I guideParker through the halls of the arena, glancing upward every now and then as I look for our section. We’re right next to the bench, so the players will pass us on their way to the ice, and Desmond will be able to look over and see us throughout the game. Up ahead, I see the sign for a concession stand. Plucking gently at the back of Parker’s shirt to slow him down, I lean over to talk to him.
“Did you want something to eat?”
I’ve had more time to work recently, now that I’m not playing hockey, although I have picked up less shifts than Ishould have these past few weeks. It’s hard to find the motivation to work at the ice-skating rink when I know I could be spending the weekends with Desmond. Even so, I’ve got nearly three hundred dollars in my bank account right now. It feels like a fortune.
“Yeah,” Parker agrees, like I knew he would. He’s always hungry. “Des gave me cash.”
He fishes around in his pocket, and pulls out a crumpled wad of bills. From what I can see, there’s two twenty-dollar bills. I shake my head, blushing slightly, and close his hand back around the money, worried he’ll drop it on the ground.
“It’s okay, I’ve got it.”
“Okay,” he replies, unconcerned, shoving the money back into his jeans and following me over to the concession stand. He eyes the menu, before turning his gaze to me, speculative. “Chicken tenders and fries?”
“Sure, whatever you want.”
“And a slushy?” he adds on immediately. I nod, even though I’m pretty sure twenty ounces of straight sugar probably isn’t wise this late in the day. He smiles happily, stepping forward and putting in his order before glancing back at me.
“I’m good, nothing for me. Thank you.” The girl behind the counter rings me up, trying to make small talk as she does, probably assuming I’m a normal human being and not the one I actually am—easily embarrassed and prone to stumbling over every single word during even the most innocuous of interactions. Small talk is not a strength I possess, and it’s painful for both of us.
Parker takes the tray of food, which makes me pause for a second, wondering if he can be trusted to carry it without dropping it. We make it to our seats without an issue, though. Both teams are already on the ice warming up, but neitherDesmond nor Coach Mackenzie is behind the bench yet. Parker settles with the tray on his lap, nudging me with his elbow.
“We can share,” he offers. I take a single fry, dunking it in the small cup of ketchup.
“Thank you.”
“Desmond calls fries ‘chips,’” Parker tells me. “Isn’t that funny?”
“He probably thinkswe’rethe funny ones,” I reply, which makes him laugh.
Nate skates up and slams into the glass directly in front of us, grinning. I shake my head at him, but he only knocks his gloved hand against the glass twice before skating off.
“Who’s that?” Parker asks. “Your friend?”
“Yeah, that’s Nate.”
“Cool. Are you sad you don’t get to play anymore? Or not, because hockey is kind of stupid?” Laying a couple fries on top of a chicken tender, he dips the whole thing in the sauce before putting it in his mouth. I look away, because it’s not particularly appetizing looking.
“Not really. I miss seeing my friends every day, though. But not playing, no. I wasn’t very good.”
It’s honestly astounding to me, how little I miss playing. I’d convinced myself I wanted to be on the team, even while I hated it. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I can look back and see just how miserable I really was. Quitting felt like putting down an immensely heavy load I’d been carrying for no reason; felt like I could finally take a breath after so many hours holding it.
“Yeah you were,” Parker responds, plucking up another french fry and holding it out to me. “You were super good.”
“You watched?” I ask, knowing for a fact that he didn’t. Ifthere is one thing Parker isn’t shy about telling anyone, it’s how little he cares about sports.
“Not really, but Desmond talks to himself when he works from home. He was always talking about you, and it wasn’t bad things, so.” He shrugs, matter settled as far as he is concerned.
“Oh,” I reply, watching Roman, the current starting goaltender, go through his warm-ups. He’s better than I am—was—and is only in his first year. It’ll be better for him, and the team, to have him as the starter. “Well, that was nice of him.”
“Yeah,” Parker agrees, finishing off the last of the chicken tenders and holding the paper tray of fries out to me. There’s only a couple left, so I shake my head. He can finish them. “Do you think Anthony is here?”
He looks over his shoulder, scanning the crowd like he might be able to spot him. I look too, because hell, maybe he is here.
“Uhm, I don’t know. I don’t think he comes to all the games.”
“Hm.” Frowning, Parker finishes his crowd perusal and faces forward once more. “He’s cool.”
“Yeah,” I agree. Also, really fucking intimidating, but that’s probably just me.
