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Back home in Windsor, I played on my brother’s beer league team a few times when he brought me in as a ringer hoping to pass me off as something other than a professional hockey player. That league was chaotic; some played in full gear, some were lucky to have scrounged up a stick. No checking, no slashing, and definitely no fighting. These teams have jerseys. Everyone has gear.
This is the most organized beer league I’ve ever seen. And the most lax in terms of rules. There’s checking in this league. And one of the skaters in purple just shouldered a woman into the boards in a move that would land me in the penalty box if I pulled the same move. A whistle blows and it seems the offending skaterisbeing sent across the ice to the penalty bench.
The skater takes her seat on the bench and pulls off her helmet, revealing a familiar mess of red curls piled on the top of her head, previously hidden by her helmet.
Francine.
Her curls are wild on a good night. Tonight, after she’s been working up a sweat on the ice, her curls are attempting to break free from the hair tie that barely contains them. She laughs with the woman next to her, and when their two minutes are up, they get back onto the ice and right back to business.
Francine is slower on the ice than her teammates, but she skates with purpose. Her puck control would put even a few of my teammates to shame. Watching her makes me want to get on the ice with her. To face off against her at center ice. I want her to press me into the boards. Which isnotsomething I should be thinking about a friend. A league official.
“Isn’t that the new box girl?” Alex asks, nudging me with his elbow.
“I wouldn’t know,” Gabriel reaches for another piece of pizza with a laugh, “what does the penalty box look like?”
“Her name is Francine,” I grit out, ignoring Gabriel. There’s more bite in my voice than I intended and Gabriel shakes his head and turns back to the ice.
Alex turns to me with a smug smile. “Tell me more.”
“No, I don’t think I will.”
The only other fans in the stands are a couple to my left, the woman has been knitting through most of the game, and when Francine receives a pass from her teammate and skates down the ice with it, the woman – who bears a striking resemblance to Francine – drops her knitting and jumps to her feet.
“Go Franny!” She shouts.
Franny.
I wonder if we’re here to watch the same person.
Stealing a glance of the woman beside me, I’m almost certain I must be sitting next to Francine’s mom. From the few conversations I’ve had with Francine, I’m surprised her mom would be here. Francine always talks about her mom as someone detached from the game and from her daughter. I assumed she was cold and uninvolved, but this woman beside me is invested in the game, and in watching her daughter play.
“How do you know Francine?” I scoot away from Alex and Gabriel, down the row toward the couple.
“She’s my daughter. How doyouknow Francine?”
It occurs to me, as I turn and look at Francine’s mom, that this woman has no idea who I am and it’s refreshing.
“We work together.” It’stechnicallythe truth.
“You spend almost as much time in the penalty box as she does,” Francine’s mom smiles and offers a wink. “It’s nice to meet you, Stefan. I’m Juliette, this is my husband, Thomas.”
“Nice to meet you both.”
“I see you’ve got some friends with you, too.” Juliette, leans forward and waves. I turn to find Alex and Gabriel grinning and waving right back.
“I can’t take those twoanywhere,” I remark, feigning embarrassment.
“I suppose it’s not often you’re able to get out and watch much hockey for fun?”
“No ma’am,” I answer, naturally at ease with this woman who just moments ago was a stranger. “We weren’t even planning on this today. Alex, he runs a youth hockey organization and we ran a little into Francine’s league’s time today. He thought we should stay and watch and…now I’m glad we did.”
“I won’t keep you,” Juliette says, scooting closer to her husband again, “go back to your friends, and enjoy the rest of the game. And, know that you’re welcome to join us anytime.”
Francine’s line is out for the next face off and she bends down, a fierce look on her face as she fights for control of the puck. She loses the face off and skates full tilt across the ice. There’s a moment, just before she catches up to her linemates, that I see a hitch in her step, a little bit of a stumble, but she recovers and keeps skating. There’s a scuffle for the puck in the corner, and Francine takes a cross check that doesn’t look legal.
“Come on ref, are you blind?” I jump to my feet, my voice echoing across the ice and drawing the attention of several skaters, one of whom locks eyes with me from the ice, a bemused – if slightly reluctant – smile tugging on her lips.
“Gabriel?” Alex leans forward, looking across me to Gabriel on my other side.
