Page 22 of Famous Last Words
“Let me guess, that’s hisgranddaughter?” I say drolly.
Andy chuckles, biting back his smirk. And as he goes back to his phone, I look around, taking it all in. It’s an eye-opener, that’s for sure. People decked out in fan gear, excited children cheering and holding signs with what I presume to be the names of their idols written on them. The refreshing chill in the air, the slightly nauseating scent of hot dogs and popcorn, the distant sound of music being lost to the consistent roar of the crowd. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. The energy is electric; I can feel it vibrating up through the cement floor and all the way through to my bones and, for the first time in a long time, I actually feel like I’m living in the moment instead of just existing in it.
Suddenly, I feel my phone vibrate from my purse. Pulling it out, I’m confused by the name glaring back at me from the screen.
Tadd: I want to see you.
I roll my eyes. He must be drunk.
Me: No.
Tadd: We’re good together.
I almost laugh.
Me: No, we aren’t.
Tadd: I miss you.
Despite the fact that Tadd and I haven’t been a thing for more than six months, these sorts of messages aren’t uncommon. But they usually come much later in the evening. When he’s drunk and more than likely lucked out with the ladies in whatever bar or nightclub he’s in.
Me: What do you want, Tadd?
Tadd: Meet me for dinner.
Okay, now he’s just annoying me.
Me: I’m busy.
Tadd: Doing what?
Me: Absolutely none of your business.
Tadd: Where are you?
Oh my God, he cannot be serious.
Tadd: Who are you with?
Tadd: Are you with whoever sent you the roses?
Suddenly the lights go dim and I snap my head up, startled by an obvious shift in the energy that sweeps through the arena, an ear-splitting roar causing me to flinch. I tuck my phone back into my purse without bothering to respond to Tadd. He’s drunk. And clearly delusional.
“What’s going on?” I ask Andy, my gaze flitting about, searching for the source of the excitement.
“Game time.” Andy flashes me an excited grin, jutting his chin in the direction of the rink.
I follow his gaze as bright lights and lasers start to dart about the crowd, the ice illuminating, glowing like a beacon as the opening chords of AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” start cranking throughout, bringing the crowd to their feet.
Andy stands, and I look around to see that I’m currently one of the only able-bodied people still seated. Reluctantly, I make my way to my feet, almost jumping out of my skin the moment every person in the place starts punching the air and chanting in unison to the song. “Thunder!”
It’s a little terrifying, if I’m honest. Like some sort of deranged cult. But I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t get my heart racing.
Andy nudges me, and I glance at him to find him laughing, probably at me because no doubt I look entirely out of place standing like a stick in the mud with my arms folded across my chest. He nudges me again, and I roll my eyes, relenting and jabbing my fist into the air with everyone else, finding myself smiling as I do, which is when the arena erupts, cheering as a succession of hulking ice hockey players start skating out onto the ice, eliciting pure mayhem from the crowd.
It’s an entire production. The lasers. The song. The hysteria. And I now realize I was wrong; a One Direction concert has nothing on an NHL game.
My gaze lands on the last player to hit the ice—number nine—the player who causes the crowd to lose their ever-loving shit.
