Page 7 of Skating the Blue Line
Getting the image of toe sucking out of my mind, I continue to make my way down the hall towards the front of the theater.
The music that’s playing gets louder and as soon as I open the door and cross the threshold, I’m enthralled by the magnitude of this event.
I knew it was a packed house the second that I stepped foot onto the stage earlier, but I didn’t expect this.
The room, it’s more like a ball room really, is jammed packed with people and photographers.
Betty was right when she said that this event was filled with Chicago’s elite. The place is filled with some of the richest people the city has to offer. If I had to guess, the majority of the city’s one percenters were here enjoying their night.
The more I look around, though, I also notice that the place is filled with older people.
For some reason I thought an event like this would be filled with social media stars and young celebrities. Given what our dance director told us about the brand, I would have thought that would have been their marketing demographic.
Guess not.
As I take in all the aspects of the room, I see a few of my fellow dancers having conversations with the attendees.
We were told to interact with guests and get them interested in coming to another one of our performances in the next few months.
As much as I don’t want to network, I abandon my place by the back door and make my way through the sea of people.
I throw smiles in the direction of men that look at me as if I am food and nods toward the women that look me up and down as if I were their competition. I’m not, but that doesn’t stop them from giving me a look of judgment.
If I have to deal with getting looked at like prey and judgmental looks all night, I’m going to need a drink to get me through it.
It doesn’t take long for me to get a glass of wine from the bartender, an expensive one at that, and start making my way around the room again.
This event is definitely catered to the older crowd, me and my fellow dancers are most likely some of the youngest here.
I throw out a few more smiles and nods as I make my way around. I’m about to head over to where some of my dance mates are when I catch a glimpse of something.
Not something, but someone.
A big someone. Someone whose face I’ve definitely seen around the city.
Liam Crawford.
Liam Crawford who is one of the few professional hockey players whose name I actually know.
Do I know anything else about hockey? No.
My knowledge of the sport is limited to a few things. Knowing that the puck has to make it inside the net to score, that Chicago has a team and knowing some of the player’s names on said team.
Being a dancer for this particular dance company, you sometimes have to interact with the athletes and celebrities that the city has to offer. Not only interact but when you live in a place like Chicago, a city that takes sports seriously, you come to know athletes’ names and faces without having to speak to them.
Which is how I know of Liam Crawford.
His face and name is plastered all over the place. There isn’t a day that goes by or a corner you can’t turn where you will be able to not see his face.
He’s on billboards, buses, and every pub and sports bar in the city has at least one poster of him or his jersey hanging on their walls.
Mr. Crawford is everywhere.
Seeing him here should be a little surprising but it isn’t.
He’s exactly who should be at an event like this. He’s who Archwell should be marking towards, since I know athletes tend to wear a lot of suits.
Him being here isn’t surprising but seeing him alone is.
