“This is so beautiful.”

“This is…really weird,” I countered.

Parker and I were at the Oilers game. The arena was dark, multiple copies of the team’s logo being projected and swirled onto the surface of the ice. Other than the starting lineups being flashed on the jumbotron, light was cast on one spot: where the open home bench door met the ice. The ‘symbol’ of the team—the replica oil derrick—was flush against the bench entrance and each player skated through it as he took the ice for a few laps before the drop of the puck.

There were few times I felt truly out of place. Building my life around the music scene I was a part of, there weren’t many situations that I (or my friends, for that matter) was put into where I felt that way. But this was one of those times. Merely being a Canadian and understanding my country’s passion for hockey did nothing to help.

The fans inside Rexall Place, nearly all of them, donned different variations of copper and blue jerseys. My friend and I both wore black jeans, black jackets, and black shoes. I learned quite quickly when we’d started touring why black attire was a staple of indie and alternative music: it was the colour that looked best on stage. Everyone in the band owned a lot of it. Parker, the hockey fan between the two of us, wore a Comeback Kid shirt based on the old school Winnipeg Jets logo. I went with the only deep blue shirt I had, with polka dots, of course, that matched the white Peter Pan collar.

We were seated on the terrace on the player benches side, which meant that we were in one of the mid-level rows of the second level. We were on the aisle but otherwise surrounded by Oilers jerseys, scarves, and hats. I’d already overheard partial hockey conversations that I’d never dreamed of having.

When the team logos that were projected onto the ice stopped moving and the players from both teams, save for the starters, were back at their benches, the public address announcer prompted everybody to stand for the singing of the anthems. The Oilers’ opponent for the night was the Minnesota Wild—not a very popular team, but a division rival for Edmonton (all of this according to Parker)—so The Star-Spangled Banner was sung first.

The anthem of our nation followed with slightly more enthusiasm and cheering at the end. I didn’t think I’d even been to an event where the anthem was sung since my high school graduation. Once the ceremonial puck drop had taken place and the carpet rolled away, the arena lights shone white and bright. Parker took his phone out of his pocket and snapped a photo of the opening faceoff to share on Instagram.

I couldn’t help but pay as much attention to the crowd as I did to the game. I’d seen hockey plenty of times on TV before. Just because I didn’t follow the NHL and its players, it didn’t mean I was clueless to the game itself. I knew how to track the puck, I was used to the sounds of the game, and I knew enough not to have to ask questions during stoppages. What I wasn’t used to were live, in-person hockey crowds. The crowd was what made me feel awkward.

Fans were flashed on the jumbotron for most stoppages. They made me cringe. I swear every guy that made it onto the screen during the first media timeout might as well have had ‘douchebag’ stamped across his forehead. There was Jersey Shore hair and there were 1999-style silver chain necklaces. One guy lifted up his jersey to obnoxiously show off a chiseled, hairless chest. Another held up the beer in his hand and kissed the plastic cup for the camera a few times. I liked drinking as much as the next Canadian, but I was pretty sure I never wanted to be friends with a beer kisser.

“Do me a favour?” Parker nudged me.

“What’s that?”

“Throw my cymbals at my face if I’m ever caught doing that,” he rolled his eyes.

It was funny because I probably knew a dozen musicians who loved hockey, especially friends who were in hardcore bands. Hockey and hardcore, they said, were perfect together. Hockey was to other major sports as hardcore was to the mainstream; hockey was like the hardcore of sports. But my friends who played music and loved hockey were crazy about the sport, the teams, and the players. They never mentioned an affinity for the fans. Now I understood why.

The girls were a different story, too. They were very intimidating. I didn’t know what was scarier: the superficial or the superfans.

