Page 99 of Penalty Shot

He doesn’t answer and I don’t push it. We drive for about ten minutes in comfortable silence, until we arrive at the parking lot of a sports complex.

“Is this your hockey arena? Where you learned to play?”

“Yup. Home of the Steveston Seahawks, the dynasty of peewee championships,” he declares with a mix of self-deprecation and true pride. “It’s my first club.”

“Ben’s club,” I guess.

“Yeah. He always runs a summer camp for kids. It’s cheaper to do it now because the adult leagues won’t start up until the fall. I promised him we’d come by before the trip gets too busy. It won’t take long.”

“We should stay as long as you want. Are you skating with them?”

“Nah, I didn’t plan on it.” He points to his regular shoes to confirm the answer.

We’re holding hands as Randall pushes through the main doors. It’s eerily quiet. A shadow of doubt clouds his features.

“Maybe I got the time wrong. I don’t hear anyone on the ice,” he mumbles and takes out his phone. “I’ll text him.”

But before he presses his screen, the chant begins.

“Ran-di, Ran-di, Ran-di,” it continues from down a hall. The second he pushes through another set of metal doors, I feel the rush of cold air and hear the screaming kids slamming their hockey jersey cuteness against the plexiglass. It’s chaos and joy in equal measure.

“Oh my god,” I say. “It’s like a team of baby Mavericks!” They really look like elfish versions of the big athletes, with their uniforms and equipment. So adorable.

An older man approaches. Randall hugs him.

“Your cheering section gets more elaborate every time.”

“Gotta surprise the hometown hero,” he says.

“Ben Nakamura, this is my girlfriend, Elise Chen. Elise, this is Coach Ben.”

We shake hands, Coach Ben briefly holding my hand inside two of his. “I’m so happy to meet you.”

“Me too. Randall claims you taught him everything he knows,” I fib a little.

“He’s exaggerating. Elise, are you OK if we steal Randi for a few minutes for a turn on the ice? The kids have been chomping on the bits to skate with him. You”—now he points at Randall—“have been my bribe all season.”

“I didn’t bring my skates,” Randall says, putting his hand on my lower back.

He’s probably worried about entertaining me—a notion I plan to divest him of as soon as possible. Nothing could be more entertaining right now than Randall skating with his delightful mini-me’s.

“You have to skate with them,” I declare.

“Like I said, didn’t plan on it.”

“Already put aside your size,” Ben assures him.

“Do you want to skate, too? I can teach you,” Randall suggests. I’m already shaking my head before the words come out.

“Teach me some other time. Give me your phone so I can take a video of you with your new team,” I say with a wink.

I get comfortable in the middle of the stands, taking pictures and videos. Randall leading a skating choo-choo train with the kids. Randall standing in front of a net and pretending to miss a couple of saves so the kids can celebrate their victory scoring on a professional goaltender. Randall teaching a bunch of them to skate backward which entails swishing his gorgeous bubble butt. Definitely a footage-worthy moment.

Coach Ben is out there with him, playing traffic cop to swarming children and generally providing structure amidst mayhem. The two men skate around each other easily, as if they are more comfortable interacting on the ice than anywhere else. I make sure to grab pictures of them leaning on their sticks and laughing.

In what feels like a blink, the resurfacing machine sits at the gate and it’s time for everyone to leave the ice. Randall is the first to take off his skates. He signs some shirts and takes more pictures, but I can tell he’s ready to go when he tilts his head toward the metal doors. We say our goodbyes to Coach Ben with promises to catch a drink.

When we leave the complex, the sun is a shock to the eyes and the heat a welcome balm.