Chapter 3
Levi
The Ticket
“Get your head in the game, Nyberg!” Coach yells in his dry as sandpaper voice as we skate another round of drills in preparation for tomorrow night’s game. We’re playing the leader in our conference, and we desperately need a win.
Otto casually skates by me, deftly handling the puck like it’s his third appendage. Being a defenseman, I should steal that puck from him, so I take off in hot pursuit. My skates make a swish-swish noise against the ice, a steady rhythmic sound that soothes me. Ever since I was a kid, I loved to skate, spending hours on an outdoor ice rink near my childhood home.
When I catch up to my teammate, he breaks my concentration by mentioning the upcoming date that I’ve been fretting over ever since I issued the invitation.
“Did you talk to the arena box office about getting Bailey a ticket yet?”
Bam! We slam into the boards, fighting over the puck, our sticks noisily clacking together as I grapple for control of the black rubber disc.
“Did you?” Otto shouts to be heard over the noise we’re making.
My housemate seems more invested in getting Bailey a ticket than I am. All because I’ve developed a bad case of cold feet over my impulsive invitation. Who asks a woman out that you just met during a two-minute DoorDash delivery? Me, obviously. But there was something about her that intrigued me. A combination of her appealing fresh, girl-next-door look and her not fawning over me. In fact, she acted like she never heard of me. That’s a far cry from the puck bunnies who hang around the rink hoping to snag a soon-to-be-rich husband.
“Not yet,” I grunt, still trying to gain control of the puck.
Another teammate skates over and Otto flips the black disc to him. I watch helplessly as he skates off down the ice then takes a shot on goal, which Joey blocks effortlessly. At this rate I’m going to be useless during the game. I wouldn’t be surprised if Coach benches me.
Otto tosses me a smirk. “Man up! Go get her a ticket,” he says as he skates off. If it were Joey, he would have clucked like a chicken, taunting me until I got the ticket. After practice I’ll visit the ticket office, just to get Otto off my back. Or so I tell myself.
~*~
Coach gives me a stink-eye look on my way to the locker room. I shower and change, then make my way to the arena box office. If no one’s there, I’ll text Bailey that the game was sold out and we’ll try for another game. I’m such a chicken.
“How can I help you?” a perky teenager says when I approach the window. He pushes his black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, then his eyes widen. “Are you Levi Nyberg?” he squeaks.
The kid fanboying over me helps restore my spirits and for a minute I forget all my qualms about my date. “I am!” I reply.
He rummages through some documents on his desk, then hands me a crumpled paper. “Can I have your autograph?” he says excitedly, thrusting the paper through the slot at the bottom of the plexiglass window.
I pat my pockets looking for a pen. The kid emits a nervous laugh and sends a Sharpie through the slot. “Make it out to Daniel. Daniel Carson.”
He watches as I scribble my signature on the back of an arena invoice. It’s a rather hefty bill for maintenance on the Zamboni. Hopefully no one needs a copy of this.
“I’ve watched you for all four years, man! That steal you made in the last minute of the final game of the Frozen Four two years ago was awesome. You’re supposed to be the top pick in the draft. Which team has first pick?”
He spits the questions out faster than a puck passing machine, making my head spin. His inadvertent reminder that the Golden Stars haven’t won the Frozen Four in two long years stings. Was that the pinnacle of my college career?
“Anaheim Ducks,” I say, latching onto answering his last question.
He bobs his head excitedly. “Cool! Go Ducks!”
I pass the paper back through the slot, finally remembering why I’m here. “I need to leave a ticket for tomorrow night’s game for a friend at Will Call. How do I do that?”
Positioning his hands over a keyboard, he starts typing. “Where would you like them to sit? We’ve still got some great seats left.”
So much for the sellout excuse.
The kid handles the transaction smoothly and efficiently. I purchase a ticket for Bailey near the goal, a few rows up from the glass. That way when I slam a left winger against the glass, she can watch me. That is if I can get my head into the game and quit worrying about my date.
“Bailey just needs to come to the Will Call window and show her ID,” the kid says as he hands me a receipt.
“Thanks.”
“The Stars need a win tomorrow night. Good luck!”
I nod and walk away. Hopefully my focus tomorrow night will be better than it was today during practice. Otto uses different meditation techniques before a game. I’ll get some pointers from him, so Bailey won’t break my concentration.
But who am I kidding? I’ll be looking for her three rows up, directly behind the goal.