Page 135 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“What?” She tenses for a moment and then smiles. “Sorry, darling. This arena is loud! I can’t believe how many people are here to seehockey.”
I suppress an eye roll and hug her, then turn to give my dad a hug too.
“Hiya, Jujube.” He gives me a one handed hug, trying not to dump his still-overflowing beer on me. God, with parents as dorky as these two, it’s a wonder that I didn’t come out with a pair of wire-rim glasses and a permanent wedgie. “We came to surprise you. Surprise!”
“I am,” I say, nodding. I herd them out of the main hallway and toward the elevator. “You should’ve called ahead. But it doesn’t matter. I’m sure that we can squeeze you into the team box.”
“Are there less…” My mom looks around, dropping her voice. “Hockey people in the box?”
“Melissa. This is an ice hockey arena. Come on. Get into the spirit!” My dad gives me an apologetic look. This is part of their schtick whenever they’re dragged to sporting events. Dad plays the cool one who’s in touch with the people. Mom tries to look like she’s not dying of boredom. It’s why I would’ve arranged for someone to escort them around and answer their questions if they had called ahead.
But I just grin and bear it. I hustle them up to the team box. The suite is a dream; it feels less like a box and more like a private lounge floating over the rink. A wall of glass gives a perfect view of the ice, while rows of leather stadium seats face the action. The team placed Havoc-branded glassware and napkins in team colors on pub tables behind them. A spread of food lines the back wall: steaming silver trays, sushi platters, charcuterie boards, and bite-sized cheesecakes beside bowls of fresh fruit. The bar glitters with top-shelf liquor and chilled bottles of wine and beer.
My mom takes a sharp breath. My dad whistles, his hand on my mom’s back. “Now this is serious hockey viewing! Wow.”
“It’s nice.” My mom looks around, her mouth pursing. “Spotless.”
There are a few other people enjoying the accommodations, getting plates of food and having drinks made by the uniformed bartender. I nudge my parents toward a table. “You guys go sit down, or get a bite to eat. I’ll get drinks.”
“Ah!” My mom’s eyes light up. “A very dry white wine for me. Grenache Blanc, maybe?”
“We’re in a hockey stadium, Mom. I’ll ask, but they probably don’t have your favorite varietal.”
My mom heaves a sigh and wanders toward the buffet. That woman loves sushi, so I’m sure she’ll find something to nibble on. I can hear my dad as I walk to the bar. “Honey, they have fancy nachos!”
God help us all.I paste a smile on my face and order a round of drinks. Another beer for my dad, a white wine for mom, and a diet soda for me since I’m working. I take a sip of my soda as I wait for the bartender. It’s certainly no gin and tonic with four limes.
When I slip into a seat at my parents’ table, I cast an eye down at the ice. The players are out on the ice, stretching. I see Hunter in full gear, doing a stretch that very much looks like he’s trying to fuck the ice. My cheeks color.
“Thank you, darling,” my mom murmurs. “You know, it’s freezing in here. They should turn up the heat!”
I try not to sound irritated when I say, “It’s a building designed for hockey. Most fans know to bundle up.” I pause, trying to find my smile. “But if you want, I’m sure I can hunt down a Seattle Havoc sweatshirt for you.”
My mom looks mystified. “Surely not. I’m wearing Prada, Juliet.”
My dad’s attention is on the big screen tv as he sips his beer. He’s checked out already. I’m alone with my mom. I sip my soda and look down at the rink again. The guys are skating back toward the tunnel. The game is about to begin.
“Well!” My mom pushes her plate with what is probably very expensive nigiri around and purses her lips. “So how is your fiancé? Is he… playing tonight?”
I was wondering just how long it would take her to get to mention my engagement. My smile is stiff. “Yes, he’s the starting right wing, #47. They’re about to call his name down on the ice.”
“And how is all of that going? Well enough, I presume?”
“Yes, Mom.” I clench my glass a little harder. “My engagement is speeding along just fine.”
“Still no date for the wedding?”
I study her, but she plays her cards close to her chest. So I bluff, because I’m not holding jack shit.
“Nope. We’ve only been official for three months. Why do you ask?”
She gives me a delicate shrug. “Just catching up, darling.”
My ass. She’s fishing, trying to find weaknesses. Luckily, at that moment, the announcer lists off the starting lineup, who skate onto the ice. I’ve never felt such relief in my life.
My mom hates that I’ve found happiness doing something she considers low class. Can you imagine? The amount of money hockey players make, and no class.
I spend most of the first period watching them instead of the game, praying that Hunter doesn’t make too much of a big deal that I’m here. He keeps looking up at the box, sending sizzling looks my way that make my toes curl in my heels. I can’t keep the smile from my face.
