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“Here, buddy, for the home game next week.”
Scott stared at the tickets that were being handed to him. Two floppy pieces of paper cut into a slim rectangle. Big letters that spelled out “QMJHL - MONTREAL JUNIORS VERSUS CHARLOTTETOWN ISLANDERS” printed in big bold font in the center.
“Uh, thanks.” He said, giving the man, who didn't even look up from his papers, a forced smile.
“Yo number 21, your parents coming to the game next week? Your first Junior Hockey League home game!” Duncan yelled from across the locker room.
“Dude, shut up, his parents are dead.” Someone whispered, poorly, because Scott heard every syllable.
“Uh, no,” Scott said, awkwardness filling the locker room. “They’re not coming.”
“Right, sorry,” Duncan said, an apologetic smile on his face.
The locker room soon resumed its normal routine. Boys stripping their hockey gear and putting on their regular clothes, loud chatter about whenever the next party is going to be, or who’s going to come to their first home game of the season.
Scott grabbed his towel and made a beeline to the showers. He did not want to listen to his teammates gloating about how their parents are going to be sitting by the ice with enormous posters with their son’s face on them.
He cranked up the heat, the hot water momentarily distracting him from the obvious ache in his chest.
His first year in the junior hockey league. And he had no one in the stands. It wasn’t a new experience, but it still stung a bit more than Scott thought it would. He thought he had gotten used to the fact that no one at the stands was there for him during his days in boarding school, but he thought wrong.
“Yo Hunter, don’t mind Duncan. He’s an idiot who needs to have a filter,” Jacob, one of his teammates, two years his senior, stepped into the communal shower a couple of showerheads down.
“It’s okay. It’s not like I’m waving a flag that says ‘hey look here, my mom’s dead’ everywhere.” Scott made a joke, attempting to make Jacob feel a little better. Duncan wasn’t an awful person, Scott was sure of that. He just didn’t know.Not many people did.
“I’m sorry, man, that sucks,” Jacob said, with such earnestness that made Scott feel slightly bad. Scott responded with a polite nod. And neither of them said another word for the duration of the shower.
Jacob got out of the shower before Scott did, maybe because Scott was intentionally dragging out his normally short shower to wait for everyone to leave the lockers. But he sent Scott an apologetic smile again before disappearing back into the changing area.
Another reason that Scott didn’t want people to know that he was, well, an orphan. He didn’t want the pity. He didn’t want people on the stands to look at him and go, “There, that’s the orphan kid.”
If no one was coming to his games, he would make them.
He wanted to be Scott Hunter, the center who was fearless on the ice. The player who makes people’s heads turn and google his name during half-time. The player whose number people will fight over in stores. Number 21.
Two one. He remembered picking that number as a kid. February 1st was his mother’s birthday.
Scott wrapped up his shower, wrapping the towel around his waist, and headed back to the changing area. All of the people are gone by now, and random clutter is left behind on the ground. He picked up the trash on the ground, disposable water bottles, and scrunched-up napkins, and tossed them in the trash. He went back to his stuff, picked up the two tickets that were sticking out from his duffel bag, and tossed them into the trash as well.
===
The crowd was deafening.
Scott knew the Junior Hockey League was a big deal, especially the Quebec Maritimers, but he didn’t expect it to be this big. The stands were completely filled to the brim with bystanders. Names were thrown left and right as people cheered for the players who stepped on the ice.
He nudged his helmet and stepped into the rink. Finding a puck and warming up his body. His teammates were circling their half of the court, most of them skating up to the glass to say hi to their family, or waving into the stands.
Scott felt awkward not doing that. He took a brief look in the stands; all but two faces were familiar. They didn’t count. It was his billet parents, who were there for their son, not Scott. But they must have sensed that Scott was looking at them cause they gave Scott a wave, who waved back, a soft smile on his face.
He remembered how excited he was as a kid at his local hockey games. The stands were almost exclusively parents, all cheering for their child. Scott’s eyes would scan the crowd, hoping to find his mother waving and cheering. Sometimes it takes a while, as she usually was stuck in the back, being late to the game and all. But Scott would always see her, with the big #21 on her chest.
She would have the biggest smile on her face, hands by her mouth as she yelled Scott’s name. And every time, no matter how loud the crowd was, he would hear it.
Once they made eye contact, his mother would blow him a big kiss. A really dramatic big kiss. And Scott would catch it and hold it against his chest.
A loud whistle pulled Scott back to reality.
He skated to center ice, his grip on his hockey stick tightened as he bent down, coming face to face with his opponent.
Scott gave a quick glance to the ceiling, tapped two of his fingers against his chest, and focused his gaze back on the puck in the official’s hand.
He took a deep breath in and a deep breath out. And he won the face-off.
===
“You all look like hot lumberjacks by the end of May.”
Scott almost choked on his smoothie.
He knows he’s hot, like that’s why he wore that compression shirt that might've been one size too small on his second run. But to hear it coming from Kip… Scott might be a hockey player, but his heart sure is a gymnast because it just did triple backflips.
An awkward silence fell between them; neither men knew what to say or what to do.
You Only Live Once, right?
“Do you want to come to my game tonight?”
===
“Hunter, please tell me you are not putting hair gel in your hair right now.”
Scott’s hand froze midair. He ran his fingers through his hair once more, getting rid of the remaining gel between his fingers. “No?”
Vaughn let out a snort, rolling his eyes to tell Scott that he knew that was bullshit.
“Someone in the crowd tonight?” Huff chimed in, “A special girl, perhaps? Finally? Our old captain is getting some action?”
A chorus of “ooh”s was the response from his teammates.
“Shut up and get warmed up,” Scott muttered, glancing at the mirror one last time before putting his helmet on, and left the locker rooms.
There was still an hour before the game officially started, but there were a couple of people in the stands. Scott took a quick scan, his heart deflated slightly as he didn't see a familiar face.
Maybe he only accepted my tickets to be nice.
The sea of red was comforting. His number was plastered on almost all of the jerseys. He smiled to himself, and glanced up to the ceiling. At this point in his career, as arrogant as it sounds, he was used to it. All the unfamiliar faces circled the rink, chanting his last name and his number. But none of them were really there for him. He thought the dull ache would fade when everyone knew his name, but it didn't. It just stung worse.
Scott circled their half of the court, mentally telling himself not to get his hopes up. That maybe traffic was bad, or that there was an emergency.
But when he locked eyes with a certain smoothie clerk wearing a black jacket, holding a bag of popcorn. He could not contain his smile any longer.