I’m about to snatch her phone when a roar rises from the crowd—like a wave, cresting. On the ice, a player I don’t recognize is hurtling toward the Bears’ goal, Riley at his back, and then Colton intercepts the puck and launches it from somewhere near half-rink. It’s a beautiful, improbable shot, and for a moment even I forget I hate sports.
The puck slams into the net and the box erupts. Livy stands and yells, “THAT’S MY DAD!” at a decibel usually reserved for fire alarms.
The glass wall vibrates from the noise, and I realize I’m on my feet too, hands pressed to the glass, mouth open. Colton spins on the ice, throws his stick in the air, and then I catch him looking right at me.
I swear he mouths, “This goal is for you.”
I know it’s physically impossible. But when he raises his glove and mimes a little salute, my heart explodes. I’m not the only person in the box, or the stadium, but somehow, I am positive it’s for for me alone.
Priya laughs. “You’re blushing. Are you blushing?”
I try to steady my voice. “It’s just—” I can’t think of a lie that isn’t embarrassing. “He’s really good at this.”
Liora does a little fist pump, then returns to her notes. “He better be. It’s his bread and butter. But Falcons are up by one. I pray Houston won’t retaliate.”
“Retaliate how?” Livy asks, suddenly sitting on the plastic chair to my right. “Like, with a fight?”
Priya nods. “It happens sometimes, but don’t worry.”
I shoot her a look.
“Will Dad be okay?” Livy asks.
I touch her hair—soft, flyaway, the same color as Mira’s if you look at it in the sunlight. “He’ll be fine, bug. Your dad is well tempered. No need to be scared.”
She nods and returns to her Swedish Fish, lining them up in ranks.
The next period is a blur of color and speed. I try to keep up with the action, but my attention drifts. I watch the other VIPs—one man talking into a tiny headset, a pair of influencers posing for selfies with their drinks, a silver-haired woman who looks bored until someone brings her a plate of oysters. Liora offers up trivia about the players (“That guy? Used to date a supermodel. That guy? Suspended for DWI. That guy? Vegan.”), while Priya alternates between posting some Instagram stories and making me repeat hockey lingo until I sound less like a narc.
At some point, the Bears score and the stadium groans. The fight everyone’s been prophesying seems about to break out when two players collide near the boards. A whistle. A tangle of limbs. The entire box goes silent. Me too.
“Oh no…” Liora hisses. “There we go.”
Even though I just told Livy that her father is better than a caveman, it’s him in the middle, grabbing a Bears player by the collar, pulling him back before he can clock Riley with his stick. For a second, there’s a scrum, and I see the linesman physically separating Colton and the other guy. Then it breaks up. No blood. No glory.
Priya exhales. “That was so close. I thought for sure we’d see some teeth.
I press my palms to my skirt.
Fuck, I’m sweating, and not just from the overpriced pinot.
Something about seeing Colton in full-on protector mode hits different. It’s like a courtroom showdown, but with actual violence and no rules about not biting.
Between periods, there’s a lull. Livy drapes herself across two seats and reads a battered copy of Paw Patrol, holding it two inches from her nose. Priya and Liora are plotting how to get a photo with the team after the game. I sneak away to the corridor outside the box and try to breathe.
The stadium hallway is colder, emptier. I lean against the wall and check my phone. There’s a text from Colton.
Colton
You look beautiful in blue.
I type back.
Jenna
Is that allowed during a game? Aren’t you supposed to be focusing?
Three dots appear.
