Page 27 of Crossing the Top Line

I manage a grin as I nod and skate off, but my chest aches in a way I don’t know if I’ve ever experienced before. I don’t know how I get through the series of green screen headshots, but when I’m done and ordered to move to my next station without any comment from anyone, I let out a heavy sigh. As I’m heading down the ice, in an act I can only attribute to some sort of subconscious masochism, I look over to Tori’s station. And as soon as I do, I wish I hadn’t.

Eli is there now, standing at her side like I had been not too long ago. But she’s not pushing him away, not objecting the glove that rests on the camera at her hip, or the way he whispers something in her ear, not trying to get rid of him at the first possible opportunity. Instead, she’s laughing and shoving him playfully before motioning back down the ice for him to go again.

I manage to push down my jealousy, repeating many of the talk-therapy lines my mother has fed me over the years. I’m not the center of the universe, and not everything is about me. People are complicated creatures, and I can’t possibly know what’s going on in her head to explain her behaviors. I can only control what actions I take, and handle whatever consequences arise.

It’s hardly more than a cold comfort, but those reminders help me set aside the tangle of ugly emotions threatening to rise from my gut and ruin this experience. But every chance I get, I glance over to Tori and whoever she’s working with, judging their interactions. I’m finally able to relax when I see her give one of the prospects a cold, professional dismissal, satisfied that it’s not just me and that I can still fix this with the right attitude.

Ilookatmyreflection in the full-length mirror in my bedroom. I’d opted for royal purple pants instead of a skirt today, and my black polo shirt with the team logo stitched right over my heart looks good tucked into the high waistband. I’m debating whether I need a blazer when my phone pings on the bed. Picking it up, I find a picture of Rachel in front of her own mirror, showing me her outfit. She’s in a pair of black jeans, the purple version of my polo shirt hugging her curves perfectly.

I snap a quick picture of myself and send it to her.

Me: We’re opposites. Should I do a blazer?

Her: LMAO, that’s too good. And yeah, go with a blazer. You’re going to be in the exec box today.

I send her a thumbs-up emoji back and slide over to my closet, selecting my favorite royal purple blazer that matches my pants perfectly. A glimmer catches the sun streaming in through the window, and I smile to myself. Deciding to be a little daring, I grab the gold slingback pumps and slide into them with ease.

The first home game of the season is always a little nerve-wracking. It’s the first time we get to see if all of the press and effort we’ve put in over the summer actually did anything. We’re lucky to be playing our conference rival: the Houston Commanders. We’re bound to get some out-of-town Houston fans in the stands, which should be interesting, but hopefully they won’t outnumber our fans like they have in the past.

I check the Mystic’s social media accounts, and my stomach flutters to see there’s already some chatter about tonight’s game, even though we’re still several hours away from puck drop. A good sign, better than last season, that’s for sure.

I’m still brainstorming ideas for the marketing team to use even as I drive to the arena and park in the designated garage. I’m one of the few people who arrives this early on game days, but I still park away from the entrance. My heels echo in the empty garage and across the short distance between the exit and the employee entrance.

When I arrive in the PE department office, most of the team is here already, with a few exceptions. Rachel is at her desk, typing away at something, her focus not even breaking as I sit beside her. I open my laptop, starting the process of moving graphics into a more convenient folder to make it easier to send them out during the game. I have goal celebration graphics for every player Coach McQueen told us is playing today, along with spares, just in case.

“Have fun in the press box,” I chirp as I close my laptop and unplug it from my dock.

Rachel snorts a laugh. “You have fun in the exec box. I’ve heard a rumor a certain St. Clair is going to be here.”

I swallow with a little difficulty, but don’t respond. I can count on one hand the number of times Leopold St. Clair has been to a Mystic game since I started here, and I ignore the rising dread in my stomach and give her a smile.

“Glad it’s going to be me there and not Tony,” I laugh, but even I can tell the sound is forced.

“What about me?” Tony calls from over by the printer.

He’s dressed in black slacks and bright yellow polo, a green sports jacket that only makes his overall appearance much more striking. His dark hair is slicked back and shines with gel, and even from across the room, I can see the touches of concealer and powder on his face.

“Just saying you’ll be great on the interviews, Ton,” I call back.

He narrows his eyes, but decides not to call me on the blatant lie. I check my watch and sigh. Today is flying by, and it’s almost time for the players to start showing up.

“I’m headed down. Ready Monroe?” I say with a long exhale.

Monroe perks up at that, grabbing his equipment bag and coming to my side with a shy smile. His red hair, normally a barely contained tangle, is neatly combed and styled, showing off his bright blue eyes.

“You clean up good, kid,” I say, nudging him with my shoulder as we head toward the elevator.

He grins sheepishly, but doesn’t answer. This is his first regular game ever with the organization, and his nerves are clearly getting the better of him. I give him a reassuring smile right before we get to the ground floor, and it seems to help him calm down.

When we get to the lobby, the party outside is in full swing, with live music, food trucks, and most importantly, hundreds of fans lining the barricades on either side of the purple carpet that stretches between the front doors and the curb. I can’t help my smile as I spy the kids up front, holding sticks and hats and posters, ready for the chance to meet their favorite player.

I know when the first car pulls up by the rapid increase in volume from the crowd. The black SUV with heavily tinted windows pulls up, stopping perfectly in place. Monroe and I move outside, staying in the shade of the awning covering the doors, but in perfect position to see every entrance.

The SUV doors open, and I smile. The chronic early birds, Caleb and Owen, make their way down the purple-carpeted runway, beginning the main attraction. Another SUV queues behind the first, sliding forward to let Dallas and Henrik exit before moving off to make room for the next arrival. And even though my brain knows better, my instincts lunge forward, mouth watering at the sight of these peak-condition athletes and their game day attire.

I don’t know who decided to make it a rule that players should arrive to games in suits, but I, along with every other man-loving fan, owe that person a life debt.

Dallas and Henrik stride down the carpet toward us, stopping to sign memorabilia whenever someone calls their names, and I get some choice footage of them in all of their three-piece glory. Dallas’s dusty blue jacket is open, showing off the crisp white shirt tucked into his slim-fitting trousers. Henrik is in a more traditional black jacket and pants, but I catch the glint of a Mystic lapel pin. It takes them only a few minutes to make their way down the carpet, Caleb and Owen right behind them, and they only spare me a nod before heading down toward the locker room to stretch and get geared up.

---