Page 9 of Blueline Baby

“I’ve got an idea,” he says.

“I still don’t want to see your Stanley Cup.”

He laughs, his head tipping back. “No. I got that the first time, believe me. I mean a game. Come to a game. I’ll get you and your friend tickets.”

I fully intend to say no. I have to say no. There’s no way I can let this guy buy me hockey tickets.

“Who are you playing?” I ask instead.

“Toronto.”

Britt—who apparently has a radar for identifying the exact worst moment—suddenly appears at my elbow and grabs my arm.

“Oh my God. Chloe. That’s your team.”

“Britt, no.”

“That’s her team,” she tells him, absolutely delighted, ruining my life. “She’s from Toronto. She cried when they got knocked out last season.”

“I didn’t cry.”

“You sobbed like a baby.”

I watch his brain process that information. He already looked pleased with himself, but now he thinks he’s won.

“You’re a Toronto girl,” he says.

I turn to Britt. “I’m going to kill you.”

“Your team’s in my building next week, and you’re going to be there.” He reaches out and taps my nose, enjoying this way too much. “You already decided. I saw it happen when I said Toronto.”

He’s right, and I can’t stand it. I decided the second he said it. I haven’t seen my team live since I moved here. They come through once a year, and free seats are free seats. None of that is about him.

“Fine,” I say. “Put us on the list. It’s not a date. I’m coming to watch my team beat yours.”

“Sure,” he says and winks at me, because he doesn’t believe me at all.

When we finally get home, I dig my old jersey out of the bottom dresser drawer. The blue and white one I’ve had since high school. I hang it on the outside of my closet door so it’s ready. If I’m walking into his arena, I’m going to do it wearing enemy colors.

I'm standing at the bathroom sink, brushing my teeth, when the realization finally hits me. I gave him exactly what he asked for. A reason to see me again.

He barely even had to work for it.

5

JACK

OKAY, I CAN DO MORE

This is my third season with Dallas and the first time I’ve actually cared who’s in the building watching me play.

The ice during warmups usually feels like autopilot, done completely on muscle memory. Tonight it’s not, because I’ve checked the glass about forty times to make sure she’s still there. And she is: arms crossed, eyebrow raised, staring me down like she’s daring me to do something about the jersey she’s wearing.

And she’s wearing a Toronto jersey. Not a Dallas one, and definitely not mine. Not that I expected her to, but a guy can hope.

I take a hard stride, catch a pass on my backhand, and skate right up to her, sending a spray of snow up against the glass.

I tap the crest on my chest, point at her and then lift my hand in a what gives gesture. She reaches up, and taps the Toronto crest on her own chest twice, with a little smile that wrinkles her nose like she’s correcting me on who’s the better team. I yell “next time, then,” loud enough to carry through the glass, and skate off before she can tell me no.