Regardless of the loss, I think all would have to admit the team played well considering they were just pieced together. The only goal came from veteran player—straight out of retirement—Gage Heyward. Surprisingly, our best player, Coen Highsmith, underperformed across the board. Not only did he not have a point to his name this evening, he didn’t even come close to getting a point. Our star center looked sluggish and dull. The fan favorite, known for his incredible energy, disarming smile, and roguish antics, was nowhere to be seen. I expect that might be due to an emotional component, but it’s so hard to tell. Maybe Coen was only good because of the people he played with. Maybe without the players who died on that plane, Coen isn’t going to be good at all.
So many unknowns.
But this is also what makes things exciting for the city. Pittsburgh was built on the backs of steelworkers, a breed known for their determination, strength, and grit. An unwillingness to quit is the spirit that embodies the character of the city. It is what we expect of the team out on the ice.
While we would like a winning team—one that looks like the Titans we had before the crash—that’s not as important as having a team playing their guts out on a consistent basis. The citizens of Pittsburgh will appreciate that and will never abandon this team if that’s all they have to give right now.
Our waitress appears, decked out in jeans and a Titans jersey. We advise her we’re still waiting for one more, but we each order a beer to sip on while we wait. We decline menus as we had plenty of junk food at the arena.
“It seems like you really enjoyed the game,” I muse as we settle in to wait for our drinks.
Frankie snorts. “Oh, you noticed, did you? I wasn’t sure with you staring at Baden the entire time.”
“I was not,” I exclaim indignantly. “Okay, maybe I watched him a little, but I was mostly focused on the game.”
“Whatever.” Frankie gives me that look… the one that says I’ll never get away with bullshitting her.
“I wanted to see how he was doing.” My attempt to explain will probably fall flat, but I’ve got to try. “This has been a hard transition for Baden. Tonight was so monumental, not only because it’s a new career but because it’s probably the final nail in the coffin of his old life.”
Frankie’s expression becomes sympathetic. But it’s me she’s worried about. “I love that you’ve got a close friendship with him and all, but please protect your heart.”
I frown, her tone catching me off guard. “What do you mean by that?”
“I see how you look at him,” she says softly. “And I hear how you talk about him. You care very much for him, and well… I’m afraid it won’t be returned and you’ll get hurt.”
I’m intrigued more than offended. Frankie is one of the sharpest and most intuitive people I know, but she doesn’t know Baden at all. “What makes you think I’d get hurt?”
I don’t bother arguing with her that I care for him, probably more than a friend should, because it’s true, and why waste energy?
Frankie shakes her head as if she doesn’t want to say.
“Frankie,” I warn, as in, don’t you dare shut down on me now.
Her eyes lock onto mine, and she leans forward a bit. “It’s just… as you were watching him tonight, he wasn’t watching you. I don’t think he looked at you once, and it worries me that he’s not feeling the same about you as you are about him.”
I try to think how to explain this to Frankie, but instead, I burst out laughing. It’s hilarious that she picked up on that detail, which is something I already knew.
And something that would never bother me in a million years.
Reaching across the table, I take her hand and squeeze it. “My dear, sweet friend, I love how you love me, and that you look out for me, and it speaks to the depth of care that you’d even notice something so minor.”
“It’s not minor to me,” she grumbles, trying to pull her hand away.
“It is minor,” I assure her, holding on tight. “Because you don’t understand sports. You don’t understand the pressures and that the minute Baden walks out there, he is one hundred percent on duty and doing his job. I would’ve been disappointed in him if he’d even spared me a moment’s glance because he’s expected to be all in with this team. He was focused right where he should be.”
Her expression is dubious as I release her.
So I give her a tiny bone. “He looked at me once… before the game started, and that was more than enough acknowledgment.”
“If you say so.” She sounds cranky, like she wants to find fault with him, but that’s not really it. Frankie only wants what’s best for me, but I imagine she’ll examine Baden like a bug tonight to try to figure him out.
“Going back to my original question… did you enjoy the game?” I ask.
I really don’t need the answer as I can sort of figure it out myself, but I want to hear her admit it. Frankie doesn’t watch sports. Doesn’t like them at all. Doesn’t want to understand them.
But she knows how to have fun. She knows how monumental this team’s return is, and so she was beside me screaming her lungs out as loudly as I was. She got wrapped up in the excitement and emotion. Maybe it will change her into a hockey fan.
“I did,” she admits, just as our waitress arrives with our beers. Before she continues, she holds hers up and I tap mine against it.
“Cheers,” we say in unison.
After a sip, Frankie says, “The atmosphere was very electric, which is something I’m generally not attracted to these days.”
“Not Zen enough for you on a routine basis,” I suggest.
“Exactly,” she replies, pointing at me. “And the rules are confusing. I still don’t understand icing and not sure I ever will.”
I can’t help but laugh. Frankie was so wrapped up in the cheering, and on one occasion, she was out of her chair, nearly mindless from the excitement of a hard-fought battle against the boards down in our zone. The puck popped free and launched down the ice toward their goalie, but just off to the left.
It was icing and no one chased after it, but Frankie was screaming at the top of her lungs, oblivious that the ref called the play dead. “Go get it. Get the puck. Score. Score. Score!”
I had to tug her back down into her seat, but it was futile trying to explain icing. There simply wasn’t enough time before play resumed, nor did Frankie really want to understand the rules.
We chat about non-hockey things as we sip our beers, her thoughts about opening her own yoga studio and my thoughts about possibly returning to school.
Without any hint or prompting, Frankie told me I should go into interior design or renovation, and I considered that extra validation on top of Baden’s.
When Frankie and I finished our first beers and Baden hadn’t arrived yet, we ordered another. Since we’d taken an Uber from my house, we didn’t have to worry about parking or having a few drinks.
Ordinarily, I would’ve been terrified at the prospect of getting in a stranger’s vehicle for a ride downtown to the arena. Since my attack, I would’ve been too fearful that the driver might try to hurt me, despite my successful use of Uber and Lyft during my work travels. But with Frankie along, I had more confidence. I reasoned that no singular driver would dare to take on two women. Besides, I had Mace in my purse.