Wyatt looks back over his shoulder, then to me. His complexion is super pale, so he can’t hide the slight blush that spreads across his cheeks. “I have no idea. She asked me if I wanted to take you to this game, and I said of course. Then she handed me some tickets. That’s all I know.”
We catch up on the way to the arena. He goes to the same high school as Olivia, Charlie, and Wes, but he doesn’t know them well because it’s such a huge school. It’s hard for me to imagine, since mine is so small. We chat about senior year and college selections, and before long, we’re here.
Wyatt pulls his car up to the gate designated for season ticket holders. “Your aunt gave us a parking pass, too,” he says.
This is blowing my mind. I never even knew there was a hockey team here. And now Aunt Camille is a major hockey enthusiast?
Once we’ve parked, I get out of the car and scan the area. “Why do all of these people have their dogs with them?”
Wyatt and I spin in a circle and, yes, almost everyone walking to the entrance has a dog on a leash. Small dogs. Big dogs. Everything in between. Suddenly Aunt Camille’s choice of date is making more sense.
“I have no idea,” he answers. Then he stops abruptly and points to a large banner hanging from the side of the building that reads:
“Oh wow,” Wyatt mutters.
Wyatt hands our tickets over to be scanned and we make our way inside. The lobby area is full of tables from local animal rescue missions, pet grooming business, and veterinarians. There are even pets available for adoption. If I didn’t think my mom would absolutely kill me, I’d totally be leaving here with something cute and furry.
Just before we enter the short tunnel that will take us to our seats, we see Aunt Camille at a table for the same pet rescue group we helped her with last summer. We stop and wave.
“Isn’t this wonderful?” she screams from across the room.
“It’s pretty exciting!” I scream back, a little worried about my volume. I shouldn’t be, though—it’s impossible to be heard over the barking.
Wyatt studies the tickets as we make our way inside the arena. The music is loud and fun, and the announcer is yelling about the Doggie Parade on Ice that will happen at the first intermission.
“Need help finding your seats?” a man with a Mudbugs T-shirt asks Wyatt.
“Please,” Wyatt says, then hands the tickets over.
“Ah! You’re in one of the boxes.” The man points to several squared-off areas right next to the glass. In each squared-off area is a sectional sofa and a couple of big puffy recliners like the one Papa has. “You’re in the one in the middle. Right at center ice.”
“Okay, thanks,” Wyatt answers. We exchange a big-eyed look, then I follow him to our seats.
Each area is enclosed with a short wall that is about the same height as the sofa with just a small opening to slip inside. There’s also a coffee table in front of the couch, which holds a tray with a couple of bottles of water.
Wyatt walks up to the glass and says, “This is pretty cool. I mean, we’re right here, practically on the ice.”
I pick up a note propped against the bottled waters, which reads, “I guess if there’s a way to see your first hockey game, this is it,” I say with a grin. It’s cold in here, way colder than I expected, and I can’t help the shiver that rolls through me.
Wyatt takes off his jacket and throws it around my shoulders.
“No, you’ll be too cold without your jacket,” I say, trying to give it back. He pushes my hand away lightly.
“I’ve got a long-sleeve shirt on under this pullover. I’m good.”
I pull it closer to me and sit in the corner of one of the couches. This box is pretty cool, but it’s an awfully big space for just the two of us. I look up toward the sea of faces—human and canine—that rise up behind us in the regular seats, and it feels a little like we’re in a fishbowl.
“I feel like we’ll be watched as much as the game,” I say. Wyatt turns around to look up at the stands. Just then, Aunt Camille enters the box.
“So what do you think?” she says.
I’m not sure if she means the box seats or the four little puppies she’s carrying.
“Oh my goodness! Look how adorable!” I squeal. I peel one of them out of her arms and bury my nose in its fur.
She hands Wyatt the other three and then motions to another woman, whose arms are just as full. “Bring them in here, Donna!”
Donna doubles the amount of puppies in our box. They crawl over the furniture, knocking down the bottles of water, and rolling all over each other across the carpet.
