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austin

They thought I was a nice, nerdy, bookish girl ? —

then hockey season started…

I f you would’ve told me I’d have to miss going to this hockey game, I would’ve laughed/cried in your face.

Seriously.

Hockey isn’t just a sport to me—it’s a religion .

The thing you should know about me (because we’re still strangers, you and I) is that I’m a Super Fan.

Capital S, capital F.

I’m talking: custom jerseys, face paint, cardboard signs to hold up— the whole nine yards .

It must be genetic because my dad? He loved hockey, too. And since he’s up in heaven looking down on me, watching makes it feel like he’s still here. So, yeah.

I’ll probably never stop loving the game.

When Dad passed, I was gifted his season passes to the Houston Baddies and I haven’t missed a game since.

Until tonight.

Missing the game feels sacrilegious somehow; like the universe is playing a cruel trick on me. But here I am, out of the arena, with my heart in the rink, watching the game from a screen instead of my usual seat.

But hey, I did a good thing, right?

Letting my friend Paul— also a die-hard fan—use the seats. He’s planning to propose to his boyfriend during the third period, and it’s going to be on the freaking Jumbotron.

Super romantic.

Super public.

So extra—exactly like Paul and Emilio.

Giving him the seats felt like the perfect engagement gift. If missing the game means they’ll have a night to remember, it’s worth it.

So here I am, at a bar called Five Alarm near my condo, watching from a plasma screen like a mere mortal instead of the superfan I am.

Love trumps hockey.

Sometimes.

“Come on!” I shout at the wall of monitors in front of me. “Let’s go!”

The Baddies aren’t going to win the way they’re playing tonight.

Like complete shit.

A groan escapes me as one of the forwards fumbles a pass, turning over the puck. Again.

“It’s like they’ve forgotten they’re on ice!” I complain to no one in particular, throwing my hands in the air. A couple of heads turn my way from the far end of the bar, but I’m not bothered.

If I can’t be in the arena, I’ll be the loudest Baddie’s fan this place has ever seen, my eyes never leaving the television set.

And just like that, they miss another goal .

How hard is it to shoot the puck into the net?

"You have got to be kidding me!” I practically levitate off the stool in frustration, smacking at the bar top as I screech, “Come on! ”

The handsome bartender chuckles as he wipes down the counter.

“Rough night?”

“You could say that,” I huff, crossing my arms. “I should be there. You do one nice deed for a friend and look where it lands you.”

I wave a hand at the screen, clearly unimpressed by my team’s lackluster performance.

“Tell me how you really feel.” He grins, sliding another drink my way.

"Maybe they’re losing because I’m not there," I theorize, narrowing my eyes as if I could somehow will the team to score by force of disappointment.

The bartender snorts. "For sure. I’m sure you’re the missing piece."

“I’m serious!” I exclaim, leaning forward. “I haven’t missed a game in years, and now this? There is no such thing as a coincidence.”

He raises an eyebrow. “They play better when you’re screaming from the stands?”

“Exactly!” I’m oddly validated by his sentiment. “My energy fuels them. They need me. And I’m stuck here, drinking this sad little beer while Paul is out there making romantic history on the Jumbotron.”

Bastard.

"Paul?” The bartender looks intrigued, wiping down another glass and lingering nearby. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“My boyfriend?” I snort. Please . “No—platonic friends from elementary school.”

He stops wiping and leans forward. “And you’re only here because you let him have your seats.”

I nod, sipping the beer. “Indeed.”

“So you’re a giver?”

Eh ?

Is that some sort of sexual innuendo or is he genuinely asking if I’m a kind person?

“Uh. Sure ,” I reply cautiously, giving him a half-smile, unsure where this is going. I don’t love it when guys make snarky comments—it makes me uneasy and off-kilter.

My eyes flicker back to the monitor and I realize I missed the last few minutes of the game because of the bartender's chatter.

Damn.

“Shit, what did I miss?” I ask, sitting up straighter, but the bartender grins wider as if pleased he was a distraction.

“You sure are cute when you’re riled up.”

I ignore him as I fixate back on the screen, trying to catch up on the action. I need him to stop talking to me and go away—not flirt.

He is not my type.

I hope he doesn’t try and pass me his phone number because there’s another number I’m obsessed with, and player thirty, the goalie, who is letting one shot after another slide right through his legs like a rookie on open skate night.

Houston is struggling and it’s getting harder to stay calm.

"Block it, number thirty! Block it!" I shout, voice escalating. "It’s called being a goalie! Maybe try it sometime!"

I slam my fist onto the bar, making my beer glass rattle.

At this point, I’m fully invested in my meltdown.

God it feels good, hands gesturing wildly, legs are bouncing in frustration. Brows in my hairline. Angry mouth agape.

“I think number thirty should buy you a drink after this,” the bartender teases.

I think you should stop talking to me , I want to retort.

Seriously. This guy is so annoying.

“Maybe thirty should go home and take a nap!” I grind out, frustrated. “GET IT!” I shout, leaning forward as if my glare could get these boys into action. “You’ve got this! One good shot! One! ”

The bar goes quiet around me, but I’m too caught up in the game to notice.

“Move your feet!” I raise up out of my barstool again. “ Oh my God , Montagalo, this is hockey, not a freaking stroll through the park! What are you doing?!”

I rise to my feet, ready to throw myself into the game as if I could magically teleport onto the ice. Then I sit back down.

Then I stand again.

I want to pull my hair out.

