by Tara Brown
Finally, she makes a crazy face and bites down again, cringing for two seconds and then moving her mouth like she’s adapting to the thing in there. Her eyes dart to the side, again she’s processing. I wonder if she’ll be completely insulted if I dump mine under the seat.
She smiles finally, chewing normally. “It’s good. Weird, but good.” She nods and speaks with her mouth full. She sips the soda she brought for herself and sits back, clearly content.
After the longest, most drawn-out procedure, the players get situated on the ice.
“Thank God I don’t have to watch all this crap on the TV! I never would have made it through the first game. This preshow shit is nuts. Remind me if I ever decide to come to a live game again to skip this and just show up when they’re getting on the ice. My God.” I say it to her but stare at the ice. Not because I’m desperate to see the game, but because he’s starting. That’s really good. He never starts and here he is, starting. “The hat trick must have helped, he’s starting,” I shout over the stupid organ.
“That’s our boy!” She sounds excited. It’s adorable.
The puck drops and the game begins—fast. I swear it’s faster than in real life.
The Predators’ centerman flicks it to the left wing as he drives hard for the Ranger’s goal. The puck hits the boards, the centerman takes a blow, and the Rangers have the puck. Ice slicing and sticks smacking and guys shouting are the only sounds for a few seconds before the next song starts.
Matt has the puck. He skates like a ballerina. It’s so fluid and poetic for such a beast of a guy. He gets hit and the next thing I know the hot dog is in my mouth. I’m chewing, watching, and nervous.
The game is real here.
The wounds aren’t like they are on TV. At the end of the first period someone has already left the ice injured.
They start the music up again and I cover my ears. I can only take so much. Nadia is covering her ears too. “Why’s it so loud?” she shouts.
“I don’t know. It’s annoying.”
“I know.” She grins through it, annoyed or not.
I don’t like doing this but I need to. “Thanks for coming. I know I made you come, but I’m just not ready for Nat to hate him with me. I always hate William so much for the shit he puts her through, and I don’t want her to hate Matt. Not yet anyway. Not until I know if I hate him or not.”
“I’m excited to be here. It was on my list of things I had to try once.” She doesn’t sound like she’ll be back.
I’m still not sold on coming back.
The second period starts and when the ref makes a bad call minutes in, something comes over me. I’m shouting and waving my hands like a crazy person. I’m unaware of my behavior until the guy next to me offers me a high five after we both tell the ref to fuck himself.
By the end of the period I’m frothy and spicy and flustered. It’s the greatest and most confusing feeling ever.
The third period starts and I’m eating a second hot dog. It tastes better with the grilled onions and beer, a recommendation from my neighbor. He’s eating one too. He’s older and looks like he knows a lot about hot dogs.
We eat and shout, and when the Rangers score, all my calm is gone. I’m in a haze. I might as well be skating and shooting and scoring. I’m off my seat, hugging strangers and screaming. Each boy, man, guy on that team is my brother. My fellow warrior. We are the Rangers.
The game ends with a win and everyone in the stadium is beside themselves with joy. The true New Yorkers are emotional people, good and bad. They’re huggers and lovers and fighters and savages.
A win means we all hug and cheer and some even cry.
Nadia looks lost as the lady next to her mauls her.
Waving goodbye to the old man, I grab Nadia by the hand and lead her out while everyone is still excited. It was the one thing Vincenzo made me promise, that I would leave before everyone else.
When we get to the hallway that is filling up with smart people like us, she tugs at my hand. “Why are we leaving so soon?”
“I need to beat the crowds so Vincenzo can pick us up.”
We make it outside into the cold, damp air and the lights and camera flashes hit. “Guys! It’s Sami Ford!” Voices come out of nowhere.
“That’s not Sami Ford!”
“Holy shit, Sami Ford!”
“Look over here, Sami!”
“Where’s the guy you were with?” Men rush toward me.
“Sami! Just one smile for us, Sami!”
They crowd us but I grip to Nadia and pull her through, brushing them off. One reporter grabs my arm, a major no-no. I want to turn and clock him one but I don’t. I keep my head down, hood up, and press on through the crowd.
“Come on, Sami! Be a sport!” I lift a finger, flipping them all off as I hurry away.
Nadia is already texting Vincenzo for a pickup.
We break into a run, heading for West Thirty-Sixth Street, hauling ass two blocks before the limo pulls up. Vincenzo doesn’t even get the door for us, we dive in and he speeds away before the downtown area gets crazier than normal.
I’m sucking wind when I finally settle into my seat and start to calm down. My body isn’t calming down though.
I’m on edge.
The game was thrilling.
I had no idea it would be like that. I expected fun and I like hockey games. But I didn’t think I would almost die from feeling more emotion than I’ve ever felt all at once.
I get it now. The love of sports and the exhilaration of watching your team win.
We barely get home before my mother calls.
“Hello?” I don’t know why she would be calling me this late France time.
“A hockey game, Sami? Really? Were you drinking?”
“No.” How the hell could she know that I was there so fast?
