ANNIE

I’m pretty much an idiot when it comes to sports. I can’t swim, I am uncoordinated with my hands, and playing soccer with my feet has never made sense to me. The whole working out thing doesn’t make all that much sense—I prefer to not sweat, if at all possible.

Sometimes, I do yoga and Pilates when the mood strikes, which isn’t often, or I’ll go for a walk with Sarah if we both need coffee and have the money to splurge for a latte. Those are rare days. Occasionally, we’ll walk to get ice cream if they’re offering free samples.

Because I’m horrible at all things athletic, I had to Google photos of the latest Stars’ home game—not, as one might think, to look at Cohen. Instead, I needed to study the crowd and find out what girls wear to a hockey game. Jeans? Dresses? Face paint?

After extensive research, I’ve settled on jeans, mittens, a cute sweater, and my winter jacket. It’s reasonably comfortable and reasonably cute, and I suppose that’s the best I can do if I’ll be freezing my butt off in an ice rink.

I leave my car in a downtown St. Paul parking ramp and get plenty frozen while waiting for Leigh and her son to show up. They arrive ten minutes later, and they’re adorable. I watch as they approach our meeting area, but they don’t see me yet. They’re too wrapped up in their own world.

Her son must be twelve or thirteen, almost to that age where hugging and touching is really, really uncool, but it’s clear the way this kid looks at his mom that they’re close. He leans into her, speaks quietly, and then she laughs at whatever he’s said.

“Hey, guys!” I chirp, hugging Leigh before extending a hand to her kid. “You must be Leigh’s oldest son.”

“Dominic,” he fills in. He’s got dark hair, just like hers, and eyes that hold the same twinkle as his mother’s. There’s a level of calmness about him that’s different than what I would’ve guessed for a boy his age. “Thank you so much for the tickets, Miss Plymouth.”

“Annie,” I say with a wave of my hand. “Glad you guys could come. Shall we head inside? I hear they sell popcorn, and I’m hungry.”

Dominic nods, but Leigh shoots me a knowing look. “You owe me a story.”

“Later,” I promise. “First, popcorn.”

We make our way inside and take our seats as the players are warming up on the ice. I don’t see Cohen yet, but it’s difficult to make out individual faces with all the gear the men are wearing. I realize I don’t even know his jersey number.

“Nine,” Leigh says, watching me as I scan the ice. “He’s not out yet.”

I feel my cheeks burn a little and hunker down in my jacket. Leigh pulls a few bucks out of her pocket and asks her son to grab us some snacks from the stand just above us. As he leaves, her eyes follow her son, but her attention is directed toward me.

“Spill the beans,” she says. “You’ve got about eight minutes until he’s back here. I won’t have you corrupting the mind of my baby. Talk fast. Why are we here?”

“There’s nothing to corrupt! I promise.”

“Well, you didn’t feel the need to come here because of your love for the game,” she says. “So what happened?”

It’s just the nudge I need to spill the beans. All of the beans. She’s surprisingly easy to talk to, which is a good thing, but it also inspires me to babble and carry on about every little detail until thankfully, she interrupts.

“Look, I get it,” Leigh says finally. “You said something you didn’t mean. Apologize. No big deal.”

“You all make it sound so easy.”

“Well, I am divorced, so I don’t know if you should be taking advice from me. Then again, I like to think I learned something from the whole ordeal.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, it’s fine. I don’t mind talking about it anymore. It was hard at first, but... I’ve had time to digest.”

“Can I ask what happened? You can tell me to bug out if I’m being too nosy.”

“I still don’t really know. One day, my husband told me he wasn’t in love with me anymore. Simple as that. Clinical, as if he’d fallen out of love with me some time ago and had merely gone through the motions for awhile. Weeks? Years? I don’t know, and he wouldn’t tell me.”

I clear my throat and reach for Leigh’s hand. She lets me take it, hold it, her fingers small and cool against my own. “I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t know what I did. I thought everything was going fine. We have three beautiful kids, and... now they barely see their dad. I just don’t understand it.” She pauses, shrugs. “He was always so stable in every sense of the word—an eye doctor, no less.  He had a great job, came home every day in time to eat dinner. He was the most predictable guy I’d ever met. And then one day, he just wasn’t.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Really, it’s fine. I manage. It’s not the end of the world; I have my kids.”

I put my arm around her shoulder. “You do more than manage. You’re brilliant, and you’re great with your kids. As a friend, you’re the best. I promise. Dominic is growing up to be a great guy, all because of you.”

“You’re sweet. I just wish he had his dad around.”

“I didn’t have my dad around,” I say, and then offer a short bark of laughter. “Although, I’m not sure if that’s any consolation. I’m a bit of an oddball.”

“I like oddballs.”

“It’s going to be okay,” I tell her, as Dominic returns with his hands full. “I promise.”

“Mom, I got you Peppermint Patties,” he says, handing over the change. “Your favorite.”

Leigh pulls him in and kisses him on the cheek. “You are the best. What’d you get for yourself?”

“Popcorn to share with Annie.”

I wink at Leigh over his head. “It’ll be just fine.”

The announcer interrupts us then, and I find my eyes drawn to the ice as a bodiless voice calls the players one by one. Sometime during my conversation with Leigh, most of the team has made their way onto the ice. I squint, looking for number nine.

Next to me, Dominic goes wild. One second later, the announcer’s calling Cohen’s name, number, and position. He skates forward and takes his place center rink. Found him.

Cohen’s focused on the game, as he should be—and not once does he look into the stands. My heart’s beating too fast at the sight of him. I can’t help but wonder if he’d glance up and look around if I’d told him I’d be here.

To distract myself, I turn to Dominic. He’s chomping popcorn, eyes glowing like flashlights as he watches the rink.

“So, Dom,” I say, once the anthem has played and the game has begun. “Can you help me understand the game? I have no idea about the rules.”

“Sure. Have you heard of the penalty box?”

“Let’s start with the very basics,” I say. “For example, what do you call the little black thing everyone’s whacking around?”