The superficial were drop dead gorgeous. I didn’t know if it was by makeup or nature, but they were flawless. Extremely thin, perfect hair flowing in curls down their backs, and well-manicured long nails. They probably didn’t have calloused fingertips from hours spent playing guitar. They were a little too obvious as well: talking about the eye candy on the team and bemoaning which of the guys had wives or girlfriends they weren’t willing to cheat on. Girls who looked that good and talked that way, without any actual hockey substance, were interested in getting one thing and one thing only from the athletes on the ice just because their last names were stitched onto the backs of game-worn NHL jerseys.

On the other hand, the female superfans were…too informed. Everything they said was a comment on a play or a stat or analysis of a player’s tendencies. They didn’t just cheer or clap. No, they were yelling at guys—by their first names—to smarten up and show more heart. One woman in our section talked about one of the guys being from the Czech Republic, the fact that he played junior hockey in Quebec, and how far he’d come since the team drafted him several years ago. She knew a lot about him. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she knew his pants size (which she probably could gloat about to the thirsty girls).

If this was the hockey world, if these were the women in Ben’s world, no wonder he hadn’t found someone to settle down with yet. His options were somebody who would date him for his money and because he was somewhat in the public eye, or somebody who would enter a relationship with him with true preconceived notions, knowing way too much about him. That was why he kept having fun with me. It made sense. He wasn’t going to meet anyone anyway, not during the season, not in the city of the team that he played for. At the very least he could get laid by someone who didn’t care about who he was, right?

I knew Ben on the ice by the #55 on the back of his jersey. Everything was just as he’d told me: he didn’t get to play very much and his shifts were very short. He didn’t have the puck very often. I noticed that he was a good skater, fast for his size, and his shoulder checks were hard. Parker and I promised not to mention Ben by name, or insinuate that we knew him and draw attention to ourselves. Actually, we were pretty quiet as we watched the game unfold. Parker would just nudge me and snicker when Ben took the ice, as if to tease me.

We rose to our feet with the crowd when the Oilers scored the first goal of the game, a simple tap-in. Goal scoring was a unifying thing. People were high-fiving people they didn’t know. The close-up of the player on the bench after the replay on the jumbotron was a familiar face. He’d been at Thanksgiving dinner, the guy everyone had just referred to as “Jonesy”. When we were back in our seats and play resumed, the goal announcement revealed his given name, Ryan Jones. It was nice to get his first name, especially since he was someone I’d met, but I didn’t really think I was ever going to encounter him again.

The goal was scored late in the first period with just under four minutes left before the intermission. Some people in the crowd were satisfied to go into the next period with a 1-0 lead. Parker and I stood as a couple in our row excused themselves, heading onto the concourse to get a jump on the concessions lines at intermission, just as there was a stoppage in play.

Parker’s eyes were fixed to the jumbotron as he asked me, “You have five dollars, right?”

“Do they even sell anything to eat here that’s less than five dollars?” I wondered skeptically.

“Probably not,” he chuckled. “I’m not hungry yet…I’m asking because I think we should enter the 50/50 draw during the first intermission. I have five dollars and I think it’s three tickets for ten dollars. If we combine our money and we win, imagine how much money we’d have for tour!”

A faceoff took place on the ice in the corner furthest from us, to the left of the Oilers goalie, Khabibulin. I glanced up at the jumbotron. The 50/50 pot was past $55,000 and climbing. It would probably be double that amount by the time the winning ticket was announced. Taking home half of $100,000? Parker was right. Entering the draw would be our intermission activity.

“I think we should too,” I agreed.

“Cool,” he replied. “So do you want to—”

Parker never finished his sentence as the crowd began whooping and yelling. The whistle had gone. Everything was quick. Both teams stopped playing for a fight. Two guys were latched onto each other a few feet from the home bench. The punches began and they turned in a circle. I caught a flash of the numbers on the dark home jersey and my eyes widened.

“Is that…” Like Parker’s words before mine, I wasn’t able to finish my sentence, trailing off instead.

“Holy shit, Deels,” Parker used my name endearingly and he didn’t have to say any more for me to know.

