Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Traveling alone for a game felt weird.
The team charter had left early that morning, but I boarded a commercial flight out of Boston’s Logan Airport instead.
By the time I reached Manhattan, checked into my hotel two blocks from the arena, and fought my way through the pregame crush of tourists, I felt fairly ridiculous—like I’d followed an ex-girlfriend across state lines like a lovesick puppy.
The feeling wasn’t entirely fair, however.
I wasn’t there for sideline reporting. I’d pitched a feature about the team and the atmosphere of a big-market arena, what away games felt like behind the scenes.
My boss Mark had signed off on the idea without much discussion, which I chose to read as trust rather than indifference.
Madison Square Garden dwarfed Boston’s home arena in a way that made my head buzz the second I walked inside.
The ceilings were impossibly tall, the LED screens were obscenely oversized, and the crowd was louder than any regular season game I’d attended.
Fans in navy-and-gold jerseys rattled the railings as the home team took warmups, their voices echoing in something that felt more like a cathedral than an ice rink.
I found my seat just off the corner boards—close enough to feel the residual chill of the ice, but not in the usual corral assigned to local media.
I’d purchased a ticket to the game the old-fashioned way instead of using my credentials to slip into the press box.
It made me feel a little exposed not to have a lanyard hanging around my neck, the slight but reassuring weight that said I belonged or had a legitimate reason for being there.
I took out my notebook and tried to ignore the impulse to scan the players on the ice for number 21.
But there she was.
Dani skated across the blue line. Just below the bottom of her helmet, her hair was tied back in a low knot that somehow managed to look both careless and deliberate.
She tapped a puck with the toe of her blade, caught it on her forehand, and snapped it toward the empty net in one smooth, practiced motion.
I forced myself to look down at my notebook and write something—anything—even as my handwriting tilted when my attention inevitably returned to the ice.
Dani drifted toward the bench with a few teammates and leaned in, gloves lifted to their mouths as they talked.
I tried, out of habit, to read lips from halfway up the lower bowl and failed.
Whatever she said made one of her teammates laugh, a quick shake of shoulders before they broke apart again.
Dani pushed off hard, skating a wide loop that brought her closer to my side of the rink.
I told myself not to watch her, not to make it obvious—even though there was no one around me who cared where I looked.
Still, my gaze followed the familiar line of her padded shoulders, the effortless power in her stride.
At one point she glanced toward the stands, just scanning the crowd in the automatic way athletes do.
For a split second, I thought she might have spotted me. It was a ridiculous notion, though. I was just another face in the blur of navy and gold.
Once the puck dropped, the game lulled me into a trance.
Everything else blurred at the edges, as if I had blinders on.
I took no notice of the fans seated around me or of the concession workers hoofing it up and down the concrete stairs with popcorn, hot chocolate, and ice cold beer.
The speed of the game sharpened everything—the clatter of sticks along the boards, the hollow thud of bodies colliding in the corners, the quick, collective inhale of the crowd every time a scoring opportunity developed.
I caught myself leaning forward without meaning to, pen forgotten in my lap, as Dani carried the puck through the neutral zone. She skated the same way, I noticed. Low and efficient, with no wasted motion.
In college I used to watch her from the student section, my knees pressed against cold metal bleachers. She’d glance up after whistles, scanning the crowd—not for me, I’d told myself at the time. But I still felt it every time she did. A small, private jolt that had nothing to do with hockey.
A goal in the first period startled me back to reality.
I’d half-risen with everyone else, distracted by the rhythm and the action of the game, before I remembered where I was and what I was supposed to be doing.
I sat back down and scribbled something in the margin of my notebook that might have been a note about crowd volume or might have just been her name.
Power plays blurred together. A near-miss pinged off the goal post and sent a ripple of groans through the arena.
I mouthed come on under my breath when Boston unnecessarily iced the puck, the way I used to from my couch when games were late and she’d text me afterward to say she’d heard me somehow, even from three states away.
Every so often I remembered to write—short bursts of professionalism—but mostly I let myself watch. Let myself care.
I felt my resolve slipping. Somewhere along the way, being a journalist had stripped the fan out of me.
