Chapter 42
Gracie
Two Days Later
Whenever I enter the Devils stadium, I think I’m overhearing noise from an outdoor concert. As I make my way through the hallways in my jersey and jeans, I feel like it’s the only explanation for the coordinated roar of instruments and singing voices.
Then there’s The Wall.
Some teams have them, others don’t. The Devils have a legendary one. The Wall is a special section for superfans. It sits at one end of the field—not exactly prime seats unless the home team happens to be scoring a goal—but it doesn’t matter.
The superfans are there to support the Devils, rain or shine, with drums, coordinated songs and chants, horns, costumes, masks, and beer. Lots of beer.
The sound I hear while walking through the tunnels rises to full volume when I emerge in one of the team boxes high above the midfield. The rest of the stadium is still half-filled, which is normal given that it’s a half hour before game time, but The Wall is packed and jumping with energy.
Shielding my eyes from the sun with my hand, I stand in the box and watch the superfans do their thing. Jumping, singing, dancing, all coordinated by a few leaders at the front. They’re having a better time than most people have in a lifetime.
It makes me appreciate my job and the sport a tiny bit more every time.
The team boxes never disappoint. Plush seats, refrigerators filled with drinks and snacks, and a server clad in Devils gear standing by to bring more food or drinks. It’s quite the luxe setup, so I’m not surprised to see the WAGS, wives and girlfriends, one box over, chatting with drinks in hand.
Our box, reserved for team executives and their guests, is still empty, but that will change by the time the game starts.
Wandering over to the fridge, I feel the nervous anticipation of seeing Hunter on the field.
I also feel sad. The past few weeks without him have been lonely.
I feel gutted like I’m missing an integral part of myself.
I’m mad at Hunter for making me feel that way, but I love him for making me feel.
When I open the fridge, I’m startled to see it filled with bottles of Yoo-hoo. That’s right. The entire thing is dominated by bottles of chocolate milk, something I’ve never seen anywhere at this stadium.
“No, he didn’t…” I mumble, looking around the empty box and thinking about all the times Hunter managed to clear a room for us.
But when I lift the lid on the first tray of hot food, I know that, yes, he did. It’s an overflowing display of bar food—jalapeno poppers, potato skins, nachos, and tater tots.
Under the next lid, I find a plate of cookies. “I stress baked these for you,” reads a card on top. Next to the plate is a bowl of fruit, with a note clipped to a sheaf of papers on top that reads, “Get your vitamins.”
I open the first card to find a simple note.
“I love you. I want to be with you. Please say yes.”
The din of the crowd falls away as I absorb the words I’ve wished Hunter had said to me that day when he walked away.
I know enough to understand that words aren’t a guarantee that he won’t freak out again.
But he’s working on fighting his self-doubt.
He’s going to therapy. And the words are a sign he’s doing what I asked. He’s trying.
Hunter knows I don’t like to watch live games in a room full of people asking me for magic tricks with player stats, so he cleared the room. It also ensures my focus will stay on him. He’s put some thought into this.
The second note makes me laugh out loud.
The card is blank, but when I remove the paperclip, I see a title across the sheaf of papers, reading, “Fake Analytics Report.”
The pages are ridiculous lists of statistics—basically gibberish—lots of red arrows pointing to a conclusion: “Gracie and Hunter are a perfect match.”
He really is trying. And I love him for it.
I load up a plate with bar snacks and an apple and sit down to watch the game in my private box.