No, my eyes did not deceive me. It was #55, Ben Eager, engaged in the fight. The bout was very short. Just a couple of rapid heartbeats and it was over. It ended with Ben losing his footing and landing on his butt, on the ice. I bit my lip as the players on both benches tapped their stick blades against the boards. I grabbed onto Parker’s arm beside me as Ben glided to the bench so he could head down the tunnel and to the dressing room. He looked the way I was used to seeing him, no helmet and no gloves, unabashed with a neutral expression on his face.

Parker and I both stared up at the jumbotron until the replay was over and the penalties were dictated by the public address announcer. The fight hadn’t gone terribly for Ben. Both guys got a few shots in. Ben’s opponent, Brad Staubitz, got the takedown after he shoved his right hand in Ben’s face and caught him with a left. That surprised Ben a little, I think, and was the reason why he lost his balance and allowed the other guy to get the takedown.

Ben didn’t win the fight but it wasn’t a clear cut loss either. When play resumed, the Oilers were on a penalty kill as Ben was given an extra two minutes for slashing on top of the five for fighting. Both guys had slashed at each other before the fight but Ben’s slash was the one seen by a referee. All the action got the crowd talking. I heard snippets of conversations around me, opinions about the fight and about Ben, varying on different degrees of positive and negative. Since the bout was in the last five minutes of the period, he was down the tunnel and to the dressing room long before there was any decision. He didn’t get to sit in the penalty box and watch the replay with the crowd. Instead, one of his teammates served the extra two for him.

When I sighed, Parker asked me one last question before the end of the period. “Are you okay?”

Remembering that I was clutched onto Parker’s arm—that was why he asked—I immediately released my grip. “I’m fine,” I responded quickly, though it was a lie.

I sunk into my seat. I wasn’t fine. As a general rule, I didn’t like seeing my friends get punched. And that was what Ben had become, my friend. I cared about his well-being. It didn’t matter that I’d learned before going to the game what kind of hockey player he was and what I knew he had to do for his team. That didn’t change the fact that actually being there to see it in person was scary. But I didn’t know what was worse: seeing Ben get hit in the face or caring about a person who would no longer be part of my life in a month.

---

After one in the morning, I was back in bed with Ben. I kept my hands to myself, watching as he attended to Roscoe. The kitten was flat on its back in between us and purring as Ben scratched at his belly. Roscoe looked so relaxed, whiskers sticking out sideways and eyes closed into slits, lying completely still. When I rubbed in between the pads of one of Roscoe’s paws with my thumb, he splayed out all four of his paws, claws retracted, to give me better access. The little guy really trusted Ben and me because we did nothing but cater to him. I’d heard that cats never liked to expose their stomachs unless they were in an environment where they felt completely safe.

After smiling to himself for a few moments, presumably about how cute Roscoe looked spread eagle, Ben looked over to me. “So how was the game for you?”

The Oilers had kept their 1-0 lead until the dying seconds of regulation. With the net empty, The Minnesota Wild found their tying goal. The Oilers ended up losing the shootout and the game, deflating all the energy in the arena. Parker and I didn’t win the 50/50 draw either. Instead, to cap off the damper night, we met up with Ben to eat and knock back a couple drinks after the game. Just because it couldn’t be a celebratory meal, didn’t mean we weren’t hungry, right?

Dinner was just another display of what I’d gotten used to. Parker and I talked a lot, and Ben was a good listener. He didn’t try to talk like he had the inside scoop on the game (which, compared to us, he did) or make it all about himself. He just politely ate his meal and interjected when we asked him to.

“The game was…” I trailed off, wanting to be honest but not harsh. “It was okay.”

Ben stopped petting Roscoe and chuckled. “Wow, that bad, eh?”

“It wasn’t bad. Just not my scene.” I went on, “I wish you would have won your fight. It looked like you were doing fine until that guy shoved you in the face.”

