Page 83 of Good Boy

She’s the hostess, so I take her for the leader of this organization. But when the meeting is called to order, it’s by a dark-haired beauty named Estrella. She’s wearing a C on her Toronto sweater, and I can’t decide whether her husband is the team captain or if it refers to her own title.

Because she’s clearly in charge.

“Listen up, ladies!” she declares, tapping on a daiquiri glass with an elegant silver spoon. “First, I want to thank Katie for hosting us tonight.”

“Oh, come on. I fucking live for this!” Katie says, beaming. A cheer rises up.

Estrella taps her spoon again, calling for order. “Now we have a very important decision to make. Which caterer do we want for the Christmas party?”

All the carefully made-up faces around the room turn thoughtful. A young woman raises her hand. “Which one made those pigs in blankets we had at our summer party?”

“That’s the guys at North End. But there’ll be children at this party, and hot dogs are a choking risk.”

There are murmurs of agreement, and several heads are scratched.

“But we can still have mini empanadas and mini quiche. So all is not lost.”

They discuss miniaturized foodstuffs for a few minutes while I wander over to the buffet table and nibble on fancy cheese. My brother sets himself up in front of the largest TV screen I’ve ever seen, on a beanbag chair the size of Mount McKinley. He pats the space beside him, and I sit down to the familiar crunch of shifting Styrofoam.

“God, I want this chair,” I whisper, petting the plush surface. It’s wooly and warm. “I could just live my whole life right here. It’s like a giant…”

“Sheep,” Jamie supplies. Then he grins. “Did Blake ever tell you about his fear of sheep?”

“His…what?” I’m thrown a little by Jamie’s mention of Blake. I don’t want my family to know about my recent frisky business with the guy. They already think I’m a screwup and a lightweight. I don’t need to give them any more reasons to judge me.

“Yup. He hates sheep. Can’t stand ’em. Thinks they’re dangerous.”

I snort, and my head fills with pranks I could play on Blake. Do they make sheep underwear?

But that only makes me think of Blake removing my clothes… Rawr.

The WAGs have finished their caterer discussion and are ready to vote. “Jamie?” Estrella calls. “Do you want to weigh in? We’re having trouble deciding between the place with the sesame chicken on a stick and the place with the hotter waiters.”

“Tough call,” my brother says, tearing his gaze away from the pregame commentary. “But I’d go with the sesame chicken. The hot waiters might’ve quit. And there will be plenty of hotness in that room already.”

More murmurs of agreement. The sesame chicken wins the vote, and then attention shifts toward the giant screen on the wall.

“Puck drops in five!” Katie says. “Who needs a fresh drink?”

I do. “Save my seat,” I order my brother.

My daiquiri is topped up just as Wes and Blake take the ice together on the first line. It’s a blast watching the game in this room full of hard-core cheerleaders. When Lukoczik gets the puck on a breakaway, Estrella starts screaming. He shoots, but the goalie scoops it into his glove.

“I love you anyway!” Estrella shouts, and everyone laughs.

I enjoy myself immensely. Since Katie’s TV is the size of a double-decker bus, Blake seems nearly life-size every time he skates past me. My cheering for him is silent, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t heartfelt. Every time he charges down the ice, I get a thrill.

The rum in my drink has made me a little breathless and woozy. I find myself hoping Blake texts me again tonight. Or calls. His voice in my ear would sound pretty good right about now.

When the first period ends, the camera follows the Toronto players as they exit the bench, down the chute. The lens zooms in on a pair of young women banging on the plexi, screaming like Beatles fans on The Ed Sullivan Show. They’re pressing signs to the glass, and I can read them all too well. FUTURE HOCKEY WIVES! and MARRY ME, BLAKE RILEY.

Under that? A phone number.

That cools me off a tad. For the first time since I heard Blake’s awful story, I feel a pang of empathy for his ex. People are crazy. That marriage proposal on the poster is probably only seventy-five percent kidding.

My brother opens a new beer for himself. “You’re good to stay, right?” he asks me. “This is more hockey than you usually sit through in a week.”

“Oh, I’m having fun.”

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