Chapter 11
C
arla makes her way to the press box, appearing taller in black pants and pumps. She stays away from wearing anything higher than quarter-inch heels to be steady on her feet, ready for a quick interview if necessary.
“Shouldn't you be out on a Friday night, partying with your friends?” Gary asks, stepping away from the tripod and straightening the cord. His salt-and-pepper hair falls to the side.
“I'd rather watch the game.”
“You're going to make some guy lucky one day.”
“I did, remember? We divorced.”
“We all make mistakes.”
“Yeah,” she says.
“What are you doing here, anyway? You're not working, are you?”
“No. I'm here if anyone needs me,” she lies. Secretly, she scans the stadium, getting her feel for where section D is. Carla stands at the edge of the box, staring out into the packed seats. She will have to wander downstairs once the game starts to find where Keith may be sitting, if he's here at all.
“Carla!”
She turns around to see Ryan.
“Hi. I didn't know you were here tonight,” he says.
“I, um . . . wanted to come by to see if . . .”
“You're here to watch the game, aren't you?” he asks with a lingering smirk.
“Well, yeah,” she says, looking around. She spots unfamiliar faces talking to the crew. Squinting, she tries to read their badges, and then something strange happens. The one guy wearing a suit, an open-button dress shirt at the base of his neck, steps beside Ryan, who gives him his full attention.
Carla hangs her hands over the glass railing, widening her fingers, pretending to look at her manicured nails, as she listens to their conversation.
“A young guy like you wouldn't have a problem moving to a new city,” the executive says. “It's a good way to build your career.”
“I'm not sure what I want to do,” Ryan says.
The anthem begins and the box fills with media personnel. Carla loses the conversation. Is Ryan thinking about leaving the station? He jolts, making eye contact with her. Her insides twist in a knot, as though she's heard something she wasn't supposed to.
The anthem is over, and Ryan turns to her and asks, “Are you here to check up on me?”
“No. I wouldn't do that,” she says, holding a hand on the railing. What does it matter that she's here? It's not the first time she's shown up to watch a game without working. “Do you have your interviews set up?” she asks, taking control, reminding him that she has seniority over him.
“Yeah. Alex Price,” he snaps. “He's back today from a recurring knee injury.”
“Okay,” she says, pressing her lips together.
“Puck's going to drop,” he says and walks to an empty seat reserved for him. It's a long counter set up for commentators and reporters. The view is spectacular for watching the game. Every angle of the ice is clear. Her dad would appreciate that.
Carla remains standing. She'll wait until the period is over and escape to find Keith. The game is intense. She listens to the guys behind her do the play-by-play, then glances at Ryan, who has headphones on, watching the game and taking notes. She looks up at the Jumbotron. With five minutes left in the first period, Carla decides to venture out to find Keith. Is she doing the right thing by tracking him down? What happens if he's some crazy guy, not who he says he is? At least she's in a public place.
As she strolls the arena, she glances up at the seating signage. She keeps walking.
“I knew you would be here,” a voice says, distracting her under the section D sign.
Carla bats her eyelashes at the man with the heavy gaze.
“I'm Keith,” he says, extending his hand.
Carla holds out her hand, studying this man who resembles Devin in so many ways: the light brown skin, dark eyes and short black hair. He isn't as tall and sports a mustache.
“Keith, hi,” Carla says, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you. Look, I don't have plans to talk to Devin today. I'm not even working.”
“That's okay. It's asking a lot from a stranger, I know. You'll probably see Devin before I do.” He clutches his jaw and breathes in, as though bracing to say something emotional. “Can you give him something from me?” Keith reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a white envelope with Devin's named printed on it. He hands it to her.
“I've sent him letters in the past, but he's never responded. I hope this one will get through to him.” He bows his head and hands the envelope over.
“What do you want me to say? I'm going to have to tell him how I got this letter.”
“Tell him the truth. That's something I should have done years ago.”
“Won't he be mad that you contacted me?”
“Nah. He's past the anger, I think. Once he reads my letter, he'll understand.”
Carla takes the envelope, placing it in an inside pocket of her purse.
“You're doing me a huge favor. Thank you.” His stare lingers on hers.
How terrible it must be to lose contact with your child and have this be the only way to get in touch. A letter? A stranger intervening because the two can't do it on their own.
“I'm going to get back to the game. I'm sure we'll see each other again,” Keith says.
“Did you want me to see if I can flag Devin down after the game so you can meet him face-to-face?” Carla blurts out. She bites her lower lip. Her insides are all knotted again. Can she make this promise? How will she get Keith downstairs without a media badge? Her hair starts to tingle at the roots. Her arms prickle and her heart races at the thought of getting caught.
Keith's face lights up. “Can you do it? That would be excellent.” He blows out a breath, shakes his head and puts his hand on his hip, then takes it off and puts it back. “I can't tell you how much that would mean to me. Thank you. Thank you. I don't know what to say. I've wanted to see him for so long.” His eyes close slightly. He clears his throat, a fist over his mouth, looks away and then says, “I owe you.”
“You don't owe me anything,” she says. “I can't make promises, but I can try. Okay?”
Keith nods.
“Meet me here ten minutes before the third period ends,” she says, “and I'll do my best to get you downstairs.”
Keith clutches his jaw. “What happens if we go into overtime? A shoot-out?”
“We won't. We beat Toronto every time.” She pauses. “But regardless, I'll be here before the end of the third period.”
They part ways and Carla's brain is racing with ideas of how she'll get Keith downstairs.
Carla makes her way back to the top floor to hang out in the press box.
The loud horn blows and people are going crazy. The Warriors score.
