Page 74 of Shots on Net

“Yeah, we are. We go to all of the home games.”

She smiles again, adjusting the front of her coat. “That’s nice. Would you mind if I rode with you? I’ve never been before, and I feel it might be prudent of me to go with someone who’s familiar.”

“To the game? You want to ride with us to the…to the hockey game?”

“If you don’t mind. I’d like to sit with you, as well, if possible. Maybe you and I can get to know each other a little better.”

I gape at her. Is this the fucking Twilight Zone? What is happening? Jefferson—bless him—saves me once more. “Of course. The more the merrier. Do you have a ticket? Otherwise, you can take my ticket and go with Zeke.”

“Oh, yes, I have a ticket. Nico Mackenzie left me one at will call, I believe.”

A few puzzle pieces slot into place. “Well, in that case, we’d love you to join us. Are you…will you be comfortable in that or are you going to change…?”

Jefferson makes a choked noise and I blush even more. I stand by the question, though; she’s wearing heels for fuck’s sake.

“Oh, no, I think I’ll be alright.” She smiles at me, a touch wider. “Are we leaving now? I’m looking forward to watching Carter play. Mr. Mackenzie told me he’d be playing tonight. I take it they switch out, usually? The two…goalies?”

“Yeah, that’s…they do, you’re right.” I nod, encouragingly. There is no way Carter knew she was coming; he would have said something to me before he left for the game.

I gesture for her to precede us through the door. As soon as her back is turned, I look at Jefferson, helplessly. He shrugs, grimacing. Neither of us planned on being joined by Carter’s mom; this is going to be the most awkward threesome of all time. I try to get her to sit in the shotgun seat, but she refuses and slides into the back before I can argue. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, I sit, hands clasped in my lap, and allow Jefferson to fill the car with meaningless chitchat. It’s not lost on me that ‘meaningless chitchat’ is usually my forte.

While Jefferson is regaling Mrs. Morgan with an in-depth explanation of his degree path, I slip my phone out of my pocket and text Carter. We always meet up right after the game; Jefferson calls it the trade-off: we meet at the locker rooms and I ride home with Carter instead of Jefferson. I hope he thinks to check his phone before meeting me, or he’s going to be very surprised by my guest.

As expected, we attract a lot of stares as we move through the crowds at the rink. Usually, Jefferson and I slink through all the bodies, jostled on every side by elbows. Not today. Today, the crowd parts like the red sea as Carter’s mom stride’s purposefully down the hallways, heels clicking on the concrete floor. When we sit down—me seated between them—Jefferson looks like he finds this whole thing hilarious, and Mrs. Morgan merely looks curious.

“It is cold in here,” she muses, untying the belt on her coat but leaving it on. “Mr. Mackenzie warned me it would be.”

She smiles benignly, idly scanning the crowd of students and the team warming up on the ice. I wonder if it’s necessary for me to point out Carter. She might not know what his number is. Clearing my throat, I lean a little closer to her. She smells like flowers.

“Mrs. Morgan? That’s Carter,” I point to one of the goalies down on the ice, stretching, “right there. Number seventy-seven. Do you see?”

“Oh! There he is. Thank you.” She pats my knee and watches, eyes narrowed.

The first period goes well. Jefferson and I both leap to our feet, cheering, when Vasel scores the first goal of the game. Carter’s mom stays seated, but claps politely. I’m not actually sure she saw the goal happen, since her gaze hasn’t really wavered from Carter the entire game. He’s playing well, of course, and made some truly spectacular saves. A couple times, she’s leaned over to me and asked, “That was good, wasn’t it?”. Jefferson turns his head away and laughs every time this happens—the hockey blind leading the blind.

During intermission, Jefferson strolls off to get us food while Mrs. Morgan and I keep our seats. With the absence of hundreds of bodies around us and the distraction of the game, I’m nervous once more. What am I supposed to talk about with her?

“Are you…are you having fun?” I ask her. She turns in her seat, trying to face me, and crosses one ankle behind the other. She looks like the First Lady, slumming it with the peasants.

“I am! Thank you for letting me sit with you. You know, I was worried when Carter wanted to play hockey. It’s a particularly violent sport, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but luckily he’s the goalie. There is this weird, I guess unspoken rule in hockey that you can’t touch the goalies. One time, someone stopped too close to Carter,” I mime a slanting motion with my hand, meant to illustrate the angle of the skate blade on the ice, “and a bunch of ice flew up into Carter’s face. They have a word for it…frosting? Icing? No, that’s the other thing…snowing! It’s called snowing. So, anyway, that happened and our team pretty much lost their minds. Huge fight. And Carter was fine, but I guess it’s rude, or something.”

I shrug, the tops of my ears burning. I feel unbearably self-conscious talking to her even though she’s only been kind thus far. She nods, looking contemplative.

“Snowing. Interesting. Well, I am glad to hear that, at any rate. Now, tell me, what are you going to school for? Are you from South Carolina or did you come here for university?”

Her hands are resting atop her bag, settled in her lap, and her blue eyes are unwavering on mine. She gives me her full, undivided attention as I speak, and doesn’t interrupt a single time. It puts a pang in my chest; she’s a good listener, just like her son. When I pause, she asks thoughtful questions, and the twenty-minute intermission passes by so fast I’m surprised to see Jefferson slide back into his seat. It felt like barely five minutes.

We eat shitty concession stand food as we watch the last two periods of the game, and the air feels distinctly easier than it did at the start. I don’t have to strain myself to envision this version of Mrs. Morgan on hands and knees, getting her hands dirty in a garden. We end up winning the game and she stands with us this time as we applaud, watching the team line up and hug Carter. She’s smiling so wide it’s crinkling the corners of her eyes.

“That’s nice, isn’t it?” She says, as the team all pat Carter on the head. Vasel gives him a hug, rocking them from side to side.

“It’s my favorite part,” I admit, and share a grin with her. She nods.

“Yes, me too. Where do we go from here? Mr. Mackenzie indicated I could meet Carter after the game, but I’m not sure I know where to go.”

“I can show you. I always wait for him at the locker room so that we can ride home together.”

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