Chapter 4

Bailey

The Sweater

“Stop fidgeting!” Emma says, placing her hands on my shoulders while peering at me in the full-length mirror. She persuaded me to try on two of her prized clothing items, a red cashmere sweater that hugs me like a second skin and a pair of blue jeans that cuts off the circulation in my legs.

“But it’s scratchy and tight!” I huff. I’m not used to the feel of wool against my skin or wearing tight-fitting clothes—my usual go-to style is “laid-back slouch” as Emma calls it. In fact, when was the last time I dressed in anything that was even mildly figure revealing? Maybe when Zachary took me to prom our senior year in high school?

Squeezing my shoulders, Emma says, “You look fabulous in this outfit. You’re going to knock Mr. Hockey off his skates. Just look at yourself.”

A feeling of astonishment flows through me as I stare in the mirror, barely recognizing myself. I’ve got to admit she’s right; I look stylish and chic in these clothes. But can I suffer through wearing this itchy sweater and tight jeans for two hours just to impress my date—a guy I met for two minutes on a DoorDash delivery?

“I know you’re comfortable in your usual style, and nothing’s wrong with that, but maybe this guy is worth a little extra effort?”

Is Levi Nyberg worth a little extra effort? The way I’ve been fretting over this date tells me that he might be.

“I guess so,” I admit reluctantly. “He’ll probably turn out to be an ego-fueled jock who I can’t stand, but I’m jumping to conclusions, so I need to keep an open mind,” I say, giving myself a little pep talk.

“You wouldn’t have accepted the date if you thought that about him,” Emma replies.

“True. He won me over with that awkward dance he did trying to pick up my cap,” I say with a giggle, remembering the scene vividly. There was no trace of an egotistical athlete during that interaction, in fact he was downright clumsy. Cute, but clumsy.

“See! He’s going to be a great guy who sweeps you off your feet,” Emma says with a grin. “Now, we’ll add a light application of mascara and lip gloss and you’ll be good to go.”

~*~

I arrive at the Will Call window about fifteen minutes ahead of game time. There’s only a short line at the window and it flows quickly, barely allowing me time to work up a nervous sweat.

“How can I help you?” a young woman clad in the Stars distinctive maroon and gold team colors says.

“I’m supposed to have a ticket. My name is Bailey Adams.”

She ruffles through a stack of pre-printed tickets, pulls one out, and says, “I need to see a form of ID.”

Pulling out my wallet, I show her my driver’s license, cringing at the atrocious photo. The guy at the DMV snapped my picture before I was ready, so I look like I’m suffering from a bad case of indigestion.

Her lips twitch as she scans my ID and hands it back. Well, at least she didn’t break out in laughter like most people do when they see it. Clearing her throat as she slides a ticket and an envelope through the slot at the bottom of the window. “Your after-game pass to the friends and family waiting area is in the envelope,” she says. Her eyebrows arch as if she wants to ask me about how I got one of these passes, but there’s other fans waiting behind me, so she says, “You got a great seat! Enjoy the game.”

Dodging excited fans as they flood into the building, I walk slowly, reading the arena directional signs, searching for my section. I have a near-miss with a woman carrying a huge bucket of popcorn, but only a few kernels tumble over the top of the container when she deftly side steps me. Two beefy guys, each balancing three hot dogs and a cup of beer, swerve around me, throwing me a dirty look. Geez, these Golden Stars fans are an intense bunch. Don’t they remember their first time in this stadium?

After I’ve walked around what feels like the entire circumference of the stadium, I locate my section which is directly behind the goal. Reading the row numbers, I walk down the stairs to my seat.

“Excuse me,” I say as I squeeze down the narrow aisle. Turns out I’m sitting behind a large plexiglass partition, three rows from the goal.

Two glammed up women are sitting on my right. They look like they’re going to a fancy party rather than a hockey game, their sequined jerseys and glittery eyeshadow makes me do a double take. Do they sell jerseys like these, or did they use a Bedazzler? My mom was a big fan of that crafting device and as a child everything I wore had either sequins, rhinestones, or fake jewels attached to it. Maybe that traumatic experience contributed to my current “laid-back slouch” style.

