“Oh yeah?” Sloane asks her who she’d put on a jersey.
Trusting that she’s in good hands, I drift away, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. I don’t want to have to navigate the messiness of this league, this sport, or celebrity in general. I wish I didn’t know anything about what players are like off the ice.
“You okay?” Liz asks quietly when she finds me staring out at the sea of people streaming through the concourse.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve attended a game. It’s weird and uncomfortable.” I adjust my UCLA hat. Right now my sunglasses are sitting on top of it, ready if needed for me to hide behind if we go down to the glass for warmups.
The whole way here, I’ve gone back and forth on whether we should.
I have a sudden flashback to a memory, where I’m probably five or six, desperately trying to get my dad’s attention as he skates with his team before the game begins. How hollow I felt inside when I couldn’t grab his gaze.
Part of being in a relationship with Logan is going to require slaying dragons like that.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“What?”
I make a face. “We’re going to take Sloane down to the rink for the full boy aquarium experience.”
My skin feels all hot and sensitive as we find a spot along the glass. Beside us are some kids in LA jerseys, bouncing boisterously and waving homemade signs. And at the other end on this side of the rink, in a roped off family-of-the-team section, a beautiful blonde woman holds a toddler up. He rests his little toes on the edge of the boards and claps his hands on the ice, even though his dad hasn’t come out yet.
A wave of long-forgotten emotions rolls through me, like contrast dye lighting up a secret hollow wound deep inside. Time hasn’t smoothed those rough edges away, apparently.
Fuck.
“Our seats are all the way up there?” Sloane asks, pointing up to the upper level.
“It’s a good way to see the game,” Liz says diplomatically. “I think it’s easier to follow, honestly. Down here, all you see is bodies being smashed against the glass right in front of you.”
“That’s true,” I manage to get out.
It’s been more than a decade since I last attended an NHL game, but when I did, it was either in good seats near the ice, or in a box, and I always preferred the box for that bird’s eye view of the ice.
The music changes, and with an enthusiastic call out to the home team who appear on the Jumbotron coming out of their dressing room, the announcer indicates the start of warm-ups. The teams spill out onto the ice from their respective tunnels, Buffalo skating in circles right in front of us, LA doing their own matching synchronized loop at the other end.
I don’t look for Logan immediately, although I can feel his presence, and the tension band wrapped around my chest startsto ease. I’m still watching that little guy at the far end of the rink, and how excited he gets when his dad immediately skates and taps on the glass, giving him a high-five.
I can’t look away, even as Sloane says, “This is quite the collection of gladiatorial men. They’re fascinating. Oh there’s?—”
As she nudges, me, I’m already swivelling to find him.
Because gladiatorial men in general are not my thing, but Logan Granger is. For better or worse, he issomy thing.
And the smile that breaks across his face when our gazes collide could power the entire city. Everything else falls away.
“Oh, wow,” Liz whispers. “Your boy is smitten, huh?”
My boy.
I can’t breathe. My throat is tight and my eyes are burning and that hollow space inside me—that little girl who spent so much time trying to get her father to look at her, to see her, to care that she came to his game—starts to glow with a dangerous warmth.
He breaks away from his teammates and skates right past us. With a wink, he mouthesnice jerseybefore he snatches up a puck and weaves away, zooming faster.
He’s breathtaking to watch up close like this. Skates give him even more height on his already tall body, and the way he picks up speed isincredible.
It doesn’t take long for them to shift to taking shots on the net. Logan loops right back to where we’re standing and this time, he stops and leans against the glass. Not looking at me, not drawing attention, but taking time out of his warm up to be close.
I pretend to watch his teammates take their shots as I soak up his proximity, as fleeting as it is.
