I roll my eyes, but I can still feel my cheeks flush, and I can tell by Margo’s grin that she definitely notices.
“You know how detail-oriented Grant is,” I say, because it’s absolutely true. “But that was really nice of him.”
Which is also very true. He’s already been more generous than anything I could’ve imagined, and I have no idea how I’m going to repay his kindness.
Down on the ice, Grant looks up as if he can hear us talking about him. We’re close enough to him that I can actually see him scanning the first row of seats until his eyes land on us. Our eyes lock for a second, and I raise my hand in a small wave while April throws her arms in the air like she’s landing a plane.
“Do you see him, Mom?” she shouts, bouncing up and down. “He’s looking right at us!”
Grant gives a slight, subtle nod in our direction, then taps his stick against the goal post three times. It’s the same ritual he goes through in every game, but there’s a little added glance up in our direction this time, and I swear I can see the corners of his mouth lift in what might be the beginning of a smile.
“I see him, sweetheart,” I say, returning the smile and feeling my heart start to beat faster.
The game starts, and it’s action-packed from the very beginning. Being this close to the ice, we can see every hit and hear every grunt. April is completely in her element, giving me running commentary on every play, and I’m more into the game than I’ve ever been before, jumping up and shouting right along with her every time the Aces come close to scoring.
“Did you see that save?” April shakes her head like a veteran sportscaster. “Grant was already moving before the pass was complete. Like he instinctively knew where the shot would end up.”
She’s not wrong, but the visiting team isn’t slouching either. They’re making risky plays—according to April—and making the Aces work for every goal. Grant is on top of it, though, and has the crowd chanting his name by the end of the second period.
By the time we make it through most of the third, I’ve settled on the edge of my seat, but just barely. I’ve never fully understood what a nail-biter of a game looks like until now, with the Aces down by one goal and only a few minutes left to turn things around.
Then it happens.
A quick pass by the other team, a redirect, and suddenly the puck is sliding past Grant’s glove and into the net. April and I wince and groan while the other team’s fans go wild.
Grant only lets his shoulders slump for a second before he squares them again, but I can practically feel the tension and frustration from here.
April looks around at the cheering visitors and grimaces. “That wasn’t his fault,” she huffs. “That was a perfect shot. There wasn’t anything he could’ve done about that redirect.”
“I’m sure you’re right, sweetheart,” I say, loving her loyalty even if I can’t speak to the technical part of what just happened on the ice. “Although I’m not sure Grant sees it that way.”
“Because he’s too hard on himself. All the great ones are.”
She’s not wrong, but I have to stifle a laugh. When did my little girl start sounding like a grizzled sports reporter?
He hasn’t looked up at us again, but I can tell from his body language as his teammates rally around him that he’s already taking full responsibility for this loss.
“He looks like he needs a hug,” April says, finally starting to sound like her nine-year-old self again.
“He probably does,” is all I can say.
Margo pops up again near the press exit as the crowd starts to thin out. “Let’s go down to the family lounge and wait. The guys will be coming out of the locker room soon.”
I hesitate a moment. “Do you think Grant will want us there? He’s probably not going to be in the mood for chit-chat.”
She gives me a look like I’ve just said the most asinine sentence in the history of the English language. “Since when is Grant Parker ever in the mood for chit-chat? Of course he’ll want you and April down there. Come on!”
I’ve only been in the family and friends lounge a handful of times before, and only after a win, so the first thing I notice is the subdued energy in the room after such a close loss.
Wives and girlfriends are huddled in small groups, talking in slightly hushed voices while we all wait for the players to come out. Theo’s wife Becca gives me a friendly nod before turning her attention back to her quiet conversation with Callie and Hannah. The young kids are the only ones who seem unaffected by the loss, running around and playing without a care in the world.
Margo checks her phone and looks over at me. “The guys should start coming out soon. They’re probably getting the post-game talk from the coach right about now.”
“I don’t think I’d want to be in the room for that particular talk.” I grimace at the palpable tension in the room. “Is it always like this after we lose a game?”
“Pretty much. Wins are celebrations. Losses are obviously less fun. But it’s important for us to show up either way—and maybe more important to show up for the losses. The guys need to know we support them through the tough times too.”
As if on cue, the players start to appear in the lounge, trickling in from the locker room in a slow procession that instantly makes my heart hurt for them.
