I don’t have time to examine the remaining contents of both boxes before Noah bursts in the door. He’s so excited he can’t calm down long enough to tell me why he’s bouncing off the walls. I wait him out until he composes himself as best as a six-year-old can.
I’m smiling, as I haven’t seen him joyful like this in a long time. Finally, he flops into a chair.
“Ryder and Rowen invited me to the game tonight. Can I go? Please?”
I stutter as I try to come up with a reasonable excuse for why he can’t. It’s bad enough his new best friends are sons of Drakos’s teammate, but it’s even worse if that friendship exposes him to the man who threw him away.
“Does Gardenia know about this?” I’m interrupted by my phone ringing. A quick glance at the screen reveals it’s the very subject of my question as we exchanged numbers recently. “It’s her.”
Noah bites his lip in anticipation and manages to keep his mouth shut, but he can’t control his patience and taps his foot on the floor repeatedly. I sigh and accept the call.
“Hi.”
“Hi, Aria, this is Gardenia.”
“I know.”
“I’m guessing Noah has told you about tonight?”
“He was starting to.”
“I’m probably as caught off guard as you are, but it’s all okay. He can stay the night with the boys, and I’ll bring him home in the morning. I also have an extra ticket if you’d be so kind as to help me control the hellions.”
Going to a game with an Icehawk WAG is the last thing I should be doing. “Thanks for the offer, but I have a press pass.”
“Oh, of course you do. But why not sit on the glass with me? I’ll need adult company.”
“Are you sure you’re comfortable being seen at a game with me? I’m not popular with the team.”
“I don’t care about that. Just promise whatever we say is between us.”
“You trust me?” I know I sound incredulous, and I am.
“Shouldn’t I?”
“No one else affiliated with the team would.”
“I’m not like the rest. I actually like you.”
Gardenia’s been kind to me, and it’s changed my perspective on the Icehawks themselves. The pressure from my boss to constantly unearth dirt and spread unsubstantiated gossip wears old at times, but the money is good, and I need that money more than ever. Raising a kid is way more expensive than I could’ve ever imagined, and a kid in hockey is even more outrageously expensive. I won’t deny Noah anything, though. If hockey makes him happy, I’ll sell my body if I have to.
Nor can I deny him an opportunity to attend a game. I’m ashamed to admit I haven’t taken him to one game, even though I attend the majority of them for my job.
This last regular season game is the most important game the Icehawks have played to date. If they win, they’re in the playoffs. If they lose, then their summer vacation starts tomorrow. On a personal note, even though a loss means more time with Noah until next season and a scaled-down workload in the off-season, deep down I still want the Icehawks to win.
“Thank you. We’d love to go,” I hear myself saying, and look around as if I expect that response to have come from someone else. Gardenia’s reply is drowned out by Noah racing around the room, fists pumping, as he screams at the top of his lungs. I’ve never seen him this animated, and I have to smile. His joy warms my heart, and it’s worth any sacrifice I have to make.
* * *
A few hours later, I’m sitting in the front row of the Columbia Green Arena with Gardenia. The three boys are seated between us, which means we aren’t able to carry on a conversation. That’s just as well. I’m fully aware of the dirty looks I’m getting from the team when they pass near the glass during warm-ups. Jakob stops to tap his stick on the glass and smile at his boys and Noah. His smile turns to a frown when he catches sight of me. He nods curtly and skates away. Thankfully, Noah doesn’t notice the cold reception. He’s too busy pointing at players and bouncing in his seat. I haven’t seen him this animated since before his mom died.
I’m consumed by guilt that I haven’t brought him sooner considering his love for hockey. It was selfish of me, and for that I vow to do everything in my power to make this a memorable night.
“Can I have a jersey, Aunt Ari? Can I? Ryder and Rowen have one with their dad’s name and number.”
“Of course you can.” I’m grateful for a reprieve from the ice-melting glares the team casts my way. Usually, I’m in the press box and not in their faces as I am tonight.
The team store on the lower level of the arena is packed as usual. I guide him through the throngs to the kids’ jerseys. “Which one do you want?”
