Me: Aw, sorry, what happened?
Ari: I shoulda ditched him when he took me to dinner at a street cart and told me to order a hot dog so he could watch me eat it…
Me: Ew, really?
Ari: REALLY!
Me: And you did it?
Ari: I like hot dogs!
Me: And after that?
Ari: Back to his place, where he jackhammered the shit out of me. I thought he was gonna break my pelvis dude.
Me: You slept with him???
Ari: Calm your tits; I made him wrap his weiner…
I roll my eyes, the darkened Carson Center corridor my only witness. I’m a virgin, and based on Ari’s accountings of her sexual adventures, I’m good with it.
Me: So you won’t go out with him again?
Ari: Hell no. I’ll buy my own hot dog next time…
Ari: How’s work?
Me: Boring.
Ari: Want me to tell Manny you’re all alone there tonight? He’s got a key card; he could come keep you company…wink wink
Me: NO!
Ari: Lol just kidding.
Me: Is Mateo at your mom’s? You can come hang out with me if you want.
Ari: No, he’s asleep right next to me. My brother babysat. I better go to bed since it’s already 12:30. This boy gonna be wanting pancakes at 6:00 a.m.
Me: Goodnight!
Ari: Night girl, hope the night goes by fast!My song comes back on just as I arrive at the next concession area. I open the employee entrance door with my key card and walk back to the kitchen area. I see a man standing at the sink, using the overhead sprayer to clean something.
I take off my headphones and say, “Hey.”
He turns around and I see that it’s Domino, one of my coworkers who does everything in slow motion. And I can tell from the faraway look in his eyes that he’s high, which makes him even slower.
“Lindy. Hey.”
“Hey, what are you still doing here?”
“Oh.” He looks around and I realize he has no idea how late it is. “I’m still closing down.”
I set my empty bucket on the ground. “Okay, no worries. I’m sanitizing machines. Have you shut yours down yet?”
Domino has to think about this for a good three seconds before shaking his head. At this rate, he’ll be here for at least another hour. I could dive in and help him, but last time I offered him help, he went outside to smoke and I ended up doing all the work.
“Okay, so…I’ll just take a break and check back in a bit,” I say, leaving my bucket by the door as I exit.
“Cool.”
I usually end up with at least an hour to kill when I work the overnight shift, so I’m not stressed about the down time. Sometimes the rink maintenance crew works late at night, so I wander into a tunnel that leads to the arena, hoping to watch them work.
Even when it’s empty, this place is magic. I run my fingers over awards and photos of past Blaze championship teams and star players on the walls. My dad took me to a game here for my seventh birthday, and I still remember the electricity in the air here that night.
Hockey is unlike any other sport. I can feel the excitement fans have when they come here. They bring with them a deep pride in their home team, and an ambitious hope for a great game that you can feel.
I’ve got a worn-out old Blaze shirt on tonight, actually. When I work the overnight shift, I don’t have to wear a uniform. It gets cold in here, so I’ve got on an old pair of black leggings, my faded red Team Blaze tee, and a light hoodie.
The maintenance crew is already gone and even though I’m apparently alone in the arena tonight, I hold my breath as the rink comes into view. I can’t stop the feeling of reverence I have for this place. Since I’m always working during the games, I don’t get to watch them live. I occasionally get a peek on one of the TV screens around the concourse if I’m on a bathroom break.
That’s why, on the rare occasions I get to sit in these stands, I always sit right behind the Blaze team bench. Cue the chills.
I slide into a seat behind the middle of the bench and grin, closing my eyes to take in the smells of popcorn and fresh ice. Though I could never afford to sit here for a game, right now this seat—this whole arena, in fact—is all mine.
That only lasts a few seconds, though. My eyes fly open when I suddenly hear the sound of a skate blade gliding across the ice.
Oh, holy Jesus. It’s him. Victor Lane is less than twenty feet away, looking casual in one of those formfitting, lightweight long sleeve shirts. His is black, and it outlines his arm muscles to perfection. He’s also wearing gray sweats and hockey skates, but doesn’t have a helmet or pads on.