“Hey, this is the best ratings we’ve ever had for Frozen Four,” Carol pointed out.
“That’s because the Yolks made it to the final game, and they’re playing the only team that’s ever pulled off a perfect season and taken the national title,” George insisted.
“Sure, that stat might be why more Whitementhan ever are watching,” Carol conceded. “But I’m pretty sure it’s the MVP dating the adopted daughter of the Minnesota Raptors owner that’s boosted our viewership with Blackwomenby 42 percent.And this,” she tapped the paper, “is what’s going to make sure your voice is featured on all the national feeds—not just dinky KFRZ FM and the local Minnesota TV stations.”
“Miss the old days when ratings weren’t so specific,” George muttered.
“Just read it, will you?” Carol tapped an acrylic index nail against the printout. “We need you ready as soon as the game’s over.”
George crossed his arms like a stubborn brat, even though he was closing in on 60. “I write my own copy, and I need twenty-four hours’ notice for any and all ads. I don’t get paid enough to put up with this last-minute crap.”
Carol snorted. “This isn’t up for debate, Squeaky. Got the order straight from the station head himself. And he’s already cleared it with the arena’s sound system folks.”
George scrunched his forehead. “Why would Jason…?”
“Because this is big, ya nimrod,” Carol interrupted. “You’re lucky that Rustanov kid’s got a soft spot for you. Most local presenters wouldn’t get a commission like this.”
Curiosity finally won out over George’s resolve. “Fine, I’ll read it over.ThenI’ll decide if I’m doing it.” He snatched up the paper and jammed on his reading glasses—only to rip them back off after just a few lines to look up at Carol. “Is this guy serious?”
“As a heart attack.” Carol pulled out a pack of Nicorette gum she used between smoke breaks. “Want some?”
“No!” George squinted at the copy, then at the scoreboard showing the 0-0 tie outside the media’s glassed-in booth. They were about to enter the third period, and neither team hadmanaged to score yet. “What if his team doesn’t win? The copy won’t make any sense.”
Carol shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out.”
But they didn’t have to find out. In the last two minutes of the game, Artyom Rustanov came off the face-off like a demon in hockey gear, taking immediate control of the puck. It didn’t leave his stick until he shot it clean into the Reds’ net.
And just in case anyone thought the Manhattan Reds could tie up the game after that, Rustanov set up a pass to the left winger, who netted another goal just sixty seconds later.
Then, in the final fifteen seconds, George found himself on his feet, yelling, “And Rustanov steals it! Ten seconds left on the clock… passes to Kurtzman… who drops it back to Rustanov… And—SCO-ORE! SCO-ORE! SCO-ORE!”“ George shouted into the mic with the signature squeak he’d become known for over the last thirty-plus years.
On the ice below, the Yolks erupted in celebration, hugging each other as best they could in their bulky gear.
“Guess you’ll be reading that big announcement after all.” Carol appeared by his side, giving him a sour I-told-you-so look.
Below, the game’s MVP, Artyom Rustanov, pulled away from the rest of the players and took a position near the edge of the ice. Meanwhile, Carol flipped a few switches on the console before pointing to let George know that his mic was now broadcasting not only to KFRZ’s radio and TV feed but also to the entire arena.
With a huge smile, George leaned forward and happily announced, “The Yolks have just won this year’s USCA hockeychampionship, and Artyom Rustanov would like to request the presence of Lydia Carrington on the ice….”
George grinned as every camera in the arena zoomed in on Lydia, seated with her parents, two other Black girls around her age, and a full row of Rustanov men and their families—including the hockey legend, Mount Nik.
He must have been getting soft in his old age. As Artyom Rustanov got down on one knee, George held his breath, along with everyone else in the arena, hoping that even though they’d only been dating a few months, Lydia Carrington would give Rustanov the answer he wanted.
Yes.
Skye
Six Years Later
“Lookslike Lydia Carrington had no idea this moment was coming!”
My stomach dropped when I returned from the restroom of BierHaus, a sports bar located in the Benton Las Vegas, to find that annoying PlayZone Channel documentaryBorn to Rustanov the Rinkblaring on every TV behind the bar where my new conference friend Tess sat.
Crap! Crap! Crap!
As invited speakers of the EmpowerHER Summit, a conference for women of color who’d founded or wanted to start nonprofits, we’d received surprise tickets for the sasha x kasha residency concert at the Benton Grand. Tess had pulled me into this sports bar for pre-concert drinks, guessing correctly that we wouldn’t have to compete with a ton of the singing twins’ other fans here to get a couple of glasses of wine.
She was right. We’d found two stools at the bar, no problem.
