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“Well…”
“Good night.” I turn around and walk back toward my car, leaving her shaking her head behind me.Real smooth, Morrow, real smooth.
“Fourteen!” The ref’s voice is loud and clear over the arena speakers. “Two for high stick!” I could argue that my stick wasn’t high, my opponent just found himself at stick level, but as I skate toward the penalty box, the door opens and Francine lets me in, an indecipherable look on her face.
“Evening, Francine,” I greet her with a grin. “How’s your day been?”
Silence.
Always silence.
We’ve played two more home games since Francine’s first night, and I’m proud to say that this is the first time I’ve seen her. There must be a rule about her talking to us when we’re in the box, which is a shame because it seems the only time I see Francine is when I serve time. But Ilikeseeing Francine, and under the lights of the arena I can see her better than in the dimly lit parking garage.
Tonight her hair is pulled back into a sleek bun, not the same curls I saw that first night. Her blouse is a crisp white, her blazer a sapphire blue. I know I should be watching the ice, but I watch her instead; she watches the scoreboard, the watch on her wrist, and listens for whatever comes through her headset, and beforeI know it, she’s opening the door and that’s my cue to get back on the ice.
My blades hit the ice, and I’m flying. There’s nothing like being on the ice. The rush as the puck is passed to me and I look for an opening – to shoot or pass – and I see an opening. I pass the puck to the captain, Mike Wilson, and he fires it at the net, shooting it just over the goalies shoulder and into the top corner of the net. The horn in Renaissance Arena goes off and the crowd erupts.
After the game, I keep my comments with the media brief before packing up and heading to my car, hopeful that I’ll run into Francine again. Her car is in the same spot it always is, I know this because the night we met I noticed her bumper sticker: The Assembly Line. A group of Union players that I grew up idolizing. Guys that, when I met them for the first time, scared me to death, and still do. Not because they themselves are particularly intimidating, but because they left big shoes to fill. Shoes I’m afraid I’ll never be able to fill. And there her car sits, across the aisle from mine. I slow my steps. Hopeful.
A door opens somewhere behind me. Closing and echoing across the structure. Followed by soft footsteps.
“My day was great,” Francine catches up to me, steps falling in time with mine as she answers my question from earlier tonight. “Thanks for asking. I had lunch with my mom.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Yeah…it was.” Something shifts in her expression and if I knew her better than I do, I’d probably ask about it, but for now Francine seems incredibly off-limits. But I’d like to change that.
“The last attendant was a former Union player. He was pretty chatty.”
“That’s probably why Margaret told me not to be.”
So there is a rule, or at least asuggestion,about talking to us.
“That’s a shame. I’d love to hear more about that lunch with your mom.”
“Goodnight Fourteen.” Francine offers a small, almost shy, smile. “See you at the next one.”
“We’re on the road for a bit.” I’m sure she knows our schedule. I don’t know why I’m telling her this other than the fact that I want to keep talking to her. It’s ten below outside and for some reason I’m content to stand in this parking garage and talk to Francine for no other reason than I want to get to know her. “We’ll be home again next week.”
“Stay safe,” she says, her smile slipping. “Don’t make yourself at home in anyone else’s penalty box.”
“I’ll try not to.”
It won’t be hard.
There’s not an attendant out there anything like Francine.
CHAPTER 3
BEER LEAGUE
FRANCINE
With the Unionon the road I have no excuse not to go to Mom and Dad’s for dinner, so I drive to Ann Arbor and sit in the driveway of my parents’ house for longer than I’d care to admit before walking up the driveway and ringing the doorbell.
“Francine,” Mom opens the door and wraps me in a hug. “How many times have I told you to stop ringing the doorbell and just come inside?”
“Juliette,” Dad’s voice comes from the nearby den with a laugh, “let the girl inside.”
