“Turn around,” Meredith says. I do and I hear, “Because she’s marking her territory.”
I laugh and sit next to her. “No, I’m not. I didn’t even buy the shirt.”
“Ooh, so Marco is claiming what’s his,” Theresa says.
“Lots of people in this building are wearing a shirt or jersey with his name and number on the back,” I point out.
“But none of them were purchased by Marc and none of them are also being worn by his girlfriend.” Sylvia smiles with satisfaction when I roll my eyes. Conversation pauses for the national anthem, and then the guys prepare for the center ice face-off.
“How are things with Marc?” Meredith asks.
Sylvia suddenly reaches over Meredith and grabs my arm. “Where are your headphones?”
“Not using them tonight.”
“Are you ready for that?”
I shrug. “There’s alcohol in here, right? Just in case.” She nods and leans back in her seat. I was feeling relatively fine until she brought it up, and now, the nerves are back in full force.
“So, Marc and you? How are things?” Meredith repeats.
“Great.”
“That’s it?” Theresa asks. All three of them look disappointed.
“Am I supposed to add more?”
“Yes,” they answer in unison.
Uncomfortable, I glance out onto the ice. The shiny sheen is mostly gone as thin tracks from their skates have drawn over it. My chest tightens as I hear the players skating and the puck smack loudly against the glass. It always blew my mind that something as small as a puck can make such a loud noise in an arena full of rowdy people. Then again, they are hitting it and sending it flying at high speeds, so...
But the good news is there’s no imaginary blood on the ice and aside from the moderate anxiety causing turmoil in my chest, I’m okay. Then I realize the girls aren’t paying attention to the game because they are still wanting details.
“What do you want to know?”
“Me first,” Meredith hurries to speak before the others. “Serious Marc kind of freaks me out, but I’ve seen him be serious with you. Is it weird?”
“I’m not sure if I follow. I mean, he’s a goofball, sure, but not 24/7. Not even half the time, I don’t think.” They’re all looking at me like I’m an alien. Is it really that hard to believe that Marc isn’t cracking jokes all the time? Is he that different with me? And if so, is that a good thing or a bad thing?
“Yeah, he’s a completely different Marc around Lizzy,” Sylvia confirms. “I could tell from our dinner together that he’s a great boyfriend.”
The arena fills with some loud cheers from some of the spectators. The Pittsburgh team scored. The guys could really use a win. They lost the home game and the away game against the Mustangs, so it’d be nice if they could win tonight.
“Marc doesn’t know I’m here,” I blurt out.
The girls whip their heads toward me. “What?” they ask in intervals.
“He asked me to come, and I told him I wasn’t, so he doesn’t know I’m here. I feel a little bad because it was the second time he asked me to come and I said no. Now I’m here and he doesn’t know it. What if he goes straight home instead of up here?”
“He won’t,” Meredith reassures me. “He almost always comes up here with Noah. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll text Noah and tell him to make sure Marc comes with him.”
“No, that’s okay.” If he normally does, then let’s hope he will.
Theresa brings up the fashion show, which is coming up soon, and I focus on the game while they talk about it. The Rebels aren’t playing well. It’s really that simple. Passes aren’t good. There’s countless turnovers. They aren’t quite as fast or physical as the other team. The only thing they have going for them is a few shots on goal when they manage to have the puck in their possession long enough to do something with it.
My senses zoom in on nineteen. Marc and a Pittsburgh player seem to be shoving one another on and off as they skate down the ice. I glance up at the jumbotron to check out how much time is left on the clock. When my eyes fall back to the ice, Marc is throwing punches with the guy. What in the hell happened? My eyes are back on the big screen and Marc looks pissed. Seeing the fight is what triggers the panic attack.
My breath quickens, imaginary blood coats the ice, and I’m thrown back to the day Roger died. He started so many fights. My throat tightens and I squeeze my eyes closed. The urge to vomit is sudden and overwhelming. My body feels weak. I sway in my seat. The crowd hoots and hollers, cheering on the fight. God, when will it end?