Over the next several days, I avoid all contact with Alex. I make plans in the evenings and delete voice mails without listening and texts and emails without reading. I don’t empty my email trash, though. My lack of action is a problem because it means I can read them if I want to.
The Hawks are playing a home game tonight. I’ve tried everything in my power to get out of going. Okay, I’m lying. I said I didn’t want to go. Buck and my mom pull the puppy dog and giant Sasquatch guilt trip, so I cave. It didn’t take long.
I put real effort into getting ready—something I don’t normally do. I don my rattiest sweats and my most stained hoodie. My mom refuses to let me get in the car.
“I told you I feel like crap. If I have to go, I want to be comfortable.”
“I don’t care if you have Ebola. You’re not going to the game in this.” She gestures to my outfit.
“Harsh. There’s nothing wrong with what I’m wearing.”
“Not if you’re homeless.” She grabs my arm and marches me into the pool house. Then she holds me at flat-iron point until I put on makeup and change into something nice. My mom is well aware of all the gifts I’ve received from Alex. She’s perceptive enough to surmise this has to do with him.
I consider asking Sidney to stop at the pharmacy on the way to the game so I can buy Ipecac syrup as an emergency backup. With the way my stomach is rolling, I doubt I’ll need it.
Our seats are close to the ice again, only a couple of rows away from the Hawks’ bench. I can’t decide if I’m excited or not. Thankfully, beer helps calm the nerves. Puck bunnies cluck like chickens behind us, but they’re difficult to hear with my mom yapping away beside me. She insists Alex is a lovely young man and informs me I shouldn’t believe the tabloids because they’re full of crap. I snort into my beer and remind her everything they say about Buck is true. This shuts her up.
The butterflies in my stomach grow exponentially when the Hawks take the ice. I slouch in my seat as Alex sits on the bench, his face set in a scowl. It’s a challenge to pay attention to the game while trying not to stare at him. He’s shaved since I saw him last, and he doesn’t look so beat up. My beaver drools in my underwear.
Some drama has taken place while I’ve been staring; everyone in the arena is on their feet, people either cheering or yelling. The whistle blows, and Alex jumps the boards. Moving with fierce grace, he snatches the puck from his opponent, pivots, and barrels across the ice.
A powdery cloud follows Alex as he comes to an abrupt stop. He raises his stick and brings it through with swift surety. Everything slows as the puck hurtles toward the goalie. Breath frozen in my lungs, I grip the armrests, waiting. Like every other die-hard fan, I shoot out of my seat, screaming enthusiastically as the puck races past the goalie into the net. Alex scores an awful lot of goals.
The game is full of action. At one point the opposition scores, briefly tying it up. The Hawks take the lead again at the end of the second period with another incredible goal. This time, Alex manages to stay out of the time-out box and the Hawks take the win.
I’m an absolute mess of nerves as we make our way out of the arena to the car. It takes forever to get to the bar, thanks to celebrating Hawks fans. By the time we arrive, my bladder is on the verge of exploding. I hightail it to the bathroom and get stuck in the unfortunate line of women who need to use the facilities as well.
Three underdressed puck bunnies primp in front of the mirrors, chatting away while I unleash Niagara Falls. How do I know they’re puck bunnies? They’re talking about the Hawks and who they’d do. One of them mentions Alex. I tense, halting the pee stream.
I hear the term hat trick again. Maybe they determine who they want to score based on the team members’ stats. The hand dryer cuts off the puck bunny conversation. As soon as I’m done, I button my pants and I burst out of the stall so I can eavesdrop again.
“Well, I’d rather be first in line than third. Who wouldn’t want to be first?” the fake blonde asks. There’s a skunk stripe of brown at her roots. She fluffs it out and pouts at her reflection.
The brunette beside her shimmies her head from side to side. “Whatever. First, second, third—if I got to handle Alex Waters’ stick, I wouldn’t care where I was in line.” Her eyes slide my way and stay fixed on my face.