Page 122 of The Fake Date Agreement

I assumed the cars belonged to the parents of the kids playing in the street hockey game, but most of the stands surrounding the enclosed asphalt hockey rink are empty. The recis fairly busy, and I take in people playing tennis and badminton in the outdoor courts that Max and I hurry past. Other families sit in the grass with their picnics.

We soon reach the outdoor hockey rink. The front rows are half-full, the jerseys reflect a fairly even split of parents from both teams.

As I sit in one of the front-row seats, the kids Caleb and I played street hockey with grin and wave. I smile and wave back, the traffic on the road suddenly worth it.

“I still can’t believe you played street hockey.” Max nudges my shoulder.

“It was fun.”

She places a palm on my forehead, and I bat it aside with a glare, ignoring her grin. “I’m not coming down with something. It was actually fun. Anyway, they said they were playing a big game and invited me to come,” I explain.

I’d expected to come on my own, but Max had stopped by my room and asked if I wanted to hang out.

Her idea of hanging out was maybe going for a coffee or a drive. I’m not sure she believed this was where we were going until I pulled up in the parking lot.

“I thought you didn’t like hockey,” Max says.

“I don’t,” I say, looking at the parking lot for the third time since I sat down.

“Who are you looking for?”

I shake my head. “No one.”

It was wishful thinking to hope Caleb would come. He knew about the game, and I get that hockey is important to him, but I thought he would turn up, even if it were for just a few minutes to support the kids. But maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. His maybe had the hallmarks of an ‘absolutely not’ when the kids’ coach had invited us to come.

I suddenly remember something and scramble to my feet. “I’ll be right back. Don’t let anyone take my seat.”

Max rolls her eyes. “Sure. I’ll just tell the tumbleweed blowing past to form an orderly queue.”

I hurry back to my car, unlock the trunk, and grab the poster I spent this morning working on.

When I return to my seat, I pull off the elastic I used to hold it closed and unroll the large poster.

“What’s that?” Max leans over to see.

“Just something to support the kids.”

She squints at it. “Is that an angry cloud?”

“It’s a storm.” I didn’t know the first thing about drawing a storm, so I drew a cloud, shading it in dark gray colors. When it didn’t look angry enough, I gave it black, beady eyes and a glowering face. “Because the Lamont Hurricanes will be whipping up a storm of victory.”

She laughs. “Right.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, embarrassed. “I tried my best, and we’re here to cheer them to victory. You can’t do that without a sign.”

Max shakes her head, still smiling. “Give me the other side of that. Do you even understand the rules?”

“Just score more goals than the other team. That’s all.” And before Max can ask me about any other rule, of which I know none, I wave my homemade banner and cheer.

Their coach looks briefly startled, then pleased.

The kids gape, surprised, then grin at me.

Max, for all her mockery of my angry cloud, cheers as loudly as I do.

The kids are down a couple of points against their rivals by the end of the first period.

The coach has them huddled together in a circle when the sound of a powerful engine distracts me.

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