“It’s all over TMZ. The publicist called and woke me up to let me know you were out dressed like a gang member, leaving a hockey game, hand and hand with a woman.” Her voice has never gotten shrill in my life, but this is close.
“Uh no. I went to a hockey game with Nadia because I’m alone on Christmas. My family ditched me so Dad could fuck that old flame and you could get drunk in the South of France. Remember? And we ran holding hands because there were paparazzi. One of them grabbed me.” My tone hits the dark place it can get with her.
“Don’t you dare use that tone with me, young lady. You know the public won’t care that you were out with your maid or the reporters got grabby,” she snaps back. “It was only yesterday you had your picture taken with some beastly looking man outside of our building. If they assume you’re seeing men and women now, they’ll think you’ve gone off the deep end again.”
“Don’t again me, Mother. I have yet to do any deep-ending. And I’m done with ‘they.’ Who is they? The papers? I don’t give a shit about them or what they write. I’m the only person in the world who has been to rehab three times according to public perception, but not once in reality. The media has an agenda. Nothing they ever write is true. So why start caring now?”
“Sami, it’s all for your own good—”
“Let’s not play this game again. Nothing you have ever done has been in my best interest. I’m old enough to know, what is best for me. And you and Dad are the opposite of what’s best for me.”
“Who was the man then?”
“Matthew Brimley.”
“Oh.” Her tone softens. “Oh.” She sounds genuinely shocked.
“I was at his hockey game. He plays for the Rangers, Mom.”
“That can’t be the same Brimley.” She scoffs. “His father wouldn’t still allow him to play hockey.”
“It’s him. His dad hates the hockey.”
“Your father knows his father and father-in-law quite well. The photo must have been taken in muted lighting. I’ve seen him, he’s very handsome. Is he a nice boy? Does he go to college with you? His father is quite wealthy. Are you dating him? Is the hockey a permanen
t thing?”
“We’re just friends alone in the city because our parents don’t give a shit about us. It’s nothing.” I hate it when they do this.
“You know that’s not true. We care deeply for you.” Her attempt is pathetic as if she’s trying to convince herself she’s a good mother. “Now if you and this Matthew Brimley want to join us for dinner when we return after New Year’s, your father would likely be quite interested in that. You might make him very proud with this news, Sami. It’s too bad it isn’t the eldest brother. But we can always work around that.” Her words actually hurt.
“Okay, well Merry Christmas. Tell Shelly over in PR that I’m fine. Not switching teams and becoming a lesbian with the maid. And the beastly dude was actually the son of a family richer than ours. So we’re cool. And I posted the lip gloss pic on Instagram, so no need to go cutting my allowance just yet.” I couldn’t be cheekier.
“Okay, dear. Have a good night.” She hangs up, chipper from the billionaire’s son I’m possibly bringing home. I slump, banging my phone against my head once.
“Sorry I called you the maid. That wasn’t about you,” I mutter to Nadia. I don’t like hurting her feelings.
“I know.” She doesn’t add anything else. She’s always careful about what she says about my parents.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Players
Matt
“I don’t understand.” I sit in front of the TV watching TMZ as they make another shitty comment, guessing which member of One Direction Sami was dragging out of the Garden. It’s almost better they think Nadia is a boy and not a girl and a maid. Personally, I wouldn’t have cared if it were Harry Styles who went with her. I just want to know why she was there.
“Did you invite her to the game?”
“No, Jesus. I was texting her all night and all day after the party, but she said she was busy. I assumed it was my punishment. She answered some of my texts with lame shit little emojis that I couldn’t decipher. You have to be a prehistorian or some shit to understand girls’ messages nowadays. They’re coded. I can’t believe this. I just don’t get it.”
“Well, it appears she went to your game on her own, sir.” Benson sighs, pointing with his long finger. “I don’t want to assume but the hockey arena is right behind her and Fifth Avenue and—”
“No, I get that. I mean why? Why would she dress down like that, hide who she is, and drag her maid to a game? I’ve never even seen her dress down.”
“I suspect the same reason all celebrities dress down, including you, sir. She didn’t want anyone to know who she was.”
“I really just don’t get the hockey, Benson,” I snap.
“I was being obtuse, sir,” he says flatly.
“Oh good. Joke about the situation, that’s excellent. The girl driving me crazy is a secret hockey fan. She likes the game? What the hell is that? Why did she lie? I flat out asked her and she said no. How long has she liked hockey? Is that why we’re sort of seeing each other?”
His eyes don’t change from the sardonic expression of a moment ago.
“You know I don’t like it when girls like hockey. I don’t want her and the team to have anything in common. Ever. I don’t want her going to parties or knowing the guys.” I don’t want her to know what happens at the parties—or what happened at the party I was just at.
Benson stares at me for a moment before speaking, “Matt, I’m going to explain something to you. I shouldn’t be the one, but I suspect I might be the only person who ever will.”
He never calls me Matt unless it’s something important so I don’t say anything else.
