5. Jack
JACK
OKAY, I CAN DO MORE
This is my third season with Dallas and the first time I’ve actually cared who’s in the building watching me play.
The ice during warmups usually feels like autopilot, done completely on muscle memory.
Tonight it’s not, because I’ve checked the glass about forty times to make sure she’s still there.
And she is: arms crossed, eyebrow raised, staring me down like she’s daring me to do something about the jersey she’s wearing.
And she’s wearing a Toronto jersey. Not a Dallas one, and definitely not mine. Not that I expected her to, but a guy can hope.
I take a hard stride, catch a pass on my backhand, and skate right up to her, sending a spray of snow up against the glass.
I tap the crest on my chest, point at her and then lift my hand in a what gives gesture.
She reaches up, and taps the Toronto crest on her own chest twice, with a little smile that wrinkles her nose like she’s correcting me on who’s the better team.
I yell “next time, then,” loud enough to carry through the glass, and skate off before she can tell me no.
I dump a puck in the corner and I can’t stop grinning, because she just wore the enemy into my house on purpose. And it’s a problem, because I’m supposed to look like a professional athlete and not a dog that just heard the word walk.
My D-partner slides up next to me at the boards. “Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Deranged. You look deranged.” He follows my gaze. “There’s a girl giving you a death stare from the glass.”
“She’s flirting with me.”
“You know her?”
“Working on it.”
“She’s wearing a Toronto jersey.”
“I know.” I can hear how thrilled I sound. “Isn’t it great?”
He skates off shaking his head. I take one more lap. I tell myself to lock in. The puck drops in ten minutes. I’ve got a job to do, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the blonde in the wrong colors behind the net.
The crowd’s never been anything to me but noise. One big wall of it, cheering or booing, and honestly most nights I couldn’t tell you which—I quit hearing it my rookie year. Tonight I know exactly where one person is sitting, pretending she isn’t watching every shift I take.
So I play the first period like a total jackass.
On my second shift I catch their winger coming through the middle with his head down.
He's busy admiring his own pass so I line him up and put him into the boards hard enough to rattle the glass. The whole section comes out of their seats. It’s a clean hit.
It's also completely unnecessary. I do it entirely because there’s a girl sitting right there who actually knows the difference between a real hit and a cheap one.
I skate to the bench and it takes everything I have not to look at her.
Every Toronto forward I’m out against gets a little something extra. If I can’t have her in my colors tonight, I can at least send her boys home on the wrong side of the scoreboard.
Second period we're up by one. They come down on a rush. I stand their guy up at the blue line then strip the puck clean and instead of chipping it out the safe way, I carry it up the ice myself. Safe doesn’t get you noticed. Tonight, I’ve got an audience of exactly one.
I drop it. I get it back at the point. I lean my entire weight into the stick and put a hard wrister through a screen.
There's a heavy thwack as it ticks off a shin pad then the goal horn goes off. Two–nothing. Mine.
My blood is absolutely roaring. And riding that high, I do the single most unprofessional thing I’ve done in three years in this league.
I peel off to the glass, skate straight toward her section, and I blow her a kiss in front of the entire arena.
She’s already on her feet for the goal. For one split second, she forgot she’s supposed to be hating me. She sees the kiss and instantly drops back into her seat. She wipes the smile off her face and gives me one quick, completely unimpressed nod.
Fine. That's fine.
I’ve scored playoff game-winners that didn’t feel as good as that nod.
We win 4–1. I finish with the goal and an assist and I couldn’t tell you one detail beyond that but the last I see of her, she’s still sitting with her arms crossed, watching me go, and somewhere between the ice and the locker room, I decide I’m going to marry her.
I mean, I’d already mostly decided that. But now I’m sure.
I shower in ninety seconds and go out to the family lounge where guys’ people wait after games.
Britt’s already there, she knows how this works from other games, and I’ve half convinced myself that Chloe will already be gone, that she’d have left right after the horn.
But she’s there, a few feet back from Britt, and I head toward her.
“You came,” I say.
“I came for my team.”
“But you stood up for my goal. In your little Toronto jersey.”
“That was a reflex. It won’t happen again.”
“Toronto lost, by the way.”
“Toronto had an off night.” She shrugs. “You had a nice game.”
“Baby, that was the best game I’ve played all season.”
“The season only started a few months ago.”
“Still counts.”
“Don’t let it go to your head. I know you’re good. A good defenseman having a good night is barely impressive.”
I actually laugh because she just admitted she knows I’m good. She knows who I am. She’s definitely watched me before. For once, I have absolutely nothing to say back. I just know I need to keep her standing here talking to me.
“Next time, I want to see you in my jersey,” I tell her.
The words are out of my mouth before my brain can stop them. She blinks and it takes her a second to process what I just blurted out. Then the corner of her mouth hooks up into a little smile she doesn't catch in time.
“It’s gonna take a lot more than seats behind the glass to get me in your jersey.”
She pushes off the wall, thanks me for the tickets, then collects Britt and walks out of the lounge in the other team’s colors.
I stand there wondering what the hell just happened.
Because this has always been incredibly easy. The building. The goals. The seats behind the glass. It’s the only move I’ve ever had to make and it has always been enough.
She just looked at the absolute best I have, and told me it’s gonna take more.
Okay.
I can do more.