Page 45 of Dating Goals
She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “No, it’s mine.”
I blink, processing this information against my memory of our first meeting when she acted like hockey was some obscure winter ritual performed by bearded men from the north.
“You’re a Visp fan?” I ask, trying not to sound as bewildered as I feel.
“I’ve been to a few games,” she says, which is clearly the understatement of the year given the well-loved state of that jersey.
My brain starts reassembling everything I thought I knew about Anika. The mental image of her cheering in the stands, wearing this exact jersey, possibly screaming profanities at referees, is doing things to me. Confusing, wonderful things. I’ve never been more attracted to a woman wearing another man’s jersey.
And suddenly, all I can think about is how she would look in Titans red and black. With “McGregor” emblazoned across her shoulders.
God help me.
“You told me you didn’t know anything about hockey,” I say, unable to keep the accusation from my voice.
Her lips curve into a mischievous smile. “I never said that. You assumed.”
Who is this woman?
The announcer’s voice booms through the arena, and I know I’m cutting it close before I need to get into my gear. But for the first time in my life, I’m at a hockey game and not thinking about hockey at all.
“I’ve got to go,” I say as the crowd roars in anticipation. She smiles prettily at me and waves me off. I think she’ll be more than okay. I might not be though.
The first period starts with a thunder of applause as we take the ice. Lugano in their black and yellow, us in our trademark red and white like the Swiss flag. The familiar scrape of blades on fresh ice centers me as I take my position in goal.
But not completely. My eyes keep drifting to the stands where Anika sits, front row, in plain sight of my net, that worn Hämmerli jersey practically glowing under the arena lights.
The referee drops the puck, and we’re off. Peter wins the face-off, sending it back to Christoph, who immediately pushes it up the boards. I roll my shoulders, getting comfortable in the crease, but my focus is split. Half on the game, half on Anika.
Lugano’s first line presses hard, their center dangling through our defense and firing a wrist shot from the high slot. I track it all the way, catching it cleanly in my glove. A routine save, but I can’t help glancing over at Anika.
She’s already on her feet, pumping her fist in the air, shouting something I can’t hear over the crowd.
Five minutes in, Tyler strips the puck from Lugano’s defenseman, creating a two-on-one with Peter. They execute a perfect give-and-go, and Peter buries it top shelf. The hornblares, the crowd erupts, and my teammates pile onto Peter along the boards.
I scan the stands for Anika. She’s jumping up and down, high-fiving strangers around her. “Richi” by Stubete Gäng blasts through the loudspeakers, just like it does every time we score a goal. Anika knows all the words, singing along with the new friends she just made and…Wait, is that a sign? She’s unfurled a handmade banner reading “Hopp Schwiiz!!” in bold letters, which is apparently a national war chant here in Switzerland. She holds it high above her head with two hands, singing and swaying with abandon.
I’m still processing this when Lugano counters with a quick rush. Their sniper gets alone in front, dekes once, twice. I stay with him, stretching my pad to make the save. The puck deflects wide, and our fans roar in approval.
My eyes dart back to Anika, who’s now leaning over the glass, shouting what appears to be very specific tactical advice to Kovy, our defensemen. She’s gesturing wildly, looking like she’s been coaching from these stands for years.
I laugh behind my mask. The woman who pretended she didn’t know the difference between hockey and golf is screaming like a season ticket holder.
Late in the first, Lugano’s power play puts me to work. Three quick shots in succession. Blocker save, kick save, and then a sprawling desperation move to keep a rebound from crossing the line. The whistle blows, stopping play.
I lift my mask to take a quick drink, and that’s when I see Anika mimicking my save sequence to the guy next to her, analyzing my technique with surprising accuracy. She catches me watching and gives me a thumbs-up that sends a ridiculous jolt through my chest.
The second period starts with more intensity. Christoph shows off his stickhandling, weaving through Lugano’s defense before getting hooked. Penalty shot.
The crowd holds its breath as he approaches slowly, then accelerates, fakes backhand, and tucks it forehand past their goalie. 2-0 Visp.
I pound my stick on the ice in celebration, but I’m already looking for Anika. She’s hugging complete strangers, jumping and screaming like we just won the championship. There’s pure joy on her face, and it’s doing dangerous things to my heart rate.
Midway through the second, Lugano catches us in a line change. Their captain breaks in alone. I come out to challenge, take away the angle, and stone him with my shoulder. The rebound pops high in the air, and I bat it away with my blocker as I fall backward.
When I get up, Anika is standing with both hands pressed against the glass, focused entirely on me.
She mouths something that looks suspiciously like “Don’t screw this up, McGregor.”
