I looked down at my fingers, which were indeed white-knuckled around the four tickets Skyler had left at will-call.
Section 108. Row M. Seats 5 through 8.
“What if someone recognizes me?” I said. “What if someone puts two and two together? What if—”
“What if you stop borrowing trouble and enjoy this?” Mia interrupted. “Jacks, look around. Do you see anyone here who cares about the romantic lifeof a former FSU linebacker who most people forgot existed five minutes after his injury?”
She had a point. It hurt like a bitch, but it was fair.
The crowd flowing around us was focused on one thing: hockey.
Okay, a few were more focused on getting drunk and eating their weight in fried food, but most of the fans were chatting and laughing and talking shit about one team or the other. The Lightning fans were ready to watch their team play, wearing jerseys and carrying foam fingers and talking about line combinations and power play strategies.
I was just another face in the crowd, another human speed bump to go around on their way to their seats.
A face wearing number 91, but still . . .
“He wants you here, dummy,” Benji added. “He wants you here, wearing his jersey, in his seats. That’s not an accident, Jacks. That’s a choice. Accept it and be happy.”
“It’s a choice that could blow up in both our faces if the wrong person notices.”
“Or,” Finn said, “a choice that means he’s ready to start being honest about what you mean to him.”
I looked at Finn, stunned. Had the ultimate skeptic tossed me a lifeline of romantic hope? “That’s very . . . optimistic. For you.”
“I’m protective, not pessimistic. There’s a difference.” He paused. “And despite my reservations about the pace of all this, I can see how he looks at you and how you look at him. That’s not nothing.”
“But?”
“No buts. Just be careful. The higher profile this gets, the more there is to lose.”
We reached the ticket scanner. The attendant, a teenager with Lightning face paint and boundless enthusiasm, scanned our tickets and waved us through.
“Section 108’s that way,” she said, pointing down a wide concourse. “Enjoy the game.”
The arena was louder inside, the sound of conversation and music and vendors bouncing off concrete walls. We followed the signs toward our section, and despite my jangling nerves, I felt anticipation building, too.
I was about to watch Skyler play professional hockey.
In person.
Wearing his jersey.
“This is so cool,” Benji said. “I’ve never been to a professional hockey game. Are they always this loud before it even starts? It’s like Barbacks, only a hundred times louder.”
“Wait until the game starts,” Finn said. “This isnothing.”
We found our seats, and sweet baby Jesus, they were perfect seats, close enough to see everything.
The warmups were already underway, with both teams skating in wide loops until some unseen signal had them peeling off to start drills that looked a little like choreographed dance moves. We had similar warmups in football, minus the skates and the dancing.
The ritual was mesmerizing, all fluid grace and precision.
And there, in the middle of it all, was Skyler.
We settled in to watch. I found myself relaxing despite my earlier fears.
This was hockey. It was just a game.
