3. Lola

Lola

It's official. Hockey is the worst sport.

If I'm being honest, I don't have much to base that opinion on. Maisie and I went to one baseball game, more for the vibes than the game. Then, one summer, Levi decided he would give swimming a try before promptly quitting when he realized it was racing and not synchronized swimming as he'd seen in an underwear commercial.

Regardless, I think I've gathered enough evidence about hockey to confidently conclude that it's the worst option for attending a professional sports event.

I've been back and forth to The Armory at least three separate times, each time hauling back with me whatever might help keep me warm. When one blanket wasn't enough, I went for another, adding mittens and a hat to the pile at the last second.

"First time?" the woman at the register asks, and though I laugh good-naturedly with her, I want to light all my new hockey merch on fire. It would warm me, and, as an added bonus, I may just burn the T-Mobile Arena and all the unruly fans to the ground.

It's also just impossible to figure out what's going on. The puck is whizzing around the ice so quickly, and I can't keep my eyes on it. Also, Alec's haphazard attempts to explain things—like why the players are going into time-out—only make me more confused.

Hockey feels like all the players are everywhere at once, but they're moving much faster than in basketball, and there are so many extra rules I don't understand. Fundamentally, it seems like the same sport, something even I can understand. Put the ball—or puck, in this situation—in the net.

But all the extra stuff, the weird vocabulary, the rules I don't understand, and the refs make it feel like I've walked onto a different planet.

I watch as several players collide with each other, and it evolves into a fight. Blood spatters onto the ice, which makes my stomach turn. The players are jabbing their hockey sticks at each other like little kids, and two of them are actually spinning in a circle, holding a single stick between them. It would be romantic if it weren't pathetic.

"I'm not interested in grown adults getting into fights," I mutter, taking a sip of my hot chocolate, but Levi is too busy cuddling into Alec's side to hear anything I'm saying. This has been my experience the entire night. It's as though I came to the hockey game myself.

While it has been kind of difficult to see where the puck is, I can see the score clearly. The Knights are absolutely destroying the Vermont Vipers, and we're almost through the second period. A quick Google search tells me it's unlikely the Vipers will come back from this. If we already know the result of the game, doesn't it mean we can leave?

"Hey," I say, jabbing Levi hard enough in the side that he pulls away from Alec and gives me a look.

"What?" he grunts, reaching over and stealing some of my popcorn while still giving me that look.

"The game is over," I say, to which Levi glances back at the ice, his eyebrows raising. The players are very much still skating back and forth, even if the Vipers do look pretty lifeless.

"Even you can't be this clueless," he says, shaking his head and shifting like he might turn back to Alec's side. "There's still time on the clock."

"And another period," Alec adds, leaning forward.

"No," I insist, tugging Levi's arm so he'll lean over to me again. "Like, based on my very quick research, the Vipers aren't going to come back. So, it's over."

"Okay," Levi says, "and?"

"And…if we know the Knights have won, then why are we still here? Let's go back home. Where it's warm."

"The point is to enjoy the game," Levi says, rolling his eyes. "It's not about who wins or loses. You should know that as a certified participation trophy holder."

I scoff and lean back into my seat as he turns with finality, tucking himself back against Alec. It's easy for him to say that we're here to enjoy the game when he's sharing his body heat with someone else. I'm just a shivering island, floating around by myself while watching a game I don't understand. I release a huff and cross my arms.

Part of me wants to pull my phone out and get some reading done, but the stadium is so loud that I don't think I could focus if I wanted to. I'm right in the middle of rolling my eyes over this entire situation when I glance up and see the puck, which I've struggled to see all night, flying straight toward me.

People always say time slows down in these moments, but if anything, it's like the fast-forward button is pressed as my brain scrambles, trying to figure out how I could possibly get out of this situation.

I can't help it. I jump hard and scream louder than I ever have before. My terror is caused by a combination of things: the puck flying straight at me, the resounding crack and shattering of the glass, and the serving of searing hot liquid that splashes onto my lap when I jump and turn, trying to shield my face from the oncoming projectile.

"Lola!" Levi shouts, grabbing my shoulder, and I realize I've been screaming for several long seconds. It feels impossible, but the arena has gone mostly silent. So many eyes are turned toward me that I feel a blush warmer than the hot chocolate in my lap wash over my face.

And then, as though my embarrassment isn't completely enough, I glance down to see one of the Vipers players skating toward me, his stick held loosely in his hand. When our eyes meet, a jolt goes through me. He's handsome, even sweaty and shapeless in his hockey get-up.

As he calls out an apology and winks at me, I blush and take every part of him in, from his helmet to the little shreds of ice sticking to his skates. Then, after a few moments, when someone calls him over, he waves and turns around, skating away. My heart jumps.

"Oh my god," I whisper, and Levi pulls his hand back from my shoulder, gazing at me inquisitively.

"What?" he asks, genuine fear in his voice. "Are you having a stroke? What was that?"

I ignore his comment and dig for the notebook in my purse. When Levi sees me pull it out, his eyes widen. He knows the notebook. It's the same type of notebook—pink moleskin—that I've been using since I was seventeen and wrote my first book.

"No," he breathes, "don't tell me—"

"Yes!" I exclaim, opening the notebook and starting to write frantically. My handwriting is frenetic and practically unreadable, but it doesn't matter. I feel it, finally, for the first time in more than a year—my blood is pumping, and my mind is racing, building a story.

I write hockey, cute players, and sports rivalry quickly, the words and letters scrawling across the page. The little pom pom on the top of my pen bobs as I write, which I'm sure looks pretty comical in this setting, but I don't care.

"What—" Alec starts, but Levi puts a hand on his chest, pushing him back, like if he gets in the way, he might ruin the whole thing. Levi doesn't even look at Alec; he just flicks his eyes back and forth between my notebook, my hand, and me.

"Shh," Levi shushes, and I can feel him watching me with wide eyes, a smile slowly creeping over his face. "Lola is getting her spark back!"