“You have some very wrong ideas about love. You’ve never been shown what a trusting relationship looks like, where one person gives their heart to another completely, without restrictions or back doors. You just open your heart and allow the other person to take up space. I have experienced this type of love, in my younger years. So I can tell you with some authority, it exists. And I believe you are capable of having it in your life, but if you don’t wake up and smell the white mocha latte brewing, you’re going to miss it. That girl loves you, that much is clear as day to me. But she is like you, scared of getting hurt or being made a fool. I understand your apprehension—in your world being made a fool of happens on an unusually large scale. The whole world is looking when one of you trips and stumbles. But to live life terrified of that, is to live a half-life. You will never know the kind of love you are capable of feeling until you let her hurt you. You must give her all of your heart and offer it up for slaughter. And if she is worthy of your love, she will protect it. That is love. Sacrificing your heart for another person’s.” He gets up and leaves me alone to think on what he said.
I know he’s right but I also know we’re not there yet. We barely—fuck. No. We’re there. I feel it. She’s under my skin and in my blood and there’s no getting rid of her.
But how do I face her after what just happened?
How do I tell her that I’m crazy about her when my dick was in another chick days before?
I hate the feelings inside me.
Mostly I hate me.
Deciding I need to see her and possibly just tell her what happened and beg her to forgive me, I throw on my jacket and head out. I don’t message Charles for a ride but walk to her place instead. I need the quiet time to sort my thoughts.
Having never been in any sort of relationship, as I walk I debate whether I man up and tell her what happened or if I just put it behind me—tell her I want a relationship, and then move forward from here.
I want a relationship.
I don’t want her to slip through my fingers or screw this up.
Not sure how to word it so I don’t end up breaking things off instead, I walk for a long time, passing by her place a couple of laps before heading for the door. Only as I approach it, ready and certain of what I need to say, she comes bursting out, laughing and clinging to Nat. She pauses when she sees me, but her eyes dart to Nat for a moment. She offers a wave and says something to her friend who glances over at me and waves before climbing in the limo.
Sami saunters over, her lips pressed into a weird grin. It’s not sexual or flirty or any of the normal smiles she has when she sees me.
“Hi.” My insides are in knots.
Her lips spread wider and she gives me a much better version of her original greeting, “Hi.” I can smell her in the soft breeze that’s blowing her hair around her face. The scent makes me ache everywhere.
“Hi.” I say it again like an idiot and then stumble through the next part in a rush to avoid looking like an idiot. “How’s—uh—how’s it go-going?” Obviously not thinking before I speak is awesome.
“I’m leaving for Europe now. We’re going to the Lumineers.”
“Right, New Year’s.” I don’t know why it’s awkward. We were playing chess and sharing food and laughs only days ago. We were naked and touching each other and making noises I want to relive. I want to relive them now.
“How was the party?” She cocks an eyebrow. Does she know? Is that where the cool greeting is coming from? Fuck.
“Why were you at my game?” I never want to speak of the party. I don’t want to lie to her.
“Oh.” Her cheeks light up with flames. “I”—she glances down, shaking her head—“I just wanted to see what the fuss was all about.”
“Do you like hockey?”
“Players.” She answers too fast and grins, half looking back up at me. “I like hockey players.” She pauses. “I guess just one player. I don’t know any of the others. So it’s singular.”
My chest starts pounding. “You like me?” Her words cut but my betrayal of her is worse. I want to confess and clear the air, but I know that’s not what will happen, especially after she’s just told me she likes me.
“I have to go.” She points at the limo. “We have a jet waiting. Talk about this when I get back?” Her smile is gone.
“Yeah.” I step forward to
kiss her but she offers me her cheek, lingering for a moment and letting me press into her. I want to smell her hair, but I’m terrified of being that guy. The one she spoke of in the cab, the one who leans in to smell the girl to trick her into thinking he likes her more than he does. That guy is an asshole who also bangs other girls at dirty parties. He doesn’t deserve this girl.
I don’t smell her, I just hug and press the kiss and pull back. “I’ll text you.”
“See ya later!” She half smiles and walks away, climbing into the car. It drives away, and I feel the exact same as I did the day I walked away from her in the cab.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Stubborn Love
Sami
“The Musikverein is amazing. And I don’t know if any of you know this, but the architecture is actual luck. Not enough was known about acoustics, optimum vibration, and placement of stage at the time it was built. The science wasn’t there yet. The designers got lucky and did it right. Needless to say, the band is thrilled to be part of this evening and this private show. Without further ado, here they are—” The man introducing them claps, so we all clap but nothing happens. “The Lumineers!”
The room goes dark and we stop clapping, we sit in silence.
Suspense builds until the lights flick on, creating a candlelit atmosphere to the space, a warm glow.
The five of them walk out as we clap louder.
They wave but don’t speak, just stand in the middle of us, looking at one another. The lead singer, Wes, nods and they begin the show. When his guitar starts with the first song, “Submarine,” the hall beats, vibrating into my body. I don’t know the song too well.
The drummer joins in with him, before the cello or piano or base.
Nat screams, the loudest in the place, as the lead singer leans into the mic.
The piano hits and I can’t take it. I’m up off my seat clapping and moving with Nat. It’s hard to focus on them when I glance at her and watch her reaction to them. The joy on her face is remarkable. I’ve never seen it before.
