“Only if they keep yelling without fixing anything,” I mutter, pointing my fork toward the field.
From our prime seats—front row of the covered family-and-staff section—you can hear my dad loud and clear.
I don’t even have to look to know he’s waving his arms like a medieval warlord.
“Becker! Do I need to run you back to Elm Hollow myself?!”
The crowd laughs. A couple of fans behind us comment:
“Knew it. Heart can’t survive a first half without yelling at Becker!”
“Yeah, but the nine is off today. He does those plays in his sleep!”
Yes.
I’ve noticed.
Unfortunately,waytoo well.
Distracted Cohen Becker is a low blow to my heart and my logic.
He missed a pass, lost a tackle, and—worst of all—had that “I’m mentally somewhere else” look.
“Your mother is talking to you, Sloane,” she says calmly, sipping her hot coffee.
“Hm?”
“You just dropped ketchup on your scarf.”
“Damn it!”
I dab at the red wool. It’s the scarf Dad gave us last year—“Lakewood Special Edition,” white lettering on crimson.
My mom wears hers folded with geometric precision. I, on the other hand, am the version with a messy bun and a scarf covered in… cripes, now mustard got on it too.
Perfect.
A fan two rows up jumps to his feet holding a banner.
“LET’S GO LAKEWOOD! THIS IS OUR HOUSE!”
The crowd erupts, and even though it’s freezing, the air feels warm, buzzing.
Kids waving tiny flags, people laughing, the smell of fried food—
a little party inside the tension.
The big screen rolls the halftime stats.
Cohen: two shots, zero goals, one crossbar.
“He missed two easy ones,” someone behind us says.
“It’s his head,” another replies. “When Becker isn’t mentally there, you feel it right away. He looks… distant.”
“He’s just a spoiled idiot. All he cares about is having fun. When are they sending him home?”
That spikes my blood pressure.
