On stage, I felt comfortable. I felt safe. That probably went against the natural vulnerability of being in a big room with a full standing room only crowd, but I felt it anyway. There were, of course, factors that contributed to my sense of security. No matter what, my band set the stage up the same way. Parker and his drum set were center stage and back, on a riser. He was the only one who didn’t get to move around the stage. Anthony and Trevor were the furthest to the left and right, respectively. Sometimes they lurked in the shadows and other times they were up near the edge of the stage. Two microphones were front and center where Rich and I stood.

Standing there surrounded by my best friends was why I felt safe. I could turn back to Parker to sync our rhythm. Rich was to my left and we could silently communicate by looking at each other through the course of a set. There was always potential for chaos at a show, like too many mistakes on our part or a fight in the audience during the middle of our set. There was also the risk of us falling flat and having a bad set. It had happened before. Every band went through it. But none of those things seemed scary to me when I had my band, united, playing together. I found comfort in them. We were strong together. Just seeing Rich, who I’d been writing music with since I was 16, out of the corner of my eye was reassurance enough.

Our opening song, unironically, was the first track on the last album we’d put out. It was a total collaboration between Rich and me. He’d come up with the lyrics but I’d come up with the riff and the harmonies. Rich was the lead vocalist on the song but we always thought of it as one of my songs because it was crafted in my way: two electric guitars over drums and bass. The song didn’t have any of Rich’s keyboard or percussion on it. At the time that we released our first album, Anthony had yet to join the band. Rich used to alternate between percussion and guitar when we were a 4-piece. But now, for simpler songs without his instruments, he got to use only his voice.

I loved the intro to our set because I loved Rich’s voice. He sounded like the frontmen of the bands I listened to but with his own unique tone. His voice was a little bit haunting. It rested right on that fine line between grating and smooth. After about a 30-second instrumental build, the song began by honing in on the two of us. Much of the first verse was his voice over my crunching bass and only little accents from the rest of the guys’ instruments. If we were one of the opening bands, it got people paying attention. If it was our own headlining show, kids in the crowd sang back every word, holding on to every note.

If we were lucky, on nights like tonight when we were opening for friends, we got a combination of people carefully listening and a section singing loud with pride. Those kids made me smile as the guitars and drums came back into the song in full force and Rich began the second verse. I had so much admiration and respect for our fans. I knew they were a lot like me. The Automatic Flowers put blood, sweat, and tears into our band, into our music, into our contribution to our scene. The contribution of our fans wasn’t any less just because they were in the crowd and we were on stage.

Being part of any alternative subculture required a lot of patience and work. Finding a niche in indie, punk, hardcore, metal, folk took a lot more effort than turning on the radio. It took time. Discovering bands, buying records, telling friends, attending shows—it was a commitment. I felt privileged to connect with kids through music to the point that my band was one of those bands for them.

We usually didn’t know that we were going to have a bad set or an off night until a few songs in but we could tell pretty quickly if we were going to have a good night. Just playing through the first song, I already felt like my birthday show performance was going to be great. I was comfortable in my birthday outfit, a black high-waisted tube skirt and teal button-down shirt with blue polka dots on the collar, and my black hair loosely braided off to the side. I stepped on one of my pedals with the toe of one of my black patent high heel shoes to turn the bass distortion off for the chorus and then stepped up to the microphone to sing harmonies with Rich. A few of the singers in the crowd raised their fists in the air, as if in solidarity with us. That was always one of my favorite moments.

As I strummed my bass and sung Rich’s words, I glanced over at him for a moment. He had his mic in his hand, up to his mouth, and was walking along the edge of the stage. Rich and I knew each other’s stage tendencies well. So he knew what got me stoked and that I would be even more stoked since our last real show had been back in August. He caught my gaze quickly and smiled back before I turned my eyes down to the fretboard of my bass.

Our show wasn’t just to celebrate my birthday. It was the culmination of my breakup with Rich creating something better than what we used to be. Rich and I weren’t going to be okay, we were okay now. The band was playing two new songs for the very first time later in our set: one from him and one from me. Mine was another album opener, a nostalgic tune about who we’d been at the start, best friends who used to sit in basements and backyards.

I was nervous about it earlier when we played it at sound check. We were proud of our collection of new songs, but what if the kids didn’t appreciate the points of view we’d written from? What if that was when they tuned out and started texting on their phones? What if we screwed one of the new songs up because we weren’t used to it yet and that was the exact moment someone decided they didn’t like it?

