STELLA
By the timewe reach the box seats, my body hasn’t caught up with my surroundings. I’m somewhere back there, still in the locker room closet with Eli.
I replay the scene on a loop—the way his hands held me steady, he way he’d asked and waited, searched my face to make sure I was with him and okay with approving every second of it. I’d been the one to nod, and to lean in, and to close the distance again when he would have let me walk away if I turned him down.
My pulse still races, but in my mind I crossed a line I couldn’t uncross. I’d let nostalgia and chemistry take over in the tiny space of the closet. Even now, my body hums with ache and need, longing for more with him.
And then he asked me on a date.
Who am I becoming right now?
Aiden tugs on my sleeve as we step into the private box seats at the Aspens’ arena. “Mom. Look at all of this.” His eyes are wide taking in the multi-level area. As we enter on the upper level, an entire buffet feast of finger foods awaits.
He licks his lips at the mini fried chicken skewers glazed and steaming. Little baskets of grilled nachos with charred edges and too much cheese are calling my name. Pretzel bites with warm beer cheese, burger sliders the size of Aiden’s palm, popcorn, fruit cups, and brownies wrapped for grab and go eating worry me that he’ll have a stomach ache before the game is over.
“This is the best day of my life,” Aiden declares solemnly, already reaching for a skewer. I quickly put a napkin in his hand.
“Quite the feast,” Brenna chuckles beside me, watching her son Brady dip his hand in the chip bowl instead of using tongs. The rest of the kids and parents are also in awe, many of them reaching for plates to load up.
Below us, four rows of plush seats curve toward the ice, the glass gleaming under arena lights. Each seat has a green gift bag waiting with names on them. Ours are in the front seats.
Aiden tears into his bag immediately, pulling out a jersey with a whoop. The other kids follow suit, excitedly holding theirs up. There’s also a plush shaped like the Aspens mascot, a scarf, a beanie, and candy.
The parents have gotten jersey’s too, the generic kind available from the team’s gift store. I peek into mine, beneath the team logo tissue paper, and—my breath hitches.
The jersey in my bag is not generic for fans. I pull it halfway out and the number six appears, and then the name ‘Lewis.’ I stuff it back into the bag and look around, making sure no one saw. Everyone else was too busy buzzing about the food, the gifts, the seats. Aiden and his little group that always practices with Coach Eli have special jerseys too, that say The Crashers on the back.
But mine says Lewis, number six.
For a second, the noise around me drops out entirely. In college, it had meant something to wear a guy’s jersey. Everyone knew it. Wearing one wasn’t just support—but a statement. A quiet claim. Something you didn’t do lightly.
I close the bag quickly and slid it under my seat, my pulse loud in my ears.
Of course, Aiden notices. “Mom, didn’t you get a jersey? Wear it.”
“I’m actually too warm,” I explain, cheeks heating from more than the air. I unbutton my coat and tug my scarf loose, fanning myself dramatically.
He frowns, suspicious. “It’s cold in here. You told me in the car I’m not supposed to take off my scarf and jacket.”
“Right. I did. I just needed a moment.” I force a smileand bundle back up. “I’ll wear the jersey later, promise. Oh, look—the team is coming out to warm up.”
“Yay,” he settles next to me, staying on the edge of his seat to watch. When he spots Eli, he points. “There he is.”
Eli must see us at the same time and waves. We wave back. For fifteen minutes we bounce to upbeat music in our seats. Aiden comments about the various stretches we see the men do on the ice. In the aisle, he joins some of the kids in mimicking what they see the men do.
I gaze intently with my bottom lip between my teeth when Eli does this one particular stretch. He has his back to me, on all fours on the ice. His cute hockey-clad booty rocks forward again and again—stretching his hip flexors. It does absolutely nothing to cool me off or slow my pulse.
Someone taps my shoulder from the seat behind me. “This is my favorite part of hockey,” Brenna whispers, pointing to the players. “Can you imagine how well those hips must work? Ugh. Why can’t I meet a hockey player? Why, God?”
Yes, I know first hand how those hips work. “Let’s get some food,” I announce to Aiden, quickly avoiding more torture of Eli’s body for the pleasure of my eyes.
Once stuffed, we return to our seats when the puck drops, and the game roars to life. The Aspens are hosting the Vancouver Polar Hounds tonight. If our home team wins, we keep our second place spot in the division. Okay, so maybe while studying for midterms last week I might have looked over the team rankings when I was creatively procrastinating.
Toward the end of the first period, Eli gets a breakaway past a defender with a kind of effortless intensity that I recall from his time with the Tigers. He takes the shot, and scores clean. The arena explodes with music, and fanfare, and the crowd chanting, “Lewis, Lewis, Lewis.”
Aiden and I jump up, screaming. His hands fling in the air, cheering like he hopes he can be heard down on the ice.
Eli points up at the box, at us. We wave some more.
