast enough after that.
Now we’re here at the game, I fully expect more questions. We stand for the national anthem, then sit again as the game is about to start.
Then Roman walks in.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
He’s not giving up, apparently.
My body stiffens and I resist the urge to lower my forehead to the counter. I take a couple of deep breaths as Roman greets Vince, then me. He ignores Cat.
Asshole.
I shoot Vince a slitty-eyed glare. He ignores it.
Roman takes a chair next to me and leans forward to see what’s happening on the ice.
“I didn’t know you were a hockey fan,” I say to him.
“Oh yeah. Sure.”
Huh. He never talked about hockey while we were dating.
I want to see what’s happening, so I lean forward too. I did a little research so I wouldn’t look too out to lunch. I know Owen is number twenty-seven. I now know he is six feet, five inches tall and weighs two hundred and twenty-five pounds. He plays left wing, although I’m not sure what that is.
The players move so fast, it’s hard to tell who’s who. I squint, but I don’t think Owen’s on the ice. I scan the guys on the bench, but I can’t tell which one is him. Oh wait…they stand, and one guy is taller than the rest. That has to be him.
Sure enough, he hops over the fence or whatever and onto the ice, and as he skates toward the end, I see his number. A small shiver works through me, and I bite my lip, watching him. He’s fast!
He slams another player into the wall and the glass rattles alarmingly. The crowd cheers, but I flinch. Yikes!
This is why I don’t like hockey. They’re clobbering each other out there! That can’t be good.
Owen could be hurt.
But he doesn’t seem to be, streaking down the ice again. Another player gives the puck to him and he skates toward the goal. I watch intently as he aims the puck and…the goalie catches it.
The crowd groans.
“Damn,” Vince says. “Beautiful play.”
Okay, then! “It really was!” I agree.
Roman scowls.
“Which one is Owen?” Cat asks.
I find him on the bench and point him out. Even though he’s not on the ice, he still seems intently focused on the game, his head following the puck.
But watching him and not the game, I completely miss the other team scoring a goal. The arena goes nearly silent.
“That sucked,” Roman says. “Crappy defense.”
I grimace.
Then the other team gets a penalty.
“Okay.” Roman rubs his hands. “It’s a five-four. Good chance to score.”
“Okay.” I nod, not really knowing what he’s talking about.
“It’s not a five-four,” Vince says. “It’s a power play.”
“It’s called a five-four,” Roman says.
“Jesus,” Vince mutters.
My lips twitch. Vince seems genuinely irritated by Roman’s disagreement with him.
The announcer blasts out, “And it’s a Bears pooooowerrrr plaaaay!”
I slide a smirky smile toward Roman.
“It’s also called a five-four,” he insists.
“Owen’s out there.” Cat points.
“They only use the worst players for a five-four,” Roman says.
“Why would that be?” I ask doubtfully.
“Because it’s so easy to score,” he replies. “They save the good players for when the other team is back to five players.”
“Oh.” After a pause, I say, “So you’re saying Owen is one of the worst players on the team?”
On the other side of Cat, I hear Vince snort.
“Well, maybe not the worst,” Roman says.
“What was the penalty for?” I ask.
“Holding,” Roman replies.
“So they can hit each other but they can’t hold each other?”
“Right.”
I point at the ice. “Is that holding?”
“No.”
“Then what is holding? That looked like holding to me.”
“It’s…holding. You know. Stopping another player.”
I wrinkle my nose. I try to find Owen, but he’s gone off the ice. The five guys down there are passing the puck back and forth and around, over and over again.
“Shoot the puck!” Roman yells.
It makes sense to me. Why do they keep passing it instead of trying to score?
And then they do! The horn blares, the crowd cheers and jumps to their feet. Vince nods and smiles.
“Yay!” Cat cries. “That was Owen!”
“No, hon, I don’t think he was on the ice,” I say, clapping.
“Yes, he was. That’s him.” She points.
We watch the replay on the big screen on the scoreboard. It’s still hard to tell who scores, but Vince says, “Yep, that was Cooke.”
They announce the goal and the crowd cheers wildly. For Owen. That’s…cool.
“Well, damn,” I mutter. “I missed it.”
“It’s a fast-paced game,” Roman says. “You have to pay attention.”
I want to tell him to fuck off. But I don’t.