After the Storm

Chapter Nine

I tried my best to sit there and watch the game with my parents but it was so damn hard to act normal. It didn't help that Angela was over and kept making ridiculous comments. She had insisted she be over for the game, which I had found odd, but it only took two minutes into the first period for the reason to become clear.

My dad, trying to be friendly, said: "Angela, I didn't know you were a hockey fan."

And she, trying to be a little shit, replied with: "Oh, I'm not really. I'm just watching for the players."

Then she'd look right at me.

Unfortunately, Ang was immune to the daggers I was shooting from my eyes.

I just sat there on the couch with my knees pulled to my chest and a blanket covering my body. There was a current flowing through my limbs that intensified whenever there was a close-up of Taylor. I couldn't get enough of that look. Something was stirring in my stomach and I wasn't sure if I should squash it immediately or let it take over because it felt too good.

My Social Cognition notebook was sitting on the couch next to me, lonely and abandoned. Even when I made myself look at it during the commercial breaks or intermission, the effort was futile. I couldn't be more distracted even if an elephant wearing a grass skirt was dancing right in front of my eyes.

The Storm ended up losing the game but Taylor had recorded an assist. When I dragged myself to bed after it ended, I was too wired to sleep. I ended up killing some time on my phone and I typed in 'Winnipeg Storm' into Google. The intention was to see some of the reception Taylor got on social media but I ended up finding a stream of his post-game interview. I plugged my headphones in and listened, feeling a bit like a creep because I was in my bed watching Taylor with all the lights off.

Oh well.

He talked about how it felt to be out there—a dream come true—and what to make of the loss—the team needed to just look forward to tomorrow.

Funny. I felt the same way.

I was about to see Taylor Hudson for the second time in twenty-four hours. Counting his televised game, of course.

Even though Taylor had offered to pick me up, I insisted on taking the bus, so we planned to meet at the Modar Centre for one p.m. It was anxiety-inducing enough that I was about to spend time with Taylor alone and in an empty arena for I didn't even know how long.

Did I mention alone?

As in, with no other people, not even Angela?

The number three gets a bad rep. You know the saying, two's company, three's a crowd? It didn't make sense to me. Three was the perfect number for me, as far as social situations go, because I can let the other two do all the damn talking and I can just pipe up with the appropriate "mmm hmm" and "uh huh" at the appropriate times.

Have I ever mentioned that I'm really fun at parties?

The bus time was going to be my reprieve. An opportunity for me to calm the knot in my stomach and not have to make small talk while doing so. I couldn't ride with Taylor, because then it would exhaust all my conversation material for when we were at the arena.

But because the bus comes to the stop nearest my house every half-hour, I had two choices: arrive either way early or way late.

I went with early.

Twenty minutes after I hopped on the Route 85 of W Transit, I walked up to Gate One of the larger-than-life arena and waited for Taylor. He had warned me in advance that the doors would be locked. My hands, which were shoved into my coat pockets, were growing clammier by the minute.