Page 17 of The Nanny Goal

On the ice, and over the loudspeaker that pipes out to the concourse, the national anthems are played.

I slip into my seat just before the puck drops.

As expected, Mom is deeply entertained by my outfit change.

“Look, Sergei,” she says, patting Mr. Artyomov’s arm. “My daughter has switched allegiances.”

He looks confused until he looks at my jersey, and then he gives me a big thumbs up.

I smile weakly and nod. “Yep.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says in accented English.

“Same.”

We’re saved from the rest of that conversation as the game gets underway. We’re right down at rink level, just three rows back from the ice, and the play swirls in front of us, fast and furious right from the whistle.

The first goal comes forty-five seconds into the game, from Hamilton’s side, much to the delight of the oversized boar mascot dancing a few sections over—and the rest of the crowd.

Sergei and I cheer, too, as my parents groan, because Camden was on the ice for that.

Thispart will be fun.

Hamilton is an exciting team with fast forwards and brutish defencemen. Their systems are a bit of a mess, but that also makes them hard to read, and the chaos is their advantage.

My dad mutters something about Camden’s plus/minus stat. He’s dash five over the last two weeks, and it’s stressing my dad out, even though being on the ice for a goal against is a reductive way to determine value.

I’m tempted to push that bruise and start a debate about the utility of the plus/minus stat, but then Hamilton scoresagain—thankfully not when Cam is on the ice this time—and I’m too busy cheering.

The Highlanders have complete control of the game now, keeping the puck in Minnesota’s end consistently until we reach the middle of the period, and the long TV commercial break that sends the teams back to their benches.

As the ice clean-up crew skates out with their shovels, I sink lower into my seat, even though the team bench is all the way on the other side of the ice.

Alexei skates in slow circles as his coach talks to him. He’s too far away for me to be sure, but I don’t think he says anything back. He seems really locked in, just keeping warm and hydrating through the break. Then as soon as the crew is done cleaning up his crease, he beelines it back to his net.

He’s a guardian, a warrior with a mission, and he doesn’t like being pulled away from his post.

When the game starts again, I find it harder to follow the play. Now that I’ve gotten sucked into watching him, I can’t stop.

I’m pretty sure Alexei can’t see our seats through the curve of the plexiglass—and given his hyper focus, I think that might be intentional.

When I’m on the ice, I actually love to see people I know in the stands, but I’m extroverted and feed off that energy. Like a lot of forwards, I’m all about the hype.

Goalies are different.

Alexei is?—

Looking right in our direction.

I fold myself in half and pretend to fix something with my shoe.

When I finally peek again, he’s focused on the game play.

From my lifetime of experience watching NHL games, I know I’m being paranoid.

But I really wish I’d bought a hat in the team shop, too. Maybe I’ll go there at the first intermission between periods, because I’m deeply uncomfortable, both with the situation and my complete lack of a backbone when it comes to my mother.

This trip is giving me anxiety-induced heartburn and it’s just begun. I knew this was a bad idea.

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