But those nervous feelings and doubts never returned. On stage, with Rich to my left out of the corner of my eye, I felt as safe as ever.

I drew merch table duty with Parker when our set was over. We were still as DIY as we’d been when we started the band. We didn’t have a tour manager or a merch girl or guy on the road with us. Trevor took care of booking our shows and we all alternated standing behind our table selling The Automatic Flowers t-shirts and records.

Our fans were always as supportive as they could afford to be. Tonight (after Rich cleverly dedicated one of our mellower songs to me before we launched into it, because it had the word ‘birthday’ in it, in honour of my turning 23) that meant some greetings and a couple extra bucks in the tip jar. Being the birthday girl and the merch girl wasn’t so bad. Actually, it was perfect in the sense that it gave me a place to tell Ben to meet me. He showed up at the back of the short line with a couple of his teammates in tow, as promised. Barley Grow, the headlining band, were up next so most of the showgoers had picked their spots to stand when our friends started playing just as soon as they were set up.

Standing all together, Ben and his teammates looked like a misplaced boy band that got directions to the wrong show. Including Ben, there were four of them. Dark rinse jeans and similar heights. They ranged in build from solid and quite manly with grizzly five o’clock shadow to a teenage-looking guy who hadn’t yet fully grown into his body. One of them was typing on a cellphone with his thumbs. There were a few baseball caps and hands shoved into pockets of sweaters. Save for Ben, who was smirking at me, none of them were looking around or making eye contact with anyone but themselves, avoiding confrontation with overzealous hockey fans.

As soon as I stepped in front of the merch table, Ben had me wrapped in a hug. “Hi,” he said into my shoulder.

The hug took me by surprise. We were never affectionate in public. That would require more hanging out in public, which we never did.

“Hey,” I replied as I shrugged away from the hug that had lasted too long.

As Ben greeted Parker and shook hands with him, I looked over at Ben’s friends. One of them mumbled something to the group and they chuckled. They looked at me innocently, sheepishly, and I guessed that it had been a comment about me. Once Parker was standing beside me Ben got to the introductions.

“So, this is Delia and Parker, my west coast friends,” he stood in between the two groups and pointed at us, then pointed at the hockey players, “and these are my teammates.”

The guy that had prompted the laughter moments before clapped Ben on the shoulder and presented himself to Parker and me. He had dark brown hair, pale skin, and five o’clock shadow that paired well with with a cocky grin. “Hi, I’m Sam,” he shook my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Thanks for coming to the show,” I told him.

“You know, I was just telling these guys,” Sam used his thumb to point back at the two guys behind him, “it seemed weird to me that it was Ben’s suggestion to go see some live music tonight. And at this place that none of us have ever heard of. Kinda off colour for him. But seeing you here, I totally understand now.”

Ben shook his head, unamused, and I let out a slightly amused titter. “Thanks, I think.”

Sam seemed a little smug but nothing he said was untrue. Ben wasn’t an indie music aficionado. He only showed up because of me.

“Hey, I’m Ryan,” the next guy, the high school looking kid, introduced himself and shook my hand. “Happy Birthday?”

He was soft-spoken and lanky, and a little unsure of himself. His facial features were small and his build was smaller in comparison to his friends, even though he was much taller than me, and he actually stood taller than Sam and the other guy I had yet to be acquainted with. When Ryan realized that he’d been shaking my hand for too long, he immediately withdrew and shoved his hand into his back pocket, then looked at his feet.

I wanted to pinch his cheeks and tell him he was as adorable as Bambi. But a young NHL player wouldn’t want to hear that in the presence of a few of his boys, so instead I touched his arm lightly. “Thanks, Ryan. I appreciate that.”

The kid looked terrified. He glanced at his buddies who were engaged in conversation with Parker. I wasn’t sure who he was more afraid of, Ben or me. I bit back my laugh. It was cute the way he was blushing all the way up to his eyeballs.

“Um,” Ryan cleared his throat, “yeah. Yeah.”

“Jesus Christ, Ry.” The last guy, who had a bit of a curl to his short dark hair and sparkling eyes, poked Ryan in the ribs with his elbow. “You don’t have to prompt an awkward silence when you introduce yourself to a pretty girl. We talked about this.”

I chuckled. “And you are?”

