Desmond
It’ll be okay, Jacko. I’ll talk to Nico on Monday.
It’ll be fine, I promise.
Nate’s truck rumbles to a stop at the curb, so Desmond is saved from a panickedbut what if it’s not fucking finetext. The moment I open the passenger door, Nate turns in his seat to show me his back.
“Look,” he prompts, showing off the navy shirt he’s wearing. Morgan is emblazoned across his shoulders, sitting above a white seventy-seven. After giving me ample time to appreciate it, he sits forward and pats his chest. “Marcos bought it for me.”
“That’s awesome,” I tell him, snapping my seat belt in.
I’d faced a similar conundrum when Coach Mackenzie had first mentioned bringing us to the game. I only own one T-shirt that supports our NHL team, but it’s generic anddoesn’t have a player’s name or number on the back. I’d looked online for a Carter Morgan one, but even the sale prices had been way beyond anything I could afford. I doubt it will matter to Carter, but still.
“That’s cool they gave him the same number he had in college,” I comment.
“Yeah. Especially because the AHL team he played for in Florida didn’t,” Nate agrees, navigating the truck through the dark campus. “He was forty-nine with them, remember?”
The traffic is insane around the arena, and even though I’m not driving, my pulse skitters and my palms are sweaty. I’ve had my driver’s license since I was eighteen, but because I don’t have a car, the driving test was the last time I’ve actually driven. It’s times like this—when headlights from oncoming cars are slanting through the windows and into my eyes; the honking of horns surrounding us—that I’m happy not to be the one in charge of the vehicle. Sometimes, I’d prefer not to be in the vehicle at all, but if I have to be, at least I get to be the passenger princess.
Nate, who isn’t bothered by the traffic, the horns, or really anything at all, brings us to the top of the parking garage and backs neatly into a space. He does it so smoothly, even though the vehicle is enormous, that I have the ridiculous urge to congratulate him.
“You’re a good driver,” I say, because truly, I probably would have just abandoned the truck and walked away ten minutes ago.
“Thanks, Micky Mouse. I grew up on a ranch, so I learned to drive as soon as my legs were long enough to reach the pedals.” He grins at me, before carefully opening up his door and hopping out.
We meet at the front of the truck, and Nate throws an armover my shoulders, tugging me flush against him. Nervously, I check my phone for the dozenth time to make sure the e-ticket is still there. It is, because e-tickets don’t just disappear, but, because I’m composed entirely of nervous energy, I worry that it will anyway.
“Do you have your ticket?” I ask Nate, realizing that if anyone is going to forget uploading it, it would be my friend.
“Yeah, I think so. I downloaded it when Coach sent them out,” he responds nonchalantly. I shake my head, unable to fathom the level of chill one must operate at to not feel the need to double- or triple-check things. I’m pretty sure if I could live a single day with Nate’s confidence, I could take over the world.
When we get to the doors, it transpires that he does, in fact, have his ticket. We join the flow of people heading inside, and the thrill of being here starts to affect me. It’s been so damn long since I’ve been to an NHL game. No matter how much I enjoy watching my peers play, college just doesn’t quite have the magic of the professional league. I think about how awed I was as a teenager, watching Troy Nichols, and can hardly wait for the game to start.
“Hungry?” Nate asks, breaking me from my reverie about Troy Nichols and wondering if we’ll be seated close enough to the glass for me to see his face and the color of his eyes; the sweat curling his hair.
“Uhm, I’m fine.”
Nate glances over at me, hand on my back as he steers us over to one of the concession stands. My face turns red as he steps up to order more food than even he can eat. We don’t sit around talking about finances, but I know for a fact that he doesn’t have a surplus. His uncle largely pays for his tuition, and his parents cover the rest. I know from random, offhandcomments he’s made that there isn’t a whole lot to spare beyond what’s required to send him to school and keep him here.
But my friend is selfless by nature. A giver. If he has fifty dollars in his pocket, he’s going to spend forty-nine of it on someone else. Which, more often than not, is me. It embarrasses the hell out of me, even though I love him for it. One day, I’ll pay back every single penny and bit of kindness that he didn’t have to provide me.
“Here you go,” he says happily, handing me a tray of food before grabbing his own.
“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that. I’ll pay you back.” I have to step behind him as we walk toward our section, but even from back here I can hear the scoff that earns me.
“Don’t worry about it. You can get it next time.”
I sigh, but don’t argue. He always says that, and, to date, I haven’t once paid for a meal when we’ve been together. Somehow, Nate beats me to it and then pretends not to know what I’m talking about when I tell him he never lets me pay.One day,I tell myself.One day you’ll have enough to do the same for him.
Only a few of the seats in our designated section are filled when we get there, which isn’t surprising seeing as I asked Nate if we could come early enough to watch warm-ups. Vas, here early as well, waves when he sees us.
“Look who it is!” Nate says cheerfully, taking the stairs down at a jog.
“Hello, my friends,” Vas greets us as we slide along the row toward him. He doesn’t have any food, and is wearing khaki pants and a light blue polo shirt with the NHL team logo on it. He looks like he might work here.
“How’s it going, buddy? Want some fries?” Nate asks, moving to sit on one side of Vas so I can sit on the other.
“Oh, I am fine. Thank you for offering.” He turns to me, smiling and patting my knee as I settle in my seat. “Micky, I am happy to see you! We are missing you.”
