Page 69 of Bombshells
I glance behind Mr. Bayer and spot a skinny young teenager, another unmistakable member of the Bayer gene pool. He’s got bright blue eyes like Anton’s, with a mouth full of metal braces.
His father barely glances at me, and does not introduce himself. “Rudy, you want to sit with the girls’ team?” He lets out a snort. “Sure, pal. Thanks for that.”
“Women’s team,” Bess corrects under her breath.
“We don’t mind,” Rudy’s brother says. The other Bayer teen is older than Rudy—maybe fifteen or sixteen years old.
“Awesome,” their dad says, peeling off a hundred dollar bill from a wad of cash in his wallet and handing it to his older son. “I can sit with my clients. And hey, Eric—would you mind hanging onto them after the game for an hour? A lot of business gets done at the bar after a good game.”
Eric’s eyes narrow for a split second. I can almost see the thought bubble over his head. Oh, and I’m your babysitter now?
But he agrees, anyway. “Sure. We’ll walk over to the Tavern on Hicks. You can meet us there. I’ll text you the address.” He delivers this instruction with no room for argument. “All right, boys. Let’s watch your brother make Philly cry.”
* * *
I end up seated beside Rudy, who’s thirteen and very chatty. Eric and Bess are on the other side of Rudy’s stoic older brother, Paul.
“This is awesome,” Rudy says. “Hey, Paul! Can we buy those foam fingers?”
“The money is for food and drink,” Paul mutters.
“Okay, popcorn? Hot dogs? We never go to hockey games. There’s going to be a new team in Seattle, right? I want to go. But Mom hates hockey and Dad travels a lot. So I don’t know.”
“But you’ve seen Anton play before, right?” I ask, even though it’s none of my business.
“Not in person,” he says. “Only on TV. But we don’t have the channel with all the hockey games. Dad goes sometimes, I think. On business trips. Where is Anton, anyway?”
“Right there,” his big brother says, throwing him an elbow. “Look.” The players are skating out for the anthem now, and Anton lines up, the word BAYER visible on the back of his jersey.
“Oh. Duh.”
“Please rise for the national anthem,” the announcer says. “Sung for us tonight by Grammy-winning singer-songwriter Delilah Spark!”
“Well, that’s really freaking cool,” Rudy says, clapping as the lights dim.
I feel a swirl of excitement in my belly as the music starts. Two lines of hockey players put their hands to their hearts, and the anthem is sung. The place is packed, and I heard Bess say that ticket sales were rocking all the way out for the duration of the regular season.
Their record is still on fire. It’s only November, but they already have more points than any other team in the league. This is our year, Bryce keeps saying. I can feel it.
When he’s said this, I’ve also heard a subtext that says: so I couldn’t possibly have time for you. But I have to admit that standing here with nineteen thousand hungry, cheering fans makes that feel more plausible. Those boys down there have a lot of pressure on them.
I wonder if Anton will say the same thing to me, too. Am I selfish for wanting more of his attention? Is this really the year of greatness?
Am I just the needy distraction that Bryce (almost) said I was?
* * *
“GET HIM!” Screams Rudy two hours later. He’s gotten up and down more times than a guy at a Catholic Mass. “SMASH HIM! HULK SMASH!”
I think Rudy likes hockey. And in his defense, it’s a very exciting game. Philly is determined to break Brooklyn’s winning streak. The score is four to three in favor of Brooklyn, but Philly is angry and the pace of play has picked up to the speed of machine-gun fire as the third period wanes.
Our boys are not going to give it up easily. They’re fighting hard. Bryce and the other forwards have forced the other goalie to practically stand on his head this period. And our defense is rough and tumble.
“No wonder my mother hates this game,” Rudy says with obvious glee, as O’Doul smashes a Philly sniper into the boards. “It’s awesome.”
His brother is quieter, but enthusiastic in his own way. He’s shoving handfuls of popcorn into his mouth.
Rudy glances at the scoreboard clock. “What happens if they tie?”
