Chapter 21
VIP Seats
Ella
Just one last night of this, I thought to myself as I had a glass of wine and watched the game from the press box. I shared the box with a few of the Brawlers team officials, some suit-and-tie business executive types, and the casually-dressed hockey media people.
But the game wasn't the worst thing in the world. It was fun seeing Lance play again. And I'll admit, it was pretty awe-inspiring seeing all the people in the crowd who wore our surname, COUTURE, emblazoned on the back of their jerseys.
Of course, I couldn't watch Lance play without seeing Radar, either. They played on the same line. The hockey media people around me started openly questioning what was wrong with Radar. According to them, Radar looked sluggish and disinterested—like he were 'wearing cement blocks for skates.' He lost all his board battles, gave up on plays, looked winded, was the first skater back to the bench on a line change …
At first, I enjoyed listening to them trying to figure out what was wrong with him. It was a small thrill knowing that I was a large part of what was bothering him. Little ol' me, sitting right there in the press box with those media people, sipping my wine innocently. Who would ever suspect it? Certainly not the hockey journalists.
But before long, the media people's observations about Radar's game turned nasty. Once they noticed the problem, they seemingly enjoyed seeing him struggle on the ice. And then they were free to let their imaginations run wild, gossiping like children:
Has Radar quit on the team?
Does he want to be traded?
Does he hate playing for this coach?
Is he unhappy with his contract?
Eventually, the wine kicked in and I jumped into one of their conversations.
“Or maybe he's just human,” I proffered loud enough for them all to hear. “Do you guys ever stop to consider that?”
Ten sets of eyeballs stared at me as if I were a strange monstrosity.
“Excuse me?” someone among them asked.
“He's human, right? So he has the same stuff we have to worry about, on top of being a professional athlete. Right? You don't know what's going on in his personal life. Maybe give him the benefit of the doubt for once.” I downed the rest of my wine. “And that's coming from me. I don't even like the guy.”
Someone cleared their throat. An anxious quiet set over the press box, but at least they stopped talking about Radar as if he were some kind of criminal mastermind who was purposely sabotaging the team.
Can't believe I'm defending him now. Lying for him, and defending him from the media.
I stared at him as he chased the play on the ice. I'll admit, I watched some of his highlight videos on YouTube after I first met him and thought he was cute. And, it was true, watching him now, he looked like a totally different player—like one with half as much heart.
I knew it was because of me, but … the only part I didn't understand was why. Why did he feel so bad about what happened last night? He was supposed to be this heartless, womanizing sleaze.
Something didn't fit the picture, and I couldn't understand what or why.
***
Even though Radar didn't have the best game, the Brawlers still won, thanks to Lance's two goals. Someone from the team escorted me down to the room after the game.
I stepped into the locker room, where the players were peeling off their sweat-drenched jerseys and protective equipment. The athletes were in good spirits, laughing and shouting about their victory.
No one even seemed to notice me, until—
“Well hello, sweetheart,” someone called. “Who are you and why are you so beautif--”
In a huff, Lance threw a roll of tape at his teammate. “That's my sister, you idiot!”
The cat-caller ducked the roll of tape, but turned bright red. “Shit! Sorry Lance! You're Ella, right? Please forgive me, I'm an idiot!”
Lance, still wearing his ice skates, clopped over to me and gave me a hug. “Thanks for coming, Ella.”
“Ew, Lance, you're dripping with sweat!” I griped, wiggling away from him.
He grinned. “How'd you like the game? Did you like your seats?”
“Minus the media jerks, yeah, it was fun. Good job scoring those goals.”
“Thanks.” Lance turned to his teammates and grabbed their attention. “Everyone, this is my sister, Ella. She'll be joining us for dinner.”
“Hi Ella,” twenty-some deep voices boomed back at me.
“Hi,” I answered meekly.
“This is your sister?” another voice asked. “The one you left alone? With Radar?” another voice joked, and the whole room suddenly exploded with laughter.
Gulp. Maybe it was my turn to turn bright red? I hoped no one would notice.
“Shutup,” Radar growled at the perpetrator from his stall in the locker room. “Don't joke about that. It's not funny.”
While everyone else looked joyous and triumphant after their win, Radar looked like … well … like he'd just suffered through another game entirely; a bad defeat. His brow was heavy, his features dark. He tore off his shoulder pads and angrily stuffed them into his locker. I watched as he struggled to get his sweaty under-shirt off his body. My eyes swept up and down his muscles for the last time.
I almost wanted to tell him what had happened in the press box with those reporter jerks … but I was giving him the silent treatment, after all.
Lance turned to me. “Anyway. We have to shower up and do some media interviews, but we'll be ready to go in an hour or so. You can kill time in the club room if you want. There's a bar, internet, TV, whatever you want.”
“Sounds good, Lance. See you later, boys.”
“Bye Ella!” all twenty voices boomed at me as I left the room.