Chapter 26 Frankie
FRANKIE
When I get home from the hospital mid-afternoon, there’s a courier package leaning against the front door. Inside is a Logan Granger jersey, three tickets for the upper level, and a handwritten note: I wish that these were rinkside, but I will feel you cheering me on from the rafters.
I’m touched that he organized not only a ticket for me, but for my friends as well.
Inside, I find Sloane and Liz both working at the dining room table. I dump my backpack on my chair, then set the delivery box on the table with enough of a thunk that they both look up.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I say innocently. “But does anyone want to go to the hockey game tonight?”
“The boy aquarium?” Sloane claps her hands together. “How fun!”
Liz winces. “We shouldn’t objectify them, Sloane.”
“They’re in the entertainment business. We can objectify them a little.”
“Please be serious,” I groan. “This is stressful for me! In a good way, but still.”
“Okay, I’m sorry.” Sloane’s expression turns grave. “I promise to treat this trip to the boy aquarium with the utmost respect. They are athletic marvels, and the whole thing is a cultural phenomenon, and—”
I snatch the jersey off the table as she dissolves into laughter.
“I’m not taking you,” I shout as I march to my room. “I’m going to sit in all three seats by myself!”
“No you aren’t,” she calls back. “That would look weird and draw attention to the hot girl in the Granger jersey!” And then, to Liz, maybe just to be a brat, she says, “But seriously, all that stretching is remarkable, isn’t it? Have you seen the TikToks?”
Their debate fades to a background hum as I try on the jersey and look at myself in the mirror. Nervous excitement stares back at me as butterflies have a rave in my belly.
Who are you, Frankie?
I can’t believe I’m wearing a Buffalo sweater right now.
I’m not the same girl who got on a plane to Vegas a week ago, that’s for sure.
The train is packed with people in LA jerseys. I’m not the only person in a Buffalo jersey, but it’s a sea of silver and black all around us.
“I think that Hot Thoracic Fellow might like the way I look in an LA jersey and nothing else,” Sloane says.
Liz rolls her eyes. “Does he even like hockey?”
“He’s Canadian, so I assume so?”
“Okay, our first stop will be the team store,” I say. Better that she focus her hormones on HTF than the players on the ice.
But when we get there, I realize there’s a lot of context that my friend is missing, because she immediately reaches for the jersey of a really problematic player, just because she likes his last name.
“Not him…” I say, guiding her to the blanks. “Maybe get one without a name on it. They aren’t all good people. They’re just good at hockey.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Maybe I’ll put my own name on it?”
“That’s an option.”
A butch woman with rainbow earrings in front of us turns around, does a quick up and down check and clocks Liz as a fellow queer woman. “Hockey’s a fraught fandom, but there are some good guys on the team.”
“Oh yeah?” Sloane asks her who she’d put on a jersey.
Trusting that she’s in good hands, I drift away, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. I don’t want to have to navigate the messiness of this league, this sport, or celebrity in general. I wish I didn’t know anything about what players are like off the ice.
“You okay?” Liz asks quietly when she finds me staring out at the sea of people streaming through the concourse.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve attended a game. It’s weird and uncomfortable.” I adjust my UCLA hat. Right now my sunglasses are sitting on top of it, ready if needed for me to hide behind if we go down to the glass for warmups.
The whole way here, I’ve gone back and forth on whether we should.
I have a sudden flashback to a memory, where I’m probably five or six, desperately trying to get my dad’s attention as he skates with his team before the game begins. How hollow I felt inside when I couldn’t grab his gaze.
Part of being in a relationship with Logan is going to require slaying dragons like that.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“What?”
I make a face. “We’re going to take Sloane down to the rink for the full boy aquarium experience.”
My skin feels all hot and sensitive as we find a spot along the glass.
Beside us are some kids in LA jerseys, bouncing boisterously and waving homemade signs.
And at the other end on this side of the rink, in a roped off family-of-the-team section, a beautiful blonde woman holds a toddler up.
He rests his little toes on the edge of the boards and claps his hands on the ice, even though his dad hasn’t come out yet.
A wave of long-forgotten emotions rolls through me, like contrast dye lighting up a secret hollow wound deep inside. Time hasn’t smoothed those rough edges away, apparently.
Fuck.
“Our seats are all the way up there?” Sloane asks, pointing up to the upper level.