“Hi, Delia. I’m Jordan Eberle,” he gave his full name and flashed a gap-toothed smile. “I really enjoyed your set. You guys have a really cool vibe.”

“Oh, thank you. That’s nice of you to say.” I replied. “I figured you guys sort of got dragged into this since Ben is your…mentor…or something for the night.”

“Or something,” Jordan confirmed with a laugh. “But Benny is a good guy. Great in the dressing room. He’s like a big teddy bear.”

Oh, he was the best teddy bear. I knew it because I cuddled with him most nights of the week. A 6’2” teddy bear that was solid but soft in all the right places, whose limbs fit around me nicely.

“Actually though, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen your band,” Jordan continued after shaking hands with Parker, making the group of musicians and hockey players one. “My girlfriend and I saw you at Edgefest when we were in Toronto this summer.”

“Oh really?” Parker was surprised.

Our band had been lucky enough to play one of the biggest summer festival shows in the country. The festival was actually sponsored by Toronto’s local rock radio station and the headlining band that day had, in the past, been on the original Punk Goes Acoustic compilation album. Now granted, we’d played early in the day at Edgefest and on the side stage, but it had been a great opportunity nonetheless to reach an audience we wouldn’t have gotten to on our own. I could count the number of times I’d heard my band on the radio on two fingers and that wasn’t just because I rarely listened to the radio. It was more of a nice gesture of local support from a station in Vancouver because we were locals.

“Yeah, I was just texting her.” Jordan’s smile turned bashful before he spoke tentatively, “Can we take a picture? I want to show her.”

That did it. That set off his friends. Sam erupted into a short spiel about how pussy-whipped Jordan was and then Ryan took a turn elbowing him in the ribs.

“Of course we can take a picture,” I answered.

Shouldn’t it have been the other way around? Parker and I weren’t celebrities by any means. On the other hand, I remembered seeing a ton of #14 jerseys with the name Eberle on the back at the Oilers game. This guy was probably in the club’s future plans for success, a next-generation NHL superstar. One day I might be bragging about that time I met Jordan Eberle.

Parker, my hockey-inclined friend, seemed to agree. “We can take five pictures if you really want.”

“Alright.” Jordan pulled his phone out of his sweater pocket and turned on the flash feature in the camera application. He held it out to Ben. “You mind taking it, Eags? I don’t trust these other jokers.”

Sam snorted but Ryan stayed silent this time as Ben nodded and took the phone.

“Wait,” Parker reached for his own phone off the merch table. “I want one, too. For Twitter.”

Jordan stood in between Parker and me. We put on our smiles while Ben took two pictures on each phone, just to be sure. I was worried that so many flashes from the back of the room would prompt enough people to turn around and recognize that there were four NHL players at the show. But, as said earlier, the kids who loved our band and our friends’ bands were a lot like us. Music topped everything else. Even if they did recognize the Oilers, the next band was due to take the stage any minute. That was more important. No one came over.

---

Parker made me go. He told me that there was no reason to stay, that he had the merch table handled, and that I should get out on my birthday date. I got to listen to Barley Grow play only a few songs as I cleaned up my makeup in the room that my band had been provided with backstage as a holding area. With no way to shower away my stage sweat, I turned to a tour method of staying fresh and clean—no-rinse body wash wipes—before changing clothes.

From the venue, Ben drove straight to the underground parking garage of his condo. But that didn’t mean that the date was off. No, I begged him to tell me where we were going when we’d been in the car and he told me to just trust him. We got off the elevator in the lobby, at street level, and walked over to a Vietnamese restaurant that was open late a few blocks away.

It was the exception in Ben’s part of downtown. The other places were the big Sobey’s grocery store, coffee shops, and bars. It was after 11 but we weren’t alone. There was a young couple who spoke to each other in Vietnamese, a table of night construction workers, and a couple of giggly teenagers who were probably out past their Tuesday night curfew. Ben and I each ordered a bowl of phoand shared an appetizer of egg rolls.

Once he was calculating the tip and signing for the cheque, I took the chance to check my phone. I’d had it on silent since I left the venue. The notifications were in descending order with the most recent at the top. On top of the text and email notifications—I knew most would be birthday greetings—were two from Twitter. I laughed as I clicked open the mention, a photo tweet.

Ben slid the little pay tray to the edge of the table and looked at me curiously. “What?”

“Jordan Eberle is now following me on Twitter,” I shook my head, surprised at what I was saying. “He retweeted Parker’s picture of the three of us, too.”

