“What the hell, lady?” The man in a Voodoo jersey glares at me, beer dripping from his face and sleeves, too. “Slow down, why don’t you?”
“I didn’t see you,” I choke out, blinking as I swipe beer from my lashes.
“Fuck you, guys! My new bag is ruined! One of you is paying for this.” A woman appears at the edge of the beer puddle, wiping beer off her purse with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.
“I ain’t paying for shit,” the man says, jabbing a hand my way. “She’s the one who ran intome.”
I know I should defend myself, but I’m too busy having a heart attack as I realize that, thanks to the drenching, my blousehas grown dangerously transparent. My nipples are practically out for show-and-tell, a fact that has my pulse rushing so loudly in my ears that for a moment, I think the collective gasp is a mental sound effect, courtesy of my own mortified brain.
But then the gasp is followed by a wave of laughter and male voices carrying that “amused predator” edge that always means trouble.
I glance up, gaze instinctively locking on the closest screen to the left of the beer stands. What I see makes my stomach drop into my feet and begin burrowing through the concrete.
Because there I am.
On the Jumbotron.
My image fills the massive screen, showcasing the hair hanging in wet clumps around my face, the running mascara, and the nipples poking through my white silk shirt. A “wow” emoji pops up beside me, followed by pulsing text, announcing a “Party Foul” on level four.
The camera holds for a beat—an endless beat, in which the laughter and male murmuring rise in a terrible crescendo—before cutting away.
The camera returns to the ice, to the players, and the sound recedes, but it’s too late. I’m shaking from the adrenaline rush, fighting an ugly cry as I cross my arms over my chest and run.
I push past the woman with the cheap leather purse she’s insisting I replace and the beer guy, racing as fast as my beer-soaked heels can carry me toward the closest staircase.
I pound down the stairs, through the now nearly empty entrance, and out into the warm night, grateful for the light rain that begins to fall as I reach the main drag. Now, if anyone sees the tears on my face, they’ll assume it’s just the rain, not fallout from The Autumn of My Discontent: Revenge of the Beer Apocalypse.
I instantly decide I will never drink beer again.
Not ever.
Not even with extra spicy gumbo.
Nine
NIX
The puck drops, and I’m where I need to be.
The stress of everything going on behind the scenes fades into the background as I lock in—no distractions, no anxiety, no wondering if I’m one fuck up from being traded to a frozen hellscape. On the ice, the rules are clear, and my role is straightforward. Here, I don’t have to worry about social norms or walking to the beat of a different drummer.
On the ice, I get to just be.
Just play.
Thank God.
This is why I’ve always loved the game. No matter how confusing or complicated real life gets, when I’m on the ice, life is simple, win or lose. And that’s a beautiful thing.
Nearly as beautiful as the first play of our season two opener…
Winchester wins the faceoff, sending the puck back to me with a gratifying smack. I trap it clean against my blade, scanning the ice for openings, then fire it up to Jean-Louis on the wing. He takes it into the zone with his signature fancy footwork, while I book it into my next position, already reading the play three steps ahead.
The crowd roars, giving the team a lift as cheers echo through the arena.
This is the magic of a home game—the community, the tribe coming together to fight for a common goal. It’s something humans crave on a primitive level and don’t get nearly enough of in our isolated modern lives.
Knowing the Voodoo fans are up there screaming for us, funneling their hope and excitement down onto the ice, is a boost I don’t take for granted.