I was no longer a spectator. I wasn’t supposed to be a homer.
I was a neutral party with no skin in the game.
When the final buzzer sounded, I wasn’t supposed to care about the numbers on the scoreboard or which team had been victorious. I was supposed to be Switzerland.
Hockey had especially been soured for me. I’d grown up a fan of Boston’s men’s team, but it was really only through dating Dani in college that I’d truly fallen for the sport, much like I’d fallen for the woman herself. The two were nearly indistinguishable from each other.
The scent of the ice. The speed of the game. The fluidity with which the players skated across the rink. All of it was seducing me back.
Boston lost by one goal. A messy rebound in the third period ricocheted off three shins and snuck behind our goalie.
I took my time leaving—jotting down final notes, letting the aisles clear before I stepped into the slow-moving current of fans.
The team buses would already be pulling away from the loading dock by now, escorted into traffic while the rest of us waited for walk signs and rideshares.
By the time I stepped out into the New York cold, the adrenaline of the game had faded, leaving only a tight, restless pull in my chest.
It was late when I finally pushed through the revolving doors of my hotel.
The lobby area was muted and subdued, almost too still after the roar of the arena.
Lamps cast low pools of amber light across the stone floor.
A lone desk clerk leaned over a computer screen.
Somewhere near the hotel bar, a couple spoke in hushed, tired voices while a bartender wiped down an already-clean counter.
I was still thawing from the late winter air when a familiar voice cut through the quiet.
“I thought you were sticking to home games.”
I turned. Dani leaned against a tall column near the elevators. Her hair was damp and loose from a shower, team-issued joggers slung low on her hips. Her hoodie was unzipped just enough to reveal the edge of a white tank top underneath.
She looked unfairly good for someone who had just played sixty minutes of hockey.
“I was. I am …” I said, acutely aware of my windblown hair. My frigid fingers twitched at my sides instead of trying to tame my curls. “I’m working on a feature about away games.”
She nodded slowly, but the corner of her mouth tugged up like she didn’t fully buy my excuse.
“You could’ve texted if you wanted a quote.” Her tone was casual.
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
“You wouldn’t have bothered me.”
Her words landed low in my stomach.
She nodded toward the bank of lobby elevators. “You heading up?”
“Uh huh.”
“Cool.”
We fell into step beside each other. Her shoulder was inches from mine, close enough that I could smell the mint from her shampoo, or maybe it was toothpaste, or maybe I just wished it was her toothpaste because that meant she was thinking—God, never mind.
When we reached the elevator, she pressed the button. Silence stretched between us. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it felt charged, like every passing second was pulling my muscles tighter.
The doors opened, and we stepped inside.
“What floor?” she asked. Her fingers hovered over the panel.
“Fifteen.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Me, too.”
The doors slid shut, sealing us into a small metal box that suddenly felt far too warm.
The elevator hummed upward.
“So …” I started, trying not to sound breathless, “good game.”
She pursed her lips. “We lost.”
“I noticed.”
“And yet you’re still saying it.”
“I’m being polite,” I said.
“You don’t have to be polite with me.”
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Fifteenth floor.
We stepped out into the carpeted hallway, but didn’t move far from the elevator. I didn’t know what would happen next. A conversation? More elevator small talk?
Dani cleared her throat. “Have you, uh … eaten yet?”
I lifted my shoulders like her question hadn’t just made my pulse jump. “Not yet. I was going to grab something downstairs, or—I don’t know—order a pizza.”
“Do you want to just order room service?” she proposed. “If you’re hungry.”
My heart did something humiliating.
“Yeah. Okay,” I said, trying to school my features. “Your room or mine?”
I was amazed I didn’t fumble over the question.
Dani jerked her thumb in the direction of a room door. “Cat’s in mine, so—”
“Oh.” I tried not to react. “She’s your roommate for road games?”
“Uh huh.” Her mouth twitched. “I’m sure she’ll want in on whatever food we get—and don’t get me wrong, I love the girl—but she hasn’t shut up since the second period, and I cannot listen to her nag me one more time about that missed scoring opportunity.”
“I get it,” I said, probably too quickly.
Her eyebrows lifted, almost amused. “Do you?”