I want it.
I want it so fucking bad.
The next morning, I find myself back in my favorite seat, waiting for the under eights team to take the ice.
It’s their first game of the season, and I can feel the apprehension in the air.
The coaches have everything set up for them, and I’ve got a notebook in hand.
I figure that if I’m lucky enough to get an interview, I need to have first-hand experience with the teams, the coaches, and the players.
Parents from both teams fill the seats below me, each nervous for their daughters as the coaches give their pre-game speeches.
I imagine what I would say to them in this moment.
It isn’t hard to come up with something. I’ve had a lifetime of pep talks from Dad—mostly before games, but also about life ingeneral. When school was hard going, or I had a test I didn’t feel prepared for, he was always there with uplifting words that gave me a confidence boost.
Once they’re ready, both teams burst onto the ice with applause and cheers from the parents watching.
Goosebumps rise across my skin as they take their positions and wait for the puck to drop.
I swear, I have a smile on my face the whole time they're playing.
It’s not the first youth game I’ve watched, but this time, it means so much more. Just having the chance to possibly work with these young players is a privilege.
It’s a tight game, and teams are tied two-to-two. But two minutes before the end of the third period, our number fifty-five shoots off around the side, successfully evading the other team’s defense before taking a shot that has everyone in the arena holding their breath.
A proud laugh erupts from my throat as the puck hits the back of the net, and the girl who scored it immediately begins a celly dance that has the whole place smiling.
Maybe it’s got something to do with the number, but I find myself completely enthralled by her.
When the final whistle blows, all players on our team form a huddle, and they being chanting something I can’t make out. The coaches descend on them, congratulating their girls on an incredible win.
Pride swells in my chest, and I fight to drag in my next breath.
I want to be down there with them.
Because they’re all incredible sportsmen, they shake hands with the opposing team before they disappear off the ice, searching for condolences from their parents.
Our team, on the other hand, bounds off the ice, excited to celebrate their first win of the season with their loved ones.
As they skate off, my eyes linger on one player as she awkwardly runs on her skates towardher?—
“Fuck,” I breathe as she launches herself into a very strong and familiar pair of arms.
The Polar Bears’ number fifty-five is Sutton Rivers.
Of course it is.
I shake my head. It should have been obvious from the second I saw her jersey.
My heart is in my throat as he spins her around. She’s lost her helmet, allowing me to see her wide smile.
I lean closer, desperate to hear the laughter that no doubt spills from her, but I’m too far away.
Ripping my eyes from her happy face, I look at her dad.
My breath catches, and the rest of the stadium disappears when I find the most incredible smile lighting up his face.
