“This is my son’s dinner,” Tyler said, trying to keep his voice level.
The woman shrugged. “I don’t blame you for wanting to bring something for your kid, but the rules are the rules.”
Tyler closed his eyes for just a moment, forcing out a breath. “Throw it out, then,” he said, trying for a smile. “It was my fault for not knowing.”
Rowan was fussing and fidgeting by the time they found their seats. They were close to the ice, a few rows back from the clear glass that circled the edge of the rink. Fans wearing jerseys sat on either side of them, talking animatedly with their friends and well on their way to finishing large cups of beer.
He’d put orange noise-canceling headphones over Rowan’s beanie as soon as they’d entered the arena. His son’s eyes were huge as he stared around them, and Tyler was struck by the fact that this was probably the most people Rowan had ever been around at one time.
Tyler tried to force a deep breath. If he could go back in time, he’d say no to the tickets.
The game was about to start, but Rowan was hungry. It was slow moving against the crowds going to their seats, and it took longer than he wanted to find a spot that sold brats and fries. He’d loaded up on pickled onions, which Rowan now happily munched on.
By the time they’d gotten back to their seats, the game was underway.
“Okay, kiddo,” Tyler said, sitting back in the seat and gettingRowan settled on his lap. “Let’s figure out what this hockey thing is all about.”
Apparently, hockey was about deafening noise, huge bodies hurtling around on ice skates, the scrape and resoundingsmackof the puck on sticks, bright lights, and an announcer bellowing an overly-dramatized play-by-play.
Rowan held the bratwurst like a banana and devoured the whole thing.
Tyler had been to a hockey game or two back in high school, but remembered almost none of the rules. An older man sitting next to them must have been able to tell they were clueless as to what was happening on the ice, because he started pointing out players to them.
“Our goalie is good,” he said, pointing to the huge and heavily padded man standing in the net closest to them. “Anders Berglund. He’s getting older, but hasn’t lost a step. We’ve got a new guy backing him up this year. A rookie from Finland, Onni Koskinen.”
Tyler remembered the tall, pale, young guy who’d helped them move into the apartment. It was hard to imagine him out there with all that padding on.
The man pointed out Mitch, who skated like he’d been born on the ice. He explained the different lines, and then, without prompting, “Our captain is out right now. Injured his hand in a fight he never should have been in.” He sighed heavily, shaking his head. “He’s been brutal this year.”
Tyler frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Our last captain, Sharpie? He was one of the best players in the league. A top scorer, and one of the main reasons we won the Cup. Now, with Sully in his spot, we just don’t have the same offensive generation. He looks awkward on the ice. I dunno, something's up with him. Between you and me, if he doesn’t get ittogether, I think we should trade him at the deadline. He’s older, has a big contract, and maybe he’s lost it. Maybe it’s better to move on with someone young.”
Tyler stared at the man, trying to reconcile the Jamie Sullivan who had sat with him on his break with the hockey player this man described. He’d never gotten any indication from Jamie that he didn’t take his work seriously–if anything, Jamie seemed like the kind of person who was completely consumed by their work. Like hockey waswhohe was.
Listening to this fan, he thought he maybe now understood the tight set to Jamie’s mouth and the tension he seemed to carry in his shoulders.
“Where’s Jamie?” Rowan asked, rubbing his brat-greased fingers on Tyler’s cheek.
“Not sure, bud,” Tyler said. He ran his eyes over the bench of guys in the green and orange uniforms, scanning the people in suits behind the players. He didn’t think he saw Jamie, but he also could barely make out the features of the men through the plexiglass.
Rowan whined and kicked his feet at the seat in front of them.
Someone on the Muskies team scored, and the man next to them cheered.
Tyler pulled out his phone with the intention of checking the time, but he froze when he saw a string of text notifications from Jamie.
Jamie:
Did you find parking okay?
Hope you find your seats. Let me know if you need help.
I’m up in the team box for the game, but can probably come down if you need any help.
I’d recommend the k-bab place on the east end of the concourse if you are hungry. They’re a part of a pilot program where they buy produce and meat from local farmers. IDK. Seems like you’d appreciate that.
And finally, only a minute ago:
