2. Box Girl

CHAPTER 2

BOX GIRL

STEFAN

Nobody slams my captain into the boards like that and gets away with it. Not when I'm on the ice. And sure, now I'm on my way to the penalty box, but at least I doled out some justice for my captain. I'll hear about it in the dressing room later, but it's part of the game, and it's a part of the game that I take seriously.

The door opens and an unfamiliar face stares back at me as I follow Pat and Erik into the box. Our last attendant was a man nearing seventy. He was stern faced and surly everytime he had to let one of us into the box. As a former player for the Union, he would regale us with stories from the ice before and after games, but was all business after the horn blew to start a game. The attendant tonight is nothing like that grizzled old hockey player.

For one thing, the new attendant is a woman.

A young woman. With sparkling green eyes, barely tamed, fiery red curls, and an intense expression as she notes our penalties on her clipboard. I watch as her eyes track the action on the ice.

"Pat," I nudge my neighbor on the bench, "is she new?"

Pat, with all the subtlety of a stubbed toe turns his attention on the attendant before turning back to me with a disinterested shrug. Soon though, his two minutes are up and whoever she is opens the door to let Pat and Erik back onto the ice. I still have three minutes though.

"You're new." As if she doesn't know that, Morrow, good going. "Did you just start?" Her eyes snap to mine and then she jolts, hand flying to the headset she's wearing and then she scrambles to the door, opening it and nearly shoving me onto the ice. When my skates hit the ice, I look for the puck, and I look to see which shift is on the ice – something I should have been doing while in the box instead of paying attention to the beautiful stranger.

"Does anyone know the new box girl?" Pat asks after the game as we're on our way out of the arena. "I hope someone talks to her about what happened with Stefan's penalty. We can't afford to have him off the ice longer than necessary."

What happened was she was a few seconds late in getting the door open. Even if she'd opened it with military precision I'd still have to get off of the bench and back onto the ice, a few seconds doesn't make as big a difference as Pat seems to think.

"It was an accident, Pat." I hike my bag up higher onto my shoulder as we traipse into the snowy Detroit night. "I got back on the ice in plenty of time. Drop it. But if anyone does know her name, I'd like to call her something other than box girl. "

Stepping into the parking garage, I find a young woman fumbling with the keys in her gloved hands, they drop and as she bends to pick them up her bag falls from her shoulder, spilling its contents with an odd clang. A metal water bottle that has definitely seen better days rolls down the sloped surface of the parking structure right toward me. Stopping it with my foot I bend down to pick it up, and when I stand I find myself face to face with box girl.

I wish I knew her name.

She wears a red and white team branded toque on top of her head, wild curls peeking out from underneath. Her green eyes are wide as she reaches for her water bottle, our gloved hands brushing for the tiniest sliver of a moment, but sending a shock up my arm.

"I'm sorry about earlier," she scrambles to stuff her belongings back in her bag and pick up her keys, quickly opening the door of her car, a shake in her voice as she addresses me again, almost as if she's on the verge of tears. "It's my first day. I got distracted. It won't happen again."

"I thought you were new," I give her a small smile, thankful I put my front bridge in for post game interviews so that I'll appear to have a mouth full of teeth, and settle a hand on her shoulder. She trembles under my touch and I don't know if it's her nerves, the cold, or me that causes it. "Don't worry about it. You got me back on the ice, that's what's important."

"I really won't let it happen again."

"Will you tell me your name?" I ask, trying not to sound too hopeful. "So I can call you something other than…( don't say box girl, Stefan). ..penalty box attendant."

"Francine."

Francine. Her name is as unexpected as she is.

Francine should be a woman on her way to a meeting of the local historical society, not the woman waiting for me – us – in the penalty box. Francine should be severe and buttoned up not…soft. Kind. At the moment a little flustered.

"Nice to meet you, Francine. I'm Stefan." I hold out my hand and she slips hers into it, giving a gentle shake.

"I know," she replies with an amused smile. The first smile I've seen from her tonight. "I mean…nice to meet you."

A moment passes between us. Neither of us saying anything, just...staring at each other in the not-quite-silence of the parking garage. Francine unscrews the lid of her water bottle and takes a long drink before replacing the lid with a faint squeak as it tightens.

"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 I like seeing 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 before I 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 a suggestion, 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.