“I’m rusty,” Ben admitted. He had a few cuts on his hands to prove it. “Besides, it probably didn’t help that I broke one of my own rules last night.”

“Oh, and who’s idea was that?” I rolled my eyes and moved onto my side.

“Mine,” he took full responsibility with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Lesson learned, right? For my own sake, I promise not to give into temptation next time just because you look all sexy Minnie Mouse.”

Blushing at the ‘sexy’ part, I stopped massaging Roscoe’s paw. The kitten fussed for a few seconds, swatting at empty air and rolling his body from side to side. He meowed for us to give him attention again. When he remained untouched, Roscoe rolled over a few times, until he was curled up and pressed against my breast. Roscoe wasn’t the kind of cat who liked to explore the apartment at night; he liked to cuddle and sleep. Now he was ready for bed, regardless of whether or not I was.

“Next time?” I stressed, going back to my conversation with Ben. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea for us to have sleepovers the nights before games. Remember what we said? No interfering with each other’s real lives.”

Of all the nights I’d spent in Ben’s bed, I could count the nights we hadn’t screwed each other on two fingers. Tonight would be the third. And it wasn’t because we didn’t want to, or one of us was too tired—it was only because dinner had finished so late, therefore Parker was in the living room, sleeping on an air mattress. The sex with Ben was so good. We always wanted to fuck when we saw each other. If I was going to be at his place, it would be hard not to break the rules what with the Oilers having so many home games until the end of the month. To deny Ben would be to deny myself.

“I disagree,” his voice was soft and his tone low. “I liked having you here last night. Not just the sex part. I really liked talking to you.”

A laugh escaped my throat as I began stroking over the silky black coat of Roscoe’s back.

Ben knitted his eyebrows. “What?”

He looked a little upset with me and I didn’t blame him. He had been so serious and had sounded sincere about what he said, and I just laughed in his face.

“Ben,” I shook my head, “you like talking to me? You barely ever say anything!”

“I say enough,” he countered.

That earned him another laugh. “Enough, sure. Half the time I wonder if I’m not annoying you by talking too much.”

“You never annoy me,” Ben said, touching my arm. “Obviously I’m not much of a talker. I like listening. The stuff you told me last night…I like knowing that.”

He was looking at me, looking at my eyes, but I couldn’t bring myself to look back. If I looked him in the eye I thought I might lose myself there. I’d already begun to let Ben in. It had started before last night, before I concluded that he was a romantic.

“I think you have a calming effect on me,” he went on as he scooted closer and enveloped me in his arm. It was how we always slept, even with Roscoe sandwiched between us. Sometimes I rolled over at night and Ben and I were spooning when I woke up. But we always cuddled and it kept him from snoring up a storm. “I like our routine, you know? I don’t look forward to the end of your time in Edmonton.”

Damn him and his romantic side. I didn’t like that he was so endearing even in acknowledgment that our time together was temporary. I didn’t like that I’d felt concerned about him during his fight or that I worried he would feel down after losing the game. And he was right, the talking part hadn’t been so bad.

I’d thought that it was a relief, being completely myself and being able to let my guard down around Ben without worrying about the long-term consequences. Now I wasn’t so sure. We’d gotten past just being fuck buddies. I had to watch myself. It wasn’t a relationship, but it wasn’t just about the sex anymore either.

Notes

About the chapter title: the home of the Edmonton Oilers, Rexall Place, is at the intersection of 118 Avenue and Wayne Gretzky Drive.

You can see the box score for the game here and the fight here.

I want to reiterate that the opinions in the chapter and the story belong to the character, Delia, and not to me. She gives her opinion about different kinds of hockey fans in this chapter and it's not quite positive. She doesn't do that to be mean. Like she says, it's just not her scene. She gives her honest, outsider opinion of the crowd. On my part, I hope no one thinks that I am personally insulting or talking shit about hockey fans. I'm a hockey fan. I think hockey fans are great.

Extended Chapter Notes