Next to these ladies’ flashy outfits, I feel a bit bland in my red sweater and swipe of mascara—both of which are over-the-top for me. Casually leaning back in my seat, I read the names on the backs of their jerseys and sigh in relief when they’re sporting a Stagmeier and an Svenson and not a Nyberg.

Wasn’t Josef Svenson the name of Levi’s housemate who ordered the burgers?

A man and a young boy sit on my left, presumably father and son. The kid bounces up and down in his seat, waving a foam finger and shouting over and over, “Goooolden Staaaars, let’s keep it bizarre!”

What an odd saying, is it a take-off of Austin’s let’s keep it weird? Does the kid know that the players skating around the ice are just warming up?

Unable to resist any longer, I stare at the players flying around the ice looking for number Forty-three. These guys look huge in their uniforms and pads, kind-of like the Michelin Man—an agile and energetic version—on skates. After several seconds, I spot Levi and my heart does a funny flip in my chest. He’s much bigger than I remember, his strong legs take powerful strides as he glides effortlessly around the rink.

There’s no sign of the clumsy guy who I met a few days ago. His masculinity and athleticism are intimidating, and I almost flee from my seat, but an urge to get to know Levi Nyberg better keeps me glued in place. Plus, I take it as a good omen that neither of the over glammed-up women sitting next to me are wearing his jersey.

Itch! Scratch! Scratch!

Suddenly, I remember my aversion to wearing wool. Ugh! Why did I agree to wear this sweater? Shifting in my seat to find a more comfortable position, I tug the offending material away from my body, trying to get some relief. The pre-game festivities—singing the school song and doing that kid’s chant several times—start up, providing a good distraction.

“Goooolden Staaaars, let’s keep it bizarre!” Clap! Clap! Clap! Stomp! Stomp!

It sounds like thunder as the capacity crowd makes a racket with their hands, their feet, and their vocal cords. The ritual goes on for several minutes while the players add to the commotion by smacking their sticks in unison against the ice.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

My eyes focus on the rink where there’s a flurry of action after the ref drops the puck signaling the start of the game. The face-off. Yes, I did some reading about hockey terminology and rules just in case I end up liking the game or the hockey player or both.

The ticket office lady wasn’t kidding, these are awesome seats. Did Levi spring for them himself or are players allotted a certain number of complimentary seats for guests?

Within seconds, I’m sucked into the non-stop action. Fans shake cow bells and swear profusely, the deafening noise fills the arena, while the players skate at breakneck speeds. If I was a parent, I’d be covering my child’s ears. Squinting to keep track of the tiny puck as it flies across the ice, my head swivels from side to side.

Bam!

Not more than a minute into the game, I jump as two players slam against the glass in front of me, their sticks clacking noisily together as they grapple for control of the puck.

“Shut ‘em down, Nyberg!” the dad next to me yells in a raucous tone.

That’s Levi?

I peek through my fingers as I watch him violently body slam the opposing player. One of the opposition’s teammates comes over and returns the favor, almost knocking Levi off his skates. Now I know why they wear so many pads.

In seconds the scramble is over, as the puck pops out of the fight, and slides around the wall to the other side of the ice, where players flock to it like a pack of hungry dogs to a bone. Before I can blink, a Golden Stars player controls the puck and is skating off towards the opposition’s goal. I lose track of Levi during the electrifying action.

“Aah!” The crowd’s collective groan echoes around the rink when the Star’s shot on goal goes wide. There’s no time to ponder the miss because the opposing team gets control of the puck, heading back towards the Golden Stars goal. I hold my breath as an opposing player slaps the puck with his stick, sending it flying down the ice.

A whistle pierces the air, indicating some kind of penalty, and I slump back in my chair, exhausted after only a few minutes of play. Hockey is a thrilling spectacle, filled with heart-pounding play after heart-pounding play. I hope I can survive it.

Itch! Scratch! Scratch!

“Exciting game, eh?” the man next to me says.

