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“Everyone, this is Gail,” she gestures to me with a flourish that feels both grand and intimate.
“Welcome.” A chorus of friendly voices greets me, and I’m wrapped up in a whirlwind of small talk about everything from children to the latest team gossip.
Although I’ve been with Luce to most games, I’ve never been in the family section. Usually, we watched the games unfold from the PR lounge, or their special booth. But this… this is definitely the best seat in the house—or, arena.
“Lucia tells us you’re going into business together,” a woman named Tiffany, with a laugh warm enough to melt ice, says.
Nodding, I confirm, “That’s right.”
“Ohh, you have to teach us some of your secrets. When will your first courses be available?” another, Amy, asks with a wink, and there’s a ripple of amusement that softens the air between us.
Before I can respond, a collective hush washes over the arena like a wave retreating from the shore. We turn our attention rink-side as the lights dim, spotlights converging on the tunnel. My heart picks up its pace, synced to the drumroll booming through the speakers.
There’s a palpable electricity in the air, a current that runs through every soul in the stands. The moment stretches, taut as a bowstring, until—
The Sabertooths burst onto the ice, slicing through the silence with the roar of their skates. Sawyer leads, his form a study in power and grace. Lucia’s eyes sparkle with pride, a fierce joy igniting within her.
“Go, Sawyer!” she shouts above the din, and her cheer is a clarion call that sets my own blood alight.
I lean forward, elbows on knees, drawn into the spectacle as the players carve arcs of frost, their pre-game ritual a dance of giants on blades. They weave between each other, a choreography of potential energy, and anticipation licks at my insides like flames.
“Always gets the heart racing,” Lucia murmurs beside me, her voice tinged with a reverence reserved for sacred moments.
“Sure does,” I agree, mostly just to say something.
“I’m sure you could barely sleep with all the anticipation of tonight’s game,” she cackles.
Luce knows I’m not really a fan. Don’t get me wrong, I love the intense atmosphere, and I do find it interesting. But if it wasn’t for the free tickets, I’m not sure I’d come here rather than watching at home, or just read the highlights online later on.
The last echoes of the starting lineup announcement fade, swallowed by the cacophony of cheers. The puck is about to drop, and the world narrows to this—ice, steel, and the promise of glory.
“Show ‘em what you’ve got, boys!” Lucia’s shout is fierce, a warrior’s cry, and I echo it with a yell of my own.
“Let’s go, Sabertooths!”
The puck drops, and the Sabertooths are a force unleashed. Sawyer’s silhouette cuts across the ice like a blade of determination, stick handling with an artist’s precision. The opposing team—a blur of maroon—tries to hem him in, but with assistance from Mickey on his left, he easily pivots, deft and sure.
“Come on!” I shout, my words lost in the roar of the crowd, but it doesn’t matter. My pulse thrums with each pass, each check against the boards that sends vibrations through the arena and into my bones. This is hockey—a symphony of grunts, shouts, and the scrape of skates that writes its own score.
A fight breaks out, two men with clenched fists and rage-fueled eyes. They’re pulled apart, penalties doled out with the impartiality of the blind justice. But the tension remains, simmering beneath the surface like a beast biding its time.
“Typical period,” Lucia laughs next to me, her eyes alight with the fire of someone who loves every aspect of this game.
Then, a hush falls—a collective intake of breath as Soren blocks yet another goal attempt, sending the puck toward Mickey, who easily takes possession of it. He weaves through defenders with a grace that belies his size, a maestro commanding his stage. Feigning to the right, he slaps the puck to Sawyer who easily sends it into the opponent’s net.
One shot, a blink, and the red light blares.
A hat-trick.
Hats rain down from the stands, a tribute to the master of the moment. The crowd erupts, and I am on my feet, screaming praises along with everyone else.
“Damn, he’s good,” I shout, so I can be heard over the crowd.
“Best damn forward in the league,” Lucia beams, her voice carrying a certainty that no one dares challenge.
When the final buzzer sounds, the score favors the Sabertooths. We rise, a sea of elation and triumph, our cheers are the exclamation points to the end of a battle well-fought.
“Girl, you should see how revved up they get after a win,” one of the women says, leaning close to whisper in my ear. Her smile is wicked, her eyes sparkling with secrets and promises.