Ben stood and slid his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans before putting his jacket on. “Oh, you crazy kids and your technology.”

Social media was one of the biggest reasons why my band had broken through. I only handled the band’s official social media accounts sometimes, but I was locked in to all of the services that I felt I should have. I tried to be good about answering questions from fans and showing snapshots of my life in a touring band. Ben, on the other hand, wasn’t into it. We were becoming real life friends but we’d never communicated on Facebook. I was sure without having to ask that he wasn’t on Twitter or Tumblr. The guy still had a Blackberry. He said his fingers made a mess of a touchscreen. According to him, until touchscreen smartphones got bigger standard screen sizes, he needed the physical QWERTY keyboard to be able to do anything.

“The kids are alright, eh?” I said to him as we walked out of the restaurant. “I thought they were pretty cool.”

Relative to meeting Cam and Kelsey, and Kelsey’s scary revelation about Ben being such a softie at heart, meeting the younger guys on his team had been light years better. No warnings. No unsolicited advice.

“Yeah, they’re okay guys.” Ben held the door open for me. “They make me feel like Father Time.”

“You’re not that old.”

I zipped up the hoodie I was wearing as we began walking back towards the building Ben lived in. Playing full sets for live shows filled my body up with adrenaline and heat that I could still feel a few hours later. I was in a short sleeve black dress without tights but I wasn’t bothered by the chilly autumn air, and my feet weren’t bothered by the same four-inch patent leather pumps that I’d worn on stage earlier in the night.

Personally, I thought Ben was at a great age. At 27, he was a little less than five years older than me and in his prime. Maybe Ben was far from being the best hockey player, and maybe he wasn’t as far along on the path of his life plan as he wanted to be, but he was still well put together as a man. He was mature. He was handsome. He really knew his way around a woman’s body. His financial situation was more stable than anyone else I knew in their twenties. He was quiet and he was responsible.

“Ebs and Nuge are younger than you,” Ben informed me, referring to his teammates only by nickname.

“Which one is Nuge?” I knew ‘Ebs’ would be Jordan, since he’d so formally introduced himself to me by full name. I wasn’t sure about Sam or Ryan though.

“Um…” Ben blinked a few times. “Ryan.”

“You seem uncertain,” I laughed.

“I’m so used to calling everyone by their last name or nickname. I don’t think I even know the first names of everyone on the team,” Ben admitted. “Hockey players, you know? Dense.”

“Nice.” I went on and asked, “Well, how old is Nuge? 20? He looks really young.”

Ben shook his head. “Ebs is 20, I think. Nuge is 18.”

“Holy shit,” I swore. “No wonder. He’s just a baby!”

“Oh yeah. We never let him stop hearing about it,” Ben chuckled. “Some of the guys give it to him pretty good, asking if he’s ever even had a crush before, that kind of thing. I don’t think he’s ever had sex yet. Sort of sweet, right?”

“Sort of,” I agreed.

Sure, youth and innocence were sort of sweet. Ben was sweeter. His being a romantic guaranteed that. The birthday date we were on was really romantic. It wasn’t the try-hard type of romantic either—no candlelight or red roses, none of that pompous shit. He let me have the last egg roll. There had been silences during our meal, but none of them awkward.

“What are you thinking about?” Ben inquired, taking my hand as we got to the crosswalk right across from his apartment building.

Nothing about our date felt forced. I did have the butterflies in my stomach when Ben failed with his chopsticks and I tried to show him how to get a good grip on more than one noodle, which made us laugh after his many unsuccessful attempts. That was sweet.

“You,” I answered honestly, then added with a wink, “naked.”

Ben looked across the street at the pedestrian lights then glanced up at the streetlight we were standing under at the corner of the sidewalk. We were standing in the same spot that we’d been the first night that we met. He smiled as he leaned down to kiss me, cupping my face with his free hand. The kiss was soft and languid.

“Mmmm,” I said when we pulled away, “you’re spicy.”

We’d both been pretty generous with the amount of Sriracha that we put in our bowls of pho. Ben was spicy from the hot sauce and minty from the leaves in the soup. He let out a low chuckle.

“Come on.” Ben tugged at my hand right when the light changed. “Let’s go upstairs.”

Notes

In the future, a long time from now, you will see exactly why these were the young teammates I chose to go to the show. Thanks for the subscriptions and votes!

Extended Chapter Notes