‘You have no idea how excited I am!’ I squeal, practically vibrating in my seat. My left hand is grasped around Ava’s, and my right squeezes Mom’s. ‘It’s packed!’ I trail my electric gaze over the arena, not failing to notice how there’s not a single empty seat. We’re on the lower level, five rows from right behind the empty, soon-to-be full Vancouver bench.
‘I’m nervous,’ Ava mumbles, visibly swallowing and gripping her knee with her free hand, the fluorescent lights pulling a sparkle from the loonie-sized rock on her left hand.
Tyler was tight-lipped whenever I asked about the game today. I didn’t force him to tell me anything he didn’t want to, but Ava’s visible fear makes me think that maybe I should have poked a little harder for information.
‘Oakley’s going to do great. He always does. Plus, this is his first game as Warrior! He’s going to play his best.’ I try to reassure her, but the forced smile she sends my way makes my stomach swirl.
‘I remember you arguing with your brother back when you were sixteen about wanting to wear Tyler’s jersey to their games,’ Mom says, squeezing my hand weakly before letting it go and pointing to the white number three I know stands proudly on my back. ‘Now look at you!’
Looking down at the jersey I found wrapped in ugly brown paper on my bed this morning, I grin, beaming no doubt. It’s honestly surprising that I didn’t already have one of my own despite my brother’s protests. I’ve never been one to listen to my brother if I didn’t want to.
‘We’ll have to get a picture afterwards,’ Ava adds, participating in the conversation half-heartedly.
‘Of course.’ I lean my head on her shoulder and the lights dim as players get ready to hit the ice. The cement beneath our feet begins to vibrate as the entrance music blares from the speakers. We’re too close to the ice to have to watch the jumbotron, so we look straight ahead instead. I don’t recognize most of the players that skate out first, a swagger in their step, but I recognize a few from T.V and the clubs.
I can almost feel my heart climb up my throat when I see the familiar coffee-coloured eyes, narrowed and intense, penetrate through the visor on his helmet. Tyler’s jaw is clenched, lips stretched in a straight line, but he’s never looked more beautiful. He’s focused, but his gaze bounces from left to right. It looks like he’s scanning the crowd for something. My face burns with the realization that he’s looking for me. I can feel his eyes on me as clearly as I can see them, and I smile so wide I’m sure the cameraman is having a hayday catching our encounter on the jumbotron. My blood thumps in my throat, and I nearly choke on air when he pulls his helmet off and smiles that damn spine chilling smile. Right. At. Me.
“Oh my God,” Mom sighs. There’s an unmissable smile in her voice.
It’s obvious that people are looking at me, I can feel their eyes on my skin, thick with curiosity. But I don’t care. The only eyes I care about are the ones that belong to the guy I’m so helplessly in love with. The realization of it all has my eyes blurring with unshed tears.
I tear my eyes from Tyler’s and let out a short laugh, wiping at my face before anyone notices. When I look back up, Oakley’s skating out onto the ice. Tyler’s frowning when I meet his eyes again, but Oakley is stopping beside him and slapping the area between his shoulders quick enough to distract him. Oakley says something to him that nobody but the two of them has a chance of hearing over the music. I can’t see Tyler’s reaction, but my brother’s lazy smile says it all. He wants him to relax. He wants him to have fun.
I sneak a look over at Ava and nearly swoon at the affection pouring from her eyes as she watches Oakley like her life depends on it. Her lips lift into an even higher smile, one that makes the skin beside her eyes wrinkle and the gums above her top teeth show just the slightest bit.
‘Your starting line-up for your Vancouver Warriors!’ A deep, manly voice is shouted from the speakers and pulls my attention towards the ice again. Tyler stands tall beside my brother and three other players at the blue line, and there’s only one I recognize. Logan Trinity, the other starting defenseman for the Warriors and Tyler’s linemate.
‘Tyler Bateman! Logan Trinity! Michael Heller! Jacob Yollan! And for the first time on this ice as a Vancouver Warrior, Oakley Hutton!’
The crowd hollers with excitement for our team. I don’t hesitate to join in. I love the warm feeling that flows from my toes to the top of my head, left hand to right hand, when Tyler spots us sitting in our seats again and winks, a simple action that I doubt anybody saw but me. My cheeks throb with a fierce flush.
“Boo! Put Delaware in the box! What are you doing!?” I shout with my arm raised in the air, hand in a fist as I shake it furiously. The ref pays no attention to the outrageous number of angry voices in the crowd and continues to practically hand the game to the Steamrollers. He pushes Tyler into the penalty box again, completely carefree and unbothered before coming back to drop the puck at the face off zone on the left of the Warriors net.
It’s nearly the end of the game, with only five minutes left in the third period. The score is two to two, but it would have been a complete Warriors sweep had the referees not been playing favourites.
Tyler’s currently in the penalty box for the third time tonight, and I know he’s about one call away from getting himself sent to the dressing room. I’m not sure if he cares at this point, though. It hasn’t mattered what he did all night, whether he delivered a completely solid, clean hit or skated full speed into a set of numbers, he was getting the brunt of the unfair calls. I’ve seen his plays get sloppier as the anger and frustration set in. But who can blame him? He sits hunched over, elbows on his knees and glares at the players that continue to skate past him, muttering things that have him baring his teeth.
“This is the dirtiest game that I’ve seen in a long time,” Ava groans through the hand covering her face. She opens her fingers slightly and peeks through them before closing them again with a sigh.
“Tyler’s going to lose it,” I reply with a sigh. The idea of watching him start throwing punches should scare me, but I find my belly filling with heat instead. A beautiful mental picture of him, his jaw clenched, lips pulled tight as the muscles beneath his hockey gear cord with power and strength makes my hands begin to sweat.
My fantasy comes to life as soon as Tyler’s let back onto the ice. He skates straight over to Ryan Delaware and yanks on the back of his jersey, sending him flying back. Ryan stumbles briefly but expertly balances himself. Tyler spins to face Ryan and without hesitating he throws an ungloved hand straight to his mouth. He hits him where Delaware had punched Tyler’s linemate a period prior. Delaware deserves every punch that Tyler sends him after the illegal check he dealt to another one of the Warrior players that went unpunished earlier this period.
I feel the need to cheer Tyler on, so I do. I stand and throw my arms up, screaming things like, “Let’s go Bateman!” and “Knock him down!”
I continue to scream words of encouragement even though I don’t know if he can hear me. Who cares if he can? I’m just one voice in a choir of fans who adore him almost half as much as I do. The thought makes me beam with pride. I start to cheer even louder for him to continue beating the crap out of someone, as if it’s the most casual of things. And it hits me full force that I’m the one that gets to help clean him up afterward.
I scream again, but for me this time.
