Chapter 1: Hockey and Hotties
The lower bowl vibrated with a deep, collective hum, a sound felt in the teeth more than heard. Christopher “Norm” Norman pushed his way through the packed aisle, the paper of his ticket damp in his hand. Popcorn grease and spilled beer formed a familiar perfume. Below, the ice was a surgical white, the players in their warm-up laps little more than colored streaks.
His seat was a welcome sight. Then he saw the neighbors.
Three beautiful women sat the seats surrounding his. He couldn't believe his luck. He mumbled apologies as he squeezed past denim and puffy vests, catching flashes: a sleek dark bob, a cascade of curls, a baseball cap. He finally dropped into his seat with a grunt, the plastic creaking under his weight.
“Ladies,” he said, offering a disarming, goofy smile. “Don’t mind me. Just the sweet filling of this lovely oreo cookie. Or ice cream sandwich... or whatever