Ramona lowered the empty cup and turned her head toward me. “You’ve looked over there six times.”
“Over where?”
She tilted her chin toward the bench.
My gaze followed the play instead. A Surge defenseman chased the puck behind the net and whipped it around the boards. It bounced past two sticks before another Surge player caught it and skated up the ice.
“I’m watching the game.”
“You’re watching one specific player sit on the bench while the game is happening.”
The puck crossed center ice. A Calgary player stepped into the lane and stole it back, drawing a collective groan from the section around us.
“Don’t start,” I said.
Ramona angled in her seat so she could study my face. “Too late. And FYI, you’re the one who started it.”
Another line hopped over the boards for the Surge. Fresh legs poured onto the ice while the others glided toward the bench.
My attention slid that way again without permission.
Aiden stood with the rest of his line, while the coach rattled something off that disappeared under the roar of the arena.
Ramona followed my eyes and gave a small nod to herself. “I knew it.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Sure.”
A Calgary winger sent the puck toward the net. Our goalie snagged it with his glove and held it up while the whistle sounded. The crowd clapped. A few people behind us shouted obscenities at the ref.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” she said, shaking her head slowly. She’d forgotten all about the game and was now just staring at me.
“Mona, please.”
“You hate hockey.”
“That’s not true.”
She gave me an incredulous look. “Your father chased it until it burned through your parents’ marriage. Your brother spent half his life chasing the same dream and ended up on crutches.”
The next line took the ice. The referee dropped the puck near the boards and the players crashed together again.
My fingers tightened around the railing as I swallowed past the bile rising in my throat. “What’s your point?”
Ramona watched the ice for a beat before glancing back at me. “You need to ask? Your exact words, by the way, were that you’d never get involved with a pro athlete.”
A Calgary defenseman wound up and fired the puck toward the net. It ricocheted off a skate and skittered wide.
“That rule made sense at the time.”
“At the time.” Ramona tilted her head. “What changed?”
The Surge bench stirred. Aiden stepped over the boards with the rest of his line and pushed onto the ice, stick tapping once against the surface before he turned up toward center.
My attention followed him, the strands of conversation dangling in mid-air.
He cut across the neutral zone and called for the puck. One of his wingers sent it over. Aiden caught it clean and drove toward the offensive end with a Calgary defender closing in. I held my breath, and that’s when Ramona snapped her fingers in my face.
