A SAN JOSE player slams Hayden into the boards in front of us, and around us, fans are screaming, slamming their hands against the glass, rattling it. A roar of boos rises up from our end of the arena.
“That’s a fucking penalty!” a guy behind us shouts at the ref.
Jamie’s mom, Donna, glances at me with bright eyes, the same deep green as Jamie’s.
“This is very exciting,” she says, smiling. “It’s easier to say that when my son isn’t the one getting slammed into the boards.”
She fiddles with a string of beads around her left wrist, twirling them. She’s been doing that since we got to the stadium.
I smile at her, and my eyes catch on Jamie in the net near us. Watching Jamie Streicher play a game is a totally different experience than sitting in on a practice. When he blocks the puck, the crowd around us cheers for him, although it doesn’t even seem like he notices or cares. Just like in practice, he’s faster than I can follow, but now, there are five guys trying to sink the puck in while another five fight them off. Jamie’s body bends and contorts in the net in sharp motions, but he makes it look easy. It’s fast-paced, brutal, and charged with energy.
I love it.
I thought hockey was boring, but maybe I never paid attention until now. My dad will be thrilled, of course.
My gaze drops to Donna’s fingers as she twirls the beads. “Can I get you anything? I can grab another drink or some food. Whatever you like.”
She shakes her head with a smile. “No, thank you, honey. I’m okay.” She tilts her head, studying me. “Are you from Vancouver?”
“North Vancouver,” I say without thinking.
“That’s where I live.” She lights up, and I freeze. “What neighborhood?”
I can’t lie to her—she’s too nice—and the longer I try to think of something, the more thoughts fall out of my head, so I just blurt out the truth. “Berkley Creek.”
“No way. That’s where Jamie grew up.”
“No way.” I force a smile as my pulse picks up.
Her brow wrinkles in curiosity. “What high school did you go to?” There are a couple in the area, and it’s not uncommon for students to go to schools outside their catchments for special programs.
“Um.” Here we freaking go, I guess.
Someone taps us on the shoulder before pointing at the Jumbotron above. The game is stopped for a moment, and Jamie’s mom is on screen.
“Please give a very special welcome to the woman behind the Streicher shut out,” the announcer calls. “Donna Streicher!”
The arena cheers, and Donna laughs and waves at the camera, glancing up at us on the screen. She points at Jamie and blows kisses at him. A chorus of awws rises around the arena.
I grin so hard. Jamie’s mom is so nice and cute, and she’s so proud of him.
And thank fucking god for that interruption.
“Jamie tells me you have a pretty singing voice,” Donna says a few minutes later while the players gather for a face-off.
He said that?
“Are you a musician, too?”
My stomach dips. “I don’t really do that anymore.”
Her mouth hitches in a wry, crooked smile. “Oh, darn. I’d love to hear a song eventually. If Jamie says you’re good, you must be.” She pats my hand on my knee. “No problem, honey.”
We both pause as San Jose skates toward Vancouver’s net. The energy around us rises as their forward slapshots the puck at Jamie. It hits the back of the net, and the crowd lets out a collective groan.
“He’ll be pissed off at that one.” Donna’s still fiddling with the beads. “He’s so hard on himself, but that’s how he got here.” She gestures at the ice. “Ever since he was a kid, he’s taken on all the responsibility. I worry about him.” A smile lifts on her mouth, and she glances at me. “I’m really glad he has you to help out. He takes on too much.”
I nod. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. But he did join me on a walk the other day.”
She arches a brow, and her eyes sparkle. “Oh?”
“He said it helps with muscle soreness, moving after practice like that.”
Her eyes linger on my face, interested and amused like she has a secret. “Oh. Yes. That makes sense. How did you get into being an assistant?”
I tell her about my degree, Zach’s tour—leaving out the details of how I left—and how I want to get a job in marketing with the team.
She smiles affectionately. “That’s great, Pippa. I’m certain that whatever you want in life, you’ll make it happen.”
I shoot her a weak smile. Marketing isn’t my dream, but it’s my best option. I can hear my parents’ voices in my head. There’s nothing wrong with a stable job, Pippa! Guilt weaves through me. They paid for school for me when so many people have to either scrape student loans together or skip university altogether. Who cares if it’s not my dream?
I’ve already learned my lesson about pursuing my dream. My gaze flicks over to Jamie as he watches the puck at the other end of the ice.
Some people are meant to pursue their dreams, but I’m not one of them.
While the players change and talk to the press after the game, we head to the box reserved for friends and family. The box is filled with people—players, coaches, spouses, kids, and friends. I recognize a few coaches and players, including Hayden, who gives me a friendly wave.
I show Donna pictures of Daisy while we wait for Jamie.
“Oh my goodness.” Donna’s hand covers her mouth as she smiles at a photo of Daisy mid-sprint. “This is just too cute.”
Behind Donna, a server passes with a tray of drinks.
“I love the ones with her tongue hanging out.” I scroll through the images, grinning. “I take about twelve pictures a day.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a player accidentally bump the server. The server’s eyes go wide, and she scrambles to right the tray, but it’s too late. The drinks tip and spill, splashing over Donna’s sleeve. The glasses crash to the floor, and everyone in the box turns to look.
“I’m so sorry,” the server gasps.
Around us, people pick up the shards of glass, pass us napkins, and clean up the spill on the floor.
“I’ll get more napkins,” the server tells us. “Stay right there.”
“Oops.” I pass Donna a hand towel with the Vancouver Storm logo on it.
Donna dabs at her sleeve, not saying anything.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She clears her throat before her eyes dart around the room. She’s gone white as a sheet, and it doesn’t seem like she heard me. She blinks and looks toward the door leading to the hallway.
“Donna?”
“Hmm?” She whirls around to look at me. Her chest rises and falls fast.
Something’s wrong. I have that feeling in my gut. She’s acting different.
“Are you okay?” I ask again softly, placing my hand on her arm. “Can I get you something?”
At the contact of my hand on her, she turns to me with a baffled look, like she forgot I was there.
“I need some air. I need to get outside.” The tone of her voice has changed completely.
The silly, warm woman from moments before is gone, and now she sounds petrified. She forces a smile, and I know it’s forced because I do that all the time.
“Ladies’ room,” she says, sounding breathless. She’s already stepping away. “Be right back.”
There’s a bad feeling in my stomach as I watch her make her way to the door. I heard once that people who are choking often run to the bathroom to avoid making a scene, when it’s the most dangerous place to be since no one can help them.
Donna’s not choking, but she’s definitely not okay.
I hurry after her. When I push the ladies’ room door open, she’s in front of the sink, splashing water on her sleeve. She’s wheezing, breath shallow and rapid. Eyes wide as saucers.
My mind whirs—I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s happening. Her eyes are darting around the small space as she tries to pull in more air.
“What’s going on?” I ask, rushing over to her side.
“I’m fine.” Her voice shakes as she turns the water off, and she’s wheezing harder than ever, clutching the side of the sink for support. She leans against the wall, and alarm bells ring in my head.
She can’t breathe. She’s having a panic attack.
