Page 78 of Brooklynaire

Instead, I sink into a chair in Nate’s box. I choose the one furthest away from his and focus on the rink. Nothing could keep me away from watching my boys in a playoffs game. Not even world-class awkwardness between me and theboss.

Unfortunately for both of us the game doesn’t go as planned. The game becomes tied at 1-1 early on in the first period and doesn’t budge forhours.

And so much for home ice advantage. The officials’ calls are brutal all night long. Brooklyn gets called for every penalty on earth. Tripping. Slashing. Interference. Our players spend as much time in the penalty box as they did in the last two gamescombined.

Even worse—whenever Detroit fights back, the ref develops a sudden blind spot. I watch, slack jawed, as a Detroit player cross-checks Castro right into the plexi, face first. “COME ON!” I screech, leaping to my feet when no whistles blow. “THAT’S SOME BULLSHIT RIGHTTHERE!”

“I agree,” Heidi Jo puts in. “But my mama would slap me if I put it thatway.”

Something tells me Heidi Jo’s mama and I wouldn’t getalong.

My gaze flits over toward Nate for the hundredth time tonight. I wonder what he thinks of this awful game. I wonder if he even knows I’mhere.

And I wonder why that’s suddenly so important to me. I used to watch these games in quiet solidarity with Nate and never wonder what he thought ofme.

The third period ends without breaking the tie, so an overtime period is put up on the board, and the Zamboni rolls out to polish the ice. I’m so tired I want to die, and it wasn’t even me who just skated for ninety minutesstraight.

“Timing pool!” Stewie shouts. He stands up, removes his Brooklyn Bruisers baseball cap and turns it upside down. “Who’sin?”

I take a twenty out of my purse and toss it in the hat. “Twelve minutes, thirty six seconds,” I say, and he scribbles thatdown.

“Ooh!” Heidi Jo says. “I love games.” She throws in a twenty after mine. “What am Iguessing?”

“How long it takes the Zamboni to clear theice.”

“Ah.” Her blue eyes take in the vehicle, and she sticks her tongue out of the corner of her mouth while she considers it. “Twelve minutes, thirty nineseconds.”

Stew snorts, then raises his eyes to mine. “Your intern is a fierce competitor,Bec.”

“Who, me?” Heidi Jo gives him a wide-eyedblink.

I want to kick her. She couldn’t possibly have missed the fact that her guess boxed mine in. “If you win, you have to buy lunchtomorrow.”

“Awesome!”

Stew gives me a smile and moveson.

“Welp.” Heidi Jo stands up. “I was just fixing to have a cocktail. Can I bring youanything?”

“I didn’t know you drank, Heidi Jo.” This amuses me for some reason—that little miss cute and perfect needs adrink.

“I meant a fruit cocktail!” Shegiggles.

Right.

I’mthisclose to asking her for two fingers of whiskey, but I resist. “I would love a Coke.Thanks.”

My eyes feel leaden, and I spend the rest of the intermission slurping down a soda and eating carrotsticks.

Nate spends it schmoozing bankers from Goldman Sachs. And not making eye contact withme.

The Zamboni leaves the ice at its famously plodding pace, and I’ve completely forgotten about the bet already when Stew yells, “Twelve minutes, thirty four seconds! Rebecca Rowley takes thepot!”

That wakes me up a little. Stew gives me three hundred bucks and a kiss on the cheek. “Congrats,Bec!”

Most everyone in the room makes a point of congratulating. Except for Nate, who doesn’t even spare me a glance.Wonderful.

“I guess you’re the one buying lunch tomorrow,” Heidi Josays.