Chapter 16
Bailey
Fast Forward - Hockey Game #17
After several months of attending the Golden Stars games, I feel like a seasoned fan when I arrive at Spotify Stadium. Levi continues to provide me with a ticket at Will Call despite my protests that I can purchase my own way in. He’s sweet and caring and shows no signs of being an egotistical jock. Somewhere along the way I fell for both hockey and the hunky hockey player.
This time I’m wearing a sky blue long-sleeve Henley that pairs nicely with my blue jeans. I borrowed it from Emma again but made sure to read the tag to confirm that it’s 100% cotton. No wool. According to my housemate, blue is my color, and I should wear it more often. I have to admit that this outfit boosts my confidence.
“Join the party!” John says as I squeeze into my seat. I’ve gotten to know the father and son duo well because they’ve been sitting next to me at every game. Obviously, they have season tickets.
I laugh when the kid gives me a high five with his foam finger. “Goooolden Staaaars, let’s keep it bizarre!” he shouts.
Looking down the aisle, I don’t see any bedazzled ladies this time. They’ve attended several games, but this time there’s a group of octogenarians filling several seats. I should have asked Nana to attend with me and maybe she’d be convinced that Levi is boyfriend material.
I focus my eyes on the ice, scanning for number Forty-three. My heart gives a little flip when I find him. He’s one of the biggest guys out there and he skates like he’s flying down the slippery surface. The crowd is already chanting his name. Nyberg! Nyberg! They shout as he skates laps around the ice. Levi acknowledges their calls by waving his stick over his head. I pinch myself that he’s my boyfriend, even if I’m still calling him a fake boyfriend for now. I’ve never dated a celebrity before. Fake or otherwise.
“Nyberg better have a great game,” John comments after Levi skates by. “The Stars need to shut down the Bulldog’s front line. They’ve scored the most goals of any team in the league.”
I nod as if none of this is news to me. Thankfully, we’re interrupted by the arena announcer who instructs everyone to stand for the National Anthem, so I don’t have to come up with a clever comeback.
Just like all the previous games, the play is action packed and I swivel my head trying to keep up with the puck as the players slap it from one end of the ice to the other. I join the crowd in cheering the Stars as if I’ve been rooting for them my whole life. Hockey is an exciting sport, and the rowdy crowd really adds to the fun atmosphere. I’m quickly becoming a fan.
When Levi shoves a guy into the boards right in front of me, I hold my breath. Bam! The hit reverberates as they grapple for the puck. I expel loudly knowing Levi’s still moving and doesn’t seem affected by the contact. I know it’s all part of the game, but I worry that he’s going to get hurt.
“Kronwalled!” John shouts as he fist pumps the air. I wonder if he’s got his terminology correct. Wouldn’t that be a term used in cornhole?
“Nyberg’s playing great!” John says. “Did you see the way he broke up that play?”
Wondering why he keeps referring to Levi, as if I have Levi’s name written on my forehead, I say, “Looks like all the Stars are playing a great game!”
He smirks. “I see you always watching Nyberg. Is he your favorite player or something?”
After all the games we’ve sat beside each other, I guess he would notice my interest in number Forty-three. A reply pops out before I can stop it. “He’s my boyfriend,” I say, as my lips bypass engaging my brain.
His eyes turn to me. “Cool! Do you think you could get an autograph for Johnny?” he asks as his son nods eagerly. The kid smiles widely as he bounces in his seat. “Could he sign my finger?” he yells in his shrill voice, referring to the giant foam finger on his hand.
Levi truly is a celebrity, isn’t he? A hockey player bound for greatness. Makes my DoorDash/bakery career seem rather inadequate, lame, and boring. “I’ll see what I can do, but I’ll have him sign a program or something for you.” Since my friends and family pass is only for me, I don’t know that I could get this pair into the private area, plus that seems like overstepping. Levi got the pass for me, not for me and two aisle mates.
At the break between the first and second period, I need to make a restroom run. I shouldn’t have chugged that diet Dr. Pepper biggie cup at the beginning of the game. “Excuse me,” I repeat as I squeeze down the aisle. Hundreds of other fans flood into the concession area, a mass of moving bodies all going in search of food and a bathroom break.
I feel like a pinball, as I dodge people left and right. They’re carrying food and beverages, apparently intent on getting back to their seats so they can eat before the second period starts. They must have left before the buzzer so they could be first in line at the concessions.
