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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Marissa

The next morning, I wake up too early, especially considering how late I was up last night. I feel hungover, tired and achy, my mouth dry, my head pounding. Which seems profoundly unfair since I didn’t drink anything.

Of course, that might be part of the problem. I didn’t really drink much of anything , including water.

Stumbling out of bed, I wander into the kitchen, fill a glass with water, and drain it almost as quickly as I filled it up. Almost immediately, I feel a little better.

Flopping on the couch, I pick up my phone from the spot where I tossed it last night and finally power it on. My stomach swoops and churns as I wait for it to come back to life and go to my text messages, where Dozer’s last messages sit on top. At least it’s not the apology message now, and the link to the ticket takes up so much screen real estate that once I bring up the keyboard to type back, I can’t even see the apology anymore.

I take a deep breath and hold it, puffing out my cheeks as I finally type a response.

Thanks for the invite. I’ll be there

It almost feels surreal being at an Emeralds game.

It’s silly. I know it’s silly. But even if Dozer’s decided to pretend nothing between us is different, and even if I’ve decided to go along with the pretense for now, I know everything has changed.

I’d resigned myself to not coming to anymore Emeralds games. At least not for a long, long time. I knew Dozer wouldn’t invite me, and I also knew that I’d need time and space before I could go for my own enjoyment again—maybe not until he’d moved somewhere else, honestly. But I told myself that was fine. That I could wait. That I wasn’t really part of the hockey fan community. I don’t have hockey friends—other than Dozer. I don’t have season passes. I don’t have any or do any of the things die-hards do. And if I’m gonna go to a sports bar to watch a game, it’s more likely to be football. I know how to talk to those guys and how to shut down the gatekeepers that think I can’t possibly like or know anything about sports because I’m a woman.

With hockey, I’d end up just proving them right. I only got into hockey because of a guy, after all.

But here I am, back at a game, and I don’t know how to feel about it at all. So I’m just going through the motions, running through the same worn track of getting concessions, finding my seat (which is the same as it always is), and settling in for the game. I try not to search out Dozer when the team takes the ice, but I can’t help it. I start looking for him before I even realize I’m doing it, and by then it’s too late. I’ve spotted him.

My only slim consolation is that he can’t possibly see me here in the middle of the section, far enough back from the plexiglass to be lost in the crowd.

And there is a crowd. It’s packed tonight. It’s always good to see a city come out to support their team, and in the few years they’ve been here, the Emeralds have managed to build a large and devoted following.

By the end of the first period, I’ve settled down, more or less. I’m not as relaxed as I would’ve been had Dozer and I never kissed—or if we’d hashed things out and come to an actual conclusion instead of this tacit decision to pretend like it never happened. I suppose that’s as much my fault as his, though. He clearly wanted to talk to me about it, but I didn’t want to hear him tell me that he liked me, just not like that . Or that he was no good for me. Or that we should just be friends. Or any of the million ways that Dozer would genuinely try to let me down gently, but I would just hear as him telling me I’m not good enough.

Because that’s been the theme throughout my life, hasn’t it?

I wasn’t good enough for my dad to give me the shop. I wasn’t good enough for Peter to actually want to marry. I wasn’t good enough for any of the numerous things I tried for and failed or missed out on over the years. And sadly, no amount of success, no amount of promotions, successfully rebuilt cars selling for top dollar to collectors, or any other external marker of accomplishment will make up for that first deep cut. The underlying belief that accompanies every failure, every rejection.

Now, in another state, another time zone, a different job—though still the same industry, more or less—I thought I was starting to work past it.

My fragile sense of self-worth couldn’t handle another blow.

It’s like that time Mom started seedlings inside in the spring, but we had a freak cold snap in March after she’d already put them outside. She hadn’t even transplanted them yet and was just hardening them off on the back porch. But a cold front blew in around ten in the morning, and it dropped from a decent mid-fifties to below freezing in less than an hour. Mom was at the store, and by the time she got home, it was too late. All the fragile new seedlings had been killed.

So because of my own fragile sense of self, I’ve now apparently ruined any possibility that we could talk things through like adults.

Awesome.

I try to focus on the silly game going on during the intermission between periods—they’ve brought some middle-aged men down onto the ice and moved the nets to the sides at center ice. The men are wearing inflatable bubbles over their torsos and heads and are playing a game of three on three soccer on the ice. It’s ridiculous and hilarious—they keep running into each other on purpose, but they’re also slipping and falling all over while trying to get to the ball.

Just as the time for the game is nearly over with the score at zero to zero, one of the guys manages to score, winning gift certificates to the team shop for him and his team members. The crowd claps and cheers while the soccer players make their way off the ice, the nets get reset, and the zambonis come out to get the ice ready for the next period.

“There you are!” a voice says behind me, and I feel a tap on my shoulder.

I turn in my seat, my brow pinched in confusion, only to see Tina, Dozer’s teammate’s wife who hosted us for Thanksgiving a couple weeks ago. “Oh, uh, hi. Were you looking for me?”

She grins. “Of course. I told Dozer to give you my number so you could come sit with me. Games are more fun with friends, don’t you think?”

“Um, yeah. Sure.” I’m still confused. And also, the seats on either side of me are full, so I’m not sure how I’m supposed to?—

“Come on.” She stands, gesturing for me to follow her.

When I don’t immediately get up, she pauses, looking back at me, her hands on her hips like she’s about to scold a recalcitrant child. Given she has two fairly rambunctious kids, she’s obviously perfected that look over the years because it works on me as well as my own mother’s, even though I’m pretty sure Tina’s about my age.

Still mystified by this turn of events—she’s never sought me out before—I rise to my feet and slowly pick my way out of the row. My section is full, and even though people have gotten up to use the bathroom or get food during intermission, there are still plenty of people sitting and standing in the row.

Tina’s waiting for me at the stairs, and when I get out successfully, she gives me that big smile again and leads the way up the stairs. Following her, I give a mental shrug, deciding I might as well just go along with whatever this is and see where it takes me. Worst case, maybe I get a new friend out of it, right?