The bartender laughs like he’s watching the best comedy show of his life, but I ignore him, too focused on the screen to give him my attention. My body sways left, then right—then left again—mimicking the movement of the puck.

I’m completely absorbed in the play.

“Dang,” a new voice chimes in, commenting on my hockey-fueled dramatics, and I glance over at a young woman who’s pulled herself up to the bar right next to me. Her hair is down but she’s wearing a ball cap and hoodie. “Good game?”

“Depends on your definition of good. Gio Montagalo has literally shit the bed.”

She laughs and taps on the bar top to get the bartender's attention, giving him her order.

“I take it you’re a fan?” she asks once she’s settled, setting her cell on the bar top in front of her.

I give her a half smile. “Oh, you know, a casual observer who’s one missed block from losing her shit.”

The girl grins. “I think I’d pay to see that.”

“Trust me," the bartender interjects himself into our conversation. "So would I."

The newcomer smiles at him, lifting her glass before taking a sip.

“Has she been like this the entire time?” She nods toward me and they proceed to discuss me as if I weren’t sitting two feet away with a perfectly good set of ears.

“Absolutely,” he says, grinning as he rests his elbows on the counter. “In fact, she’d be there in person but gave up her seats for true love.”

I roll my eyes. “Please. It’s not that deep. I’m a decent friend.”

The girl raises an eyebrow. “True love? Do tell.”

“Okay, fine. I gave up my season tickets tonight so my friend could propose on the Jumbotron. That’s it.” I take a sip from my glass and continue ranting. “Meanwhile, Montagalo is single-handedly ruining my night. Does he know he’s supposed to stop pucks? Or is this some avant-garde performance art where defense doesn’t exist?”

She chuckles and raises her glass. “Here’s to being a good friend. And to that rat bastard Montagalo pulling his head out of his ass and doing his job.”

“Amen!” I clink my glass with hers. “I’ll drink to that—but I’m going to need something stronger if I’m going to survive this game.”

The clock ticks closer to the third period. Closer to the proposal.

She takes another sip from her glass, eyes fastened to my face. “At least you’re not doomed to suffer through an entire season watching at home.”

“No, thank God . I’m back in my rightful spot for the next game.” I shake my head. “Seriously though—if Montagalo continues to play like crap, I’ll storm the locker room and give him a piece of my mind.”

The girl bursts into an evil laugh, tipping her head. “I can totally picture you barging into the locker room while they’re all half naked.”

Half naked?

Had not considered that.

I nod solemnly. “I’d be like, ‘ Listen, Montagalo, your job is simple : stop the bloody effing puck. I don’t care if you have to grow extra hands–you have one job and that job is to get after it.” Clap . “Do.” Clap. “Your.” Clap. “Job!’ ”

She nearly chokes on her drink, laughing harder. “I’d pay good money to see you versus Montagalo. He looks like the kind of guy who needs to be brought down a peg or two.”

“Damn straight.” I take another sip, feeling validated and righteous. “He’s way too cocky for someone who’s spent the past two games playing with his head shoved firmly up his ass.”

Granted, it’s a good-looking ass. Not the point.

She agrees easily. “Yeah. He looks like he’s a giant asshole, doesn’t he?”

Tall. Dark.

So handsome if he walked through those doors I would retract everything I said about him, fall to my knees and?—

“Have you seen his social media?” she asks, yanking me from my dangerous train of thought. “It’s all pictures of him volunteering. The whole page! Like, is anyone buying the ‘nice guy’ act? He’s probably totally banging every girl who so much as breathes near him.”

I snort, leaning in conspiratorially. “Oh, 100%. The pictures of ‘him with his buddy’s dog’ thing? Classic bait. And have you seen the comments? Barf. ‘ Oh, Gio, you’re so amazing ,’ and he laps it up.”

She smirks. “You know what would make my night? If the man himself showed up here and overheard us dragging his entire existence.”

I raise my glass. “If that happens, drinks are on me.”

“My name is Nova, by the way,” she says, finally letting a giggle slip.

“Oh—oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” I say, suddenly realizing how much I’ve been ranting. “I’m Austin—like the city. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Kyle,” the bartender chimes in, completely unprompted.

Nova and I both freeze for a second, glancing at each other before bursting into full-on laughter.

Not to be rude but no one asked for his name.

Certainly not us .

Kyle shrugs, smirking like he’s somehow part of the conversation and in on the jokes. “What? Figured I’d introduce myself, too.”

I tilt my head, giving Kyle a look. “Well, Kyle, now that we’re on a first-name basis, do you have any thoughts on Montagalo’s tragic inability to stop a puck?”

Kyle doesn’t miss a beat. “Guy’s got butterfingers, for sure. But at least he’s consistent.”

Nova snorts into her drink, her shoulders shaking. “Consistently terrible.”

Kyle shrugs, grabbing a rag to wipe the counter. “Consistent is consistent. Besides, I’m a Bruins fan, so, you know…” He shrugs again, like this confession is supposed to mean something profound.

I clutch my chest, pretending to be mortally offended. “A Bruins fan? Here I thought we were starting to bond.”

Kyle waves his rag at us like he’s shooing a couple of flies. “Oh, don’t mind me. Doing my job here.” He claps twice. “Do. Your. Job!”

He’s mocking me.

“Dude!” Nova absolutely loses it, clutching her stomach as she laughs. “Kyle’s got jokes!”

I roll my eyes, but can’t stop the smile from widening on my face. “You two are the worst.”

Kyle winks. “Cheers to that.”