“Well, from your description of the game as something like melee combat, I doubt I’ll be bored.”
She grins. “Plus, live sports are a whole different experience from watching on TV. There’s an energy to the room. And they do goofy things to keep people entertained between periods.”
I perk up at that. “Oh, there’s an intermission?”
Still grinning, she holds up two fingers. “Two, actually. There are three periods in hockey, so there’s a break between each period, rather than something like basketball, which is two halves, or football with its four quarters and a break at halftime.” She shrugs. “There’s no halftime with three periods, so you get two breaks.”
“Nice.”
“It goes pretty fast, too,” she assures me. “It’s nonstop action, like I said.” The lights dim, spotlights start moving wildly on the ice, and Marissa wiggles with happiness. “The preshow antics are fun. I don’t know you that well, so I don’t know how much of a joiner you are, but in my experience, things are more fun if you let yourself get into it. Yell and cheer and try to at least pretend you care.”
“Well, I’m legally obligated to care, right?” I quip. “I mean, I’m married to one of the players. I have to root for him. And I know he’s going to ask me what I thought about the game afterward, so I have to watch so I have something to say.”
“That’s the spirit!” Marissa says, setting her hot dog in her lap so she can clap along to the music.
Despite her advice, I finish my pizza—the little box it comes in is too flimsy and saturated with grease for me to want to put it in my lap—before joining in the clapping and cheering when the mascot skates out to rile up the crowd.
She’s right, though. The preshow antics are fun, and I can’t help laughing when the refs skate out to full-throated boos from the audience.
Marissa glances at me, eyebrows raised. “I know, right?” she mouths.
Her description is spot on—after all the pomp and circumstance of the ceremonial first puck drop and then the real thing that starts the game, everything is near-constant motion. It’s easy to lose track of the puck as it zips from player to player, sometimes flying overhead. The Emeralds have it, but then lose it when it gets hit high and an opposing player catches the puck in his hand before dropping it to the ice and skating off with it.
I gasp at that move, glancing at Marissa, eyes wide. “They can do that? That doesn’t seem right. Like in soccer, how you can’t use your hands.”
Grinning, she nods. “I get it. But yeah, they can do that.” She nods back at the ice. “Look. Chalmers is coming in.”
And she’s right. I’d spotted his number sitting on the Emeralds’ bench earlier, and now he’s climbing over the wall and jumping in as other players leave the ice.
Still, there’s so much movement, that even though I try to watch him more than the puck, I lose track of him pretty often. “I don’t know where to look!” I shout.
“Just try to follow the puck,” Marissa says, clapping as one of the Emeralds takes a shot on the other team’s goal. The goalie blocks it, though, and play pauses as they reset for a second. “I know it’s tempting to watch your guy, but if he doesn’t have thepuck, you’ll miss the important parts of the game.” She points. “Look, there’s Dozer. He’s scanning the stands to see if he can see me, but he never finds me.” She grins. “If we were right up against the plexiglass, he’d be able to.” She shrugs. “But I like sitting higher up so I can see better.”
“He doesn’t get grumpy about that?”
She gives me a funny look. “No. Why would he? He knows I’m here and that he’ll see me afterward. And he knows I always sit up here when I’m in general seating—which is most of the time. Sometimes I hang out in the team box with Maggie, but it’s distracting up there with all the other people. Here, it’s just me—and you, of course—and the game.”
I glance around at the other people sitting all around us, eyebrows raised, and she laughs. “Okay, sure, they’re here too,” she concedes, “but they’re not trying to talk to me.”
“Is my talking a distraction?”
Shaking her head, she grins at me. “No. At least not an unwelcome one. I’m glad you’re here, and I’m happy to talk hockey with you. If you were just blabbing about the latest celebrity gossip or something, I might find that annoying.”
“That’s not really my thing.”
“Yeah, same. That’s one of the reasons I like you so much.”
“Awww,” I say, sounding almost mocking, but I’m actually really happy to be making a friend. “I like you too.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Jason
“Salty Salmon?”Abernathy says, pointing at me, eyebrows raised. It’s phrased like a question, but I know him well enough by now to realize it’s more of an order. He points at a few other guys—Bouchard, Dozer, Jenkins, and Bowers, who’re all in various stages of getting dressed after their showers.
Spirits are high off winning our first two preseason games. Even though it doesn’t count toward the road to the Stanley Cup, it sets us up for a good season, which means Coach is happy too.
“Who’s going to the Salmon?” Locke asks, popping up from his seat across the room and pulling a shirt over his head.
