Page 31 of Playing for Keeps

The place was full of chaos, with voices repeating every save, every near miss and the players’ names sounding all around me. As we were being swept away, Grace linked arms with me and said, “Glorious madness.” She was grinning from ear to ear.

I noticed a boy in a jersey with FINNEGAN across the shoulders, holding his dad’s sleeve and babbling about “that save.” His dad leaned down, proud. Max had been right. Hockey was inevitably linked to Canadian culture. For them, this wasn’t a pastime, it was purpose.

Outside, the air was chilly, breaths fogging up. Bridget made one last jab, saying something about Max not being built for permanence. I just turned my head. “Neither is a hockey game. That doesn’t mean it’s not worth coming back to.” And then we all went our separate ways.

The city kept humming with leftover adrenaline. Even blocks from the arena I heard pieces of it on my way to the bus stop – a horn blaring, someone shouting players’ names, a laugh spilling down a side street. The noise trailed me like an afterimage.

I pulled my scarf up and kept walking. The cold bit my cheeks, but I felt oddly alive, as if the air itself were charged. Maybe it was all those voices moving together – raw, untamed. You couldn’t write that kind of unity; you had to stand in it and let it wash through you. I smiled, half embarrassed, half thrilled, and realised I was already looking forward to the next game. For the first time since moving to Toronto, I didn’t feel like a mere observer of the city. I was a part of it.

16

MAX

The locker room after a win has its own particular sounds: sticks clattering into racks, Velcro ripping, the hiss of showers turning on and somebody blasting bad rap from a portable speaker. Steam rising. Voices mixing. If you’d lived long enough in this life, the smell – sweat, damp pads and a faint whiff of antiseptic – was its own kind of perfume.

I took off my gear one piece at a time and loosened my shoulders. My body hurt, but it was the good kind of pain that told me I had earned every bruise. I’d just put on my T-shirt when someone called out, “Finn, you coming out with us? Donovan’s is gonna be packed.”

I shook my head, pulling on my jeans. “Not tonight. Got something else lined up.”

That earned me a chorus of groans and mock-boos. “Something else? What’s better than a cold beer after a win?”

I kept my voice even. “I’m meeting with a writer. She wants to learn more about hockey – background stuff for a project. Figured I’d give her the inside view.”

That made them shut up for a second, until somebody said, “Wait – she?”

“Yeah,” I said, stuffing my workout gear into my bag.

“Atta boy, Finn,” Seth chimed in, smirking from his stall. He had a towel looped around his neck, hair still damp, all cheek and charm. “Helping with her research, huh?” He wiggled his eyebrows like a cartoon character.

The guys laughed.

I zipped up my bag and slung it over my shoulder, ignoring them. I just said, “See you later,” and left.

The hallway leading out of the locker room had a faint smell of ice and popcorn. I pulled on my jacket, already hearing the crowd outside. It was thinner now, but still buzzing as they made their way to the exits.

As soon as I got to the players’ parking lot, the stragglers were waiting. A handful of kids, a few adults holding jerseys, programs and pucks. Their breath made little clouds in the sharp night air, and I couldn’t help but feel grateful that they’d been waiting this long, freezing, just for us.

“Finn!” one boy yelled, holding out a puck and a Sharpie. His cheeks were pink from the cold, but his eyes were bright.

I stopped, bent down to take the puck and signed my name in quick loops. I handed it back to him and ruffled his hat. I took a couple of pictures with other fans, scrawled my name across two more pucks, a jersey and a scrap of paper that someone had clearly ripped out of his course notebook. Hopefully there was nothing important on the back.

I smiled easily because this was part of it. Always had been. The fans made the game come to life. Without them, the rink was just ice and boards.

And then I saw her.

Emma.

She was standing just outside the small crowd, wearing a dark coat and a scarf snug around her neck. For a second, I barely noticed anything else in the lot – just her.

“Ready?” I asked, trying to play it cool.

She nodded. “You’re popular.”

“They’re just excited,” I said, shrugging. “Wouldn’t be much of a game without them.”

The bar we found was on a side street where the noise from the celebrations after the game didn’t quite reach. It was warm inside, with wooden floors, dim lamps and the soft murmur of other tables. There were a couple of TVs that showed highlights from games across the league, but the commentary was muffled.

We slid into a corner booth. I noticed her taking off her scarf, the shape of her neck and the faint colour on her cheeks from the cold. Beautiful. Too beautiful.