Chapter 14 #2
When I look up, I find a guy in an Ice Cats jacket holding a tray out to me. “Are you Forest? This is for you and your guests.”
I blink.
“That’s us!” Charlie says, holding out his hands for the tray. The guy hands it over, and it contains two of those pretzels with the cheese, a basket of popcorn chicken, soda for Charlie and a few beers for the rest of us. “Whoa!”
“Um, are you sure this is for us?” I ask.
“Yup,” he says. “Here’s a jersey for your boy.” He hands me the shopping bag that was looped over his wrist. “And here’s the note. Have a good game.”
“Omigod! A jersey?” Charlie hoots.
I fish it out of the bag. It’s a men’s small, and it says JAMES across the back.
“Cool! Hold the tray so I can put it on!”
I take the tray, and I also slide my finger into the envelope holding the note. The moment Charlie’s head disappears inside the jersey, I flip it open and read.
Hey Forest—
You’re always the one pouring me drinks, so here’s one for you. Consider this a scientific experiment in fluid dynamics. Does beer taste better when you’re not the one serving it? Let me know your findings.
I hope you don’t mind that I got Charlie a jersey.
They don’t sell very many of mine so I’m basically funding my own fan club at this point.
One member stronger! Woulda got you one, but that seemed a little presumptuous.
Like “hey sexy, how about you wear nothing but this after the game while I demonstrate my superior puck-handling skills in your bedroom.” Too much?
Thanks for coming. Now I have to get a shutout or I’ll have to fake an injury and be carried off the ice to preserve my dignity.
If I let in more than two goals, please pretend you don’t know me.
If I get a shutout, I expect you to tell everyone within earshot that you’re with the goalie. No pressure though.
Later!
Beck
“Ooh, the note!” Charlie says. “Can I…”
“No.” I shove it in my pocket.
Charlie and Scully practically disintegrate with laughter. My son passes out food and dunks his pretzel in the cheese. “This is the best, Dad. I’m so glad we came. And look!” He points up at the Jumbotron.
STARTING LINEUP, it reads, followed by a bunch of jersey numbers.
Including number 6, Beck’s jersey.
“It’s on!” Charlie hoots.
“This is the best,” Divina says, reaching around to poke me in the shoulder. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“My pleasure.”
“Puck drop!” Scully announces. “Now we get to watch Beck, and also watch Forest get all clenched up over this guy.”
I shove a pretzel in my mouth, so I won’t say anything I regret.
About five minutes later, I’m definitely clenched up. The game is off to a weird start. Beck makes an uncharacteristic fumble on the first shot—a lazy wrist shot from the point that somehow squeezes through his pads. The crowd groans, and I feel my stomach drop.
Even Charlie shoots me a look of concern.
“It’s fine,” I mutter, more to myself than my son. “Just nerves.”
Beck slams his stick against the post in frustration, and I can practically feel his embarrassment. He glances toward our section briefly, then snaps his mask back down and settles into his stance.
But the next ten minutes are pure torture. Beck seems to be fighting the puck, making routine saves look difficult. The Ice Cats’ defense is hanging him out to dry, allowing odd-man rushes that have me gripping my armrest with white knuckles.
“Dad, did we jinx him?” Charlie whispers as Beck gives up a second goal—this one a deflection he had no chance on, but still.
I shake my head, trying to appear more confident than I feel. “He’ll settle in.”
When Beck lets in a third goal—a shot that bounces off his glove and trickles over the line—I feel genuine concern. This isn’t the same confident goalie who stonewalled the Plague. He looks rattled.
“Dad,” Charlie says during intermission, “maybe you should text him or something?”
“What? No. That’s not how this works.”
“But he’s totally bombing because you’re here.”
The thought had crossed my mind, but hearing Charlie say it makes my chest tighten. “That’s ridiculous.”
Charlie rolls his eyes. “You’re so oblivious sometimes.”
When the second period starts, Beck is still in goal. That has to mean something, right? His coach still believes in him.
But the same can’t be said for Beck. He still looks shaky.
“We’ve got to do something,” Scully announces.
“Like what? Drink another beer?” We’ve already crushed everything Beck sent us.
“That’s not what he means,” Charlie says. “We gotta turn this ship around, before they pull Beck.”
“They can’t pull Beck,” I say automatically. That is the worse-case scenario. I’ll feel guilty for no good reason, and I’ll be reluctant to ever come to another game.
“Yeah, but I got a plan.” Charlie tugs his jersey over his head. “We have to make a shirtless men section.”
I play those words back again, and it still makes no sense. Except Charlie is shedding his sweatshirt, too. “Wait. No. That’s a football thing, not a hockey thing.”
“Omigod, Dad. The idea is the same.”
“Your kid is a genius,” Scully says, rising from his seat. He pulls off his sweatshirt, too.
“What are you doing?”
“Dad, let’s goooo!” Charlie says, his pasty chest on display now. He raises his jersey over both our heads and swings it around.
“Charlie, jeez,” I plead. “This isn’t a shirtless men section! First of all, not everyone wants to be in a shirtless crowd. Women—”
“I’m into it,” Divina says, popping up to unzip her coat. “IT’S RALLY TIME.”
Oh my God. We’re going to be arrested, aren’t we?
What will my ex-wife say when she bails us out of jail?