“Yes. Yes, it is.” An embarrassed blush heats my cheeks as I quickly quit scratching, hoping he didn’t notice.

“Your first time watching the Stars?” he asks.

Apparently, I look like a rookie spectator. Was it because I’m not shouting obscenities at the refs or that I’m not carrying a cow bell?

“It is,” I reply, failing to note that this is my first time to watch a hockey game. Ever.

“You’re in for a treat. The Stars are playing for the lead in the division. It’s going to be a bloodbath out there!” he says, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

Smiling weakly, I nod, not sure I’m ready to witness any bloodshed, especially from a guy wearing number Forty-three. Gripping the armrests of the seat, I brace for the next round of action.

~*~

Itch! Scratch! Scratch!

Despite the huge block of ice in front of me, the heat in the arena rises from all these warm bodies crushed together causing my uncomfortable sweater to become more and more intolerable. By the end of the second period, I’m regretting not wearing my usual soft flannel shirt.

“Excuse me,” I say to the dad next to me as I pop up from my seat and head for the concession area. Hopefully they’re selling Golden Stars attire because I can’t stand this sweater a minute longer.

Fans mingle in the corridor outside of the various food vendor booths as they wait to buy something. Popcorn...hot dogs...nachos slathered in fake cheese sauce...My mouth waters and my stomach rumbles as I walk past each booth. I was so nervous about this date I couldn’t choke down a bite of dinner and now all these tantalizing aromas are reminding me how hungry I am. Levi mentioned that we’d have pizza after the game, so I hesitate to eat anything at this point. But don’t those pulled pork sandwiches look delicious?

Refocusing on my mission, I finally spot a Golden Stars clothing booth. Striding up to the guy manning the booth, I say, “Do you have any small size sweatshirts?”

“Which one catches your fancy?” he asks, pointing to the array of shirts hanging at the back of the booth.

“That one,” I say pointing towards a plain white sweatshirt with the Golden Stars logo on the front. It’s very understated and there’s not a rhinestone or sequin in sight.

He rummages through a couple boxes, then says, “All the smaller sizes are sold out. I’ve got a kiddie large or a man’s XXL.”

“May I see them?” I ask, praying that one of them will fit.

Pulling two shirts from the box, he sets them on the counter in front of me. Holding up the kiddie large to my chest, it looks half as big as it needs to be.

“You’re gonna be showing a lot of stomach in that one,” he says.

I nod at his helpful comment and hold up the man’s XXL, which looks as big as a bedsheet next to me. Gosh, I didn’t know they made a size this big.

“You’ll be swimming in that one.”

Maybe I can tuck it in my skin-tight jeans such that it will look good on me. Better than itching the rest of the night. “I’ll take the XXL. How much do I owe you?”

“A hundred bucks. Cash or charge?” he says as he keys the transaction into his register.

My jaw drops at the exorbitant price and my already depleted bank account just went further into the red. Hopefully I can pick up some extra DoorDash deliveries to get my finances back on track. Although it would probably take me delivering 24/7 in order to dig myself out of the financial hole I’m in. Is it time to admit that my current career path isn’t working out and I need to get a real job?

“Thanks,” I say after paying, and he hands me the shirt. Sprinting to the nearest woman’s restroom, I enclose myself in one of the tiny stalls and strip out of the scratchy sweater.

Aah! Sweet relief.

I let the cool air flow over my red, irritated skin for a few seconds, grateful to be out of that torture device. Slipping the sweatshirt over my head, I look down at myself and grimace. The fabric swallows my body, the sleeves hang past my fingertips, and the hem goes down below my knees. There’s no way I can tuck all this excess material into my tight-fitting jeans.

Minutes tick by as I debate with myself as to which clothing choice is better. A sweater that looks great on me but makes me itch like I’ve got hives. Or a soft, comfortable sweatshirt that makes me look like I’m auditioning for a part as a human marshmallow.

Human marshmallow for the win! I tuck Emma’s sweater under my arm and stride out of the restroom. So much for looking stylish and chic for my date with Levi.

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