“It’s a good way to see the game,” Liz says diplomatically. “I think it’s easier to follow, honestly. Down here, all you see is bodies being smashed against the glass right in front of you.”
“That’s true,” I manage to get out.
It’s been more than a decade since I last attended an NHL game, but when I did, it was either in good seats near the ice, or in a box, and I always preferred the box for that bird’s eye view of the ice.
The music changes, and with an enthusiastic call out to the home team who appear on the Jumbotron coming out of their dressing room, the announcer indicates the start of warm-ups.
The teams spill out onto the ice from their respective tunnels, Buffalo skating in circles right in front of us, LA doing their own matching synchronized loop at the other end.
I don’t look for Logan immediately, although I can feel his presence, and the tension band wrapped around my chest starts to ease. I’m still watching that little guy at the far end of the rink, and how excited he gets when his dad immediately skates and taps on the glass, giving him a high-five.
I can’t look away, even as Sloane says, “This is quite the collection of gladiatorial men. They’re fascinating. Oh there’s—”
As she nudges, me, I’m already swivelling to find him.
Because gladiatorial men in general are not my thing, but Logan Granger is. For better or worse, he is so my thing.
And the smile that breaks across his face when our gazes collide could power the entire city. Everything else falls away.
“Oh, wow,” Liz whispers. “Your boy is smitten, huh?”
My boy.
I can’t breathe. My throat is tight and my eyes are burning and that hollow space inside me—that little girl who spent so much time trying to get her father to look at her, to see her, to care that she came to his game—starts to glow with a dangerous warmth.
He breaks away from his teammates and skates right past us. With a wink, he mouthes nice jersey before he snatches up a puck and weaves away, zooming faster.
He’s breathtaking to watch up close like this. Skates give him even more height on his already tall body, and the way he picks up speed is incredible.
It doesn’t take long for them to shift to taking shots on the net. Logan loops right back to where we’re standing and this time, he stops and leans against the glass. Not looking at me, not drawing attention, but taking time out of his warm up to be close.
I pretend to watch his teammates take their shots as I soak up his proximity, as fleeting as it is.
How has this man somehow filled every crack and crevice in my heart in just a few days?
My pulse roars in my ears.
Then it’s his turn to shoot, and he glances back over his shoulder quickly. Time slows. I stare until he snaps the puck into the net without even looking at it, and then I blush and wave him off, mouthing, go play hockey.
He grins and finds a place to do his stretches, which Sloane is very respectful about.
The little kids next to me get pushed by a growing crowd behind us.
“Here, you can stand in front of us,” I say, making room for them.
Logan glances up. There’s no way he heard me through the plexiglass.
I wave, and then jerk my thumb up to the rafters.
It’s time for us to go find our seats.
Nodding, he jumps up and heads to the tunnel, getting off the ice so I won’t linger where I feel exposed.
“Your husband plays professional hockey and we’re in the nosebleeds. The irony,” Sloane says as we head up the escalator.
“Shhh.”
She shows me the screen of her phone. “Took this cute picture of you.”
It’s a photo of me from behind, at the glass, with Logan in front of me, both of our backs to the camera. Wearing matching jerseys.
My heart does a happy twirl. “You can’t post that anywhere.”
“I wouldn’t. I’m just documenting tonight for later.”
“For later? For what?”
“You’re not going to be a secret forever,” Liz says guiding me off the escalator like she knows where she’s going.
Except she does and I don’t, because she’s been here before and I’m…
I’m…
“Beer?” Sloane points to the nearest counter to our seats.
I shake my head.
They get me to our row, which is still empty.
Sloane angles her phone for a selfie, the ice rink visible behind us. “Smile like you’re not having an existential crisis about your life choices.”
I flip her off instead.
“I actually do want beer,” Liz says. “And popcorn?”
Sloane takes a look at my face. “Get a round. If she doesn’t want that beer when you get back, I’ll drink it.”
“I’ll drink it,” I mutter. My palms are sweaty and I’m staring at the ice, even though there’s nothing happening down there yet. My voice sounds distant to my own ears.
“Earth to Frankie. Francesca.” Sloane pushes me into my seat, then bends me forward, rubbing my back. “You went pale there for a second.”
“I married a hockey player,” I mumble into my knees. “I’m married. To a hockey player.”
She takes my hand in hers. “Okay, so now we’re having a delayed reaction, and we’re processing all of this—”
“Shut up.”
She shuts up.