“Awesome goal!” one of the sports reporters says. He claps his hands in the air. “Good start to the game.” He looks over. “Carla! Jimmy's sick. He had to leave. He's supposed to be doing center-ice interviews. Can you do it?”
“Sure! Looks like you have enough people here.” She looks around her.
“I'm doing replay after first period,” he says, referring to the live show during the break.
“When do you need me?” Carla asks, not familiar with the protocol of this kind of reporting.
“Go downstairs and you'll see Mac. Tell him you're taking Jimmy's place.”
Carla takes off, finding her way down to center ice to find Mac, the weekend cameraman. Thankfully, she knows where she's going. It's a maze finding the entrance, but once through the double doors, security is waiting.
Carla flashes her media badge and the security guard takes a long look.
He opens the door for her. She feels the presence of somebody behind her.
“Mac?”
“That's me!”
“Jimmy's sick. I'm replacing him.”
“Done this before?”
“Never.”
“Should be fun then,” he says, and the two walk down the hallway. “Here's your headset.” He pulls one from his belt clip. “Do you know which player you want to talk to?”
“Nope.”
“Good luck,” Mac says, stops and leans against the cold brick wall in close proximity to the bench. He hands her a long microphone. “You'll need this.”
“Thanks.” She clears her throat, thinking about questions she can ask any player. Unfortunately, she hasn't been watching the game, so she can't comment on most of the first period. She bites her bottom lip, trying to wrack her brain for questions. She is so close to the players, she can reach out her hand and touch them. The smell of sweat and rubber mats makes her rub the top of her nose.
Carla adjusts her headset while looking up at the clock. Four minutes. She eyes the bench to see who is close to her. As she makes contact with Landry and Price, they both seem to look down the bench at Devin, who is too preoccupied by the game to look their way.
The referee blows his whistle and the play stops while they skate to a new face-off, giving her an extra minute to think of questions.
She listens to her headset. The guys upstairs are talking until she hears one of them say, “We're going live in thirty.”
Her hands go clammy. Less than a minute. She swallows hard, trying to think of questions. Why is this difficult all of a sudden? She can do this, she tells herself. Her eyes scan the bench, taking note of which players are on the ice.
“Carla?” A voice in her headset gets her attention as she steps toward the bench and cups her hand around the headset.
“Yes?”
“Whenever you're ready, we can go,” the voice says, pressuring her to start the interviews.
She takes a deep breath, swings her body around to face the guys. It's between Landry and Price. Her mind is zigzagging back and forth. Who should she ask? Landry's a friendly guy, easy to talk to, while Price has been out with a knee injury and is back playing. There's not much to talk about with him.
“Ready, Carla?” the voice asks. “In ten.”
She looks at Mac, who is listening to the same conversation through his headset. He nods, balancing the camera on his shoulders and focusing his lens. He scurries closer. Carla has to make a move or she'll be pushed over.
“Ready in five,” she says into her headset and positions herself in the corner of the cold plexiglass and the boards. She takes a breath. “Jared?” she says his name with authority. “Question for you.”
“In three, two, one, you're on.”
“Jared, you've had a goal a game for the past four games; do you feel pressured to keep up the streak?”
“Nah,” he says, sweat dripping down this face. “It's not every game you get opportunities. I just happened to have the chance.”
“You're two goals away from breaking your scoring record. Would you say playing on a new line is the reason?”
He brings his ear to his shoulder, stretching his neck. “It doesn't hurt. We seem to be gelling and making plays. . . .”
There is a commotion on the bench. Carla steps back as the guys make a line change. The interview is over. Mac already has his camera off his shoulder. The buzzer goes off and the period comes to an end. She leans against the low-bearing wall that separates the crowd from the players, letting the guys walk past her to the dressing room.
“Hey, there,” Devin says.
Carla smiles. Her cheeks grow warm and her heart feels like it's stopped for a second. What has gotten into her? She can't even say hello. He's already gone.
She hangs around with Mac until the game resumes, interviewing one more player.
When Carla finishes, she heads upstairs to watch the remainder of the game before going to find Keith. How is she going to get him downstairs? There are so many media personnel and security, she'll have a tough time getting him through without a badge. Who can she ask to borrow from? She'd ask Ryan, but he's already downstairs, and the cameramen need theirs.
She shuffles through the gathering of media in the press box. She stands in the corner, resting her wrists on the ledge, watching the third period. Devin is on the ice. It's hard not to pay attention to his number nineteen.
Carla feels the vibration of her phone. She sweeps it up from her purse. “Hey, Gab!”
“You're at the game, aren't you?” Gabby asks, disappointed.
“It's a good thing I'm here. I did a fill-in.” Carla plugs her opposite ear with her middle finger. “Where are you?”
“At the Midnight Oil. You should come. They're playing good music,” she yells. “There are hot guys, too. I met someone.”
Carla giggles. “Probably another one-date wonder.”
“What's that?” Gabby yells into the phone.
“Nothing,” Carla says.
“Are you coming out?”
“Not tonight.”
“Aw,” Gabby whines. “Come on. You'll have fun, I promise.”
“I'm working.”
“That's what happens when you show up to games.”
“I'll call you tomorrow,” Carla says and hangs up. She feels somebody getting close to her. It's Kip, the weekend sports reporter.
“A bunch of us are heading to Buckley's after the game. You're welcome to join us,” he says.
“Thanks,” she says, trying to keep an eye on the Jumbotron to count down until the last ten minutes of the game before meeting up with Keith. “I'll see.”
“I'll buy you a drink,” he says, stepping closer and leaning his arms over the railing. “Damn! He almost had it!” The crowd erupts at the play. “If he passed the puck to Landry, he probably would have had it.”