A lady carrying nachos slathered in cheese sauce covered with Jalapeno peppers...
A man balancing a box filled with foil wrapped items, possibly brats or hotdogs...
Two guys carrying two beers apiece, the liquid sloshing over the side of the cups...
With the restrooms in sight, I feel relieved that I’ve successfully avoided collision with all these fans carrying food. I hate to admit it, but I’ve had multiple wardrobe mishaps with food over the course of these seventeen games, most of them my own doing. Dropping a cheesy nacho on my T-shirt... Spilling hot chocolate on my blue jeans... A run-in with Johnny’s oversized sucker, which caused a sticky mess on my flannel shirt. The T-shirt and flannel shirt catastrophes required me to purchase more Golden Stars attire. In retrospect it’s fortunate that Levi’s providing my ticket because I’m spending far too much at the merchandise booth.
As if my thoughts conjure him up, out of nowhere, a kid slams into my chest giving me a bodycheck worthy of an NHL player.
Uff! The breath gets knocked out of me for several seconds, and I suck in air like a fish out of water. This must be how all those players feel when they smash against the boards.
“Sorry lady!” the kid says as he looks ruefully at the oversized pretzel clasped in his hand, then scurries away, obviously not injured by the impact.
Shaking my head to clear it, I glance down. Aagh! The front of Emma’s beautiful sky-blue shirt has a mustard stain as big as my hand on it. Running the last few steps to the restroom, I quickly grab a handful of paper towels, stand at a sink, and vigorously wipe the mustard from my shirt. Despite my best efforts and quick reaction, the yellow stain refuses to go away. It might not be so bad if the stain wasn’t centered directly over my left boob, drawing attention to it like a neon sign. Look here! Look here! It seems to be saying.
“Bummer. Did your hot dog leak?” a twenty-something asks me from the sink next to mine.
“No. A kid carrying a giant pretzel slathered in mustard ran into me,” I say between gritted teeth still upset over the mishap.
A couple sympathetic “oohs” and a “that’s too bad” come from ladies at nearby sinks. They shake their heads, commiserating with my misfortune.
“You need some baking soda to get that out,” adds a gray-haired lady who’s drying her hands.
Where would I find any baking soda at the stadium? The snarky reply wants to spring from my lips. Instead, I nod politely at her sage advice as I continue to wipe and rub the front of my shirt.
“Give it up, honey. That stain ain’t coming out,” one of the bedazzled women from a previous game says while she thoroughly soaps her hands. She hums something under her breath, then at the conclusion of the song, she rinses away the soap suds. I’m impressed by her personal hygiene.
When our eyes lock in the mirror, I blush, embarrassed by my overt staring. She arches an eyebrow and I say, “I was trying to figure out what song you were humming.”
Laughing, she says, “Hum Old McDonald Had a Farm while you soap your hands. That song is long enough for the soap suds to do its magic and sanitize your hands.”
Several women standing nearby nod in agreement. Am I the only one who didn’t know this tip?
“Good luck with the stain,” the songstress says as she dries her hands and walks away.
Staring at the unsightly mustard splotch, I debate how to get out of this outfit debacle.
Text Levi that I’m not feeling well and go home?
Let the stain dry and hope for the best?
Purchase another shirt at the Golden Stars attire booth?
Decision made, I leave the restroom and head to the Golden Stars merchandise booth. As I enter, I see the same grumpy guy is working the booth.
“You again?” he grumbles in his deep, raspy voice. His eyes are immediately drawn to the stain across my chest and his lips twitch.
Ignoring his amused expression, I point to a gray long-sleeve T-shirt sporting a small version of the Golden Stars logo. It looks like the least expensive choice on all the racks. “Do you have that in a women’s size small?”
He grunts, bends down, and digs through a couple boxes under the counter. “Nope,” he says as he stands, then hands me a neon pink T-shirt. “Here’s what I’ve got in women’s small.”
The shirt front has rhinestones forming the shape of a star and inside the star it says, “Let’s keep it bizarre.” The gold, glitter lettering sparkles in the bright lighting. This is the last shirt I’d ever purchase . I grimace at the cheesy saying and all the glitziness.
After taking another glimpse of the unsightly stain on my chest, I’m forced to say, “I’ll take it.” I simply can’t face Levi with a mustard stain highlighting my left boob. He’s going to think I’m the unluckiest person on the planet with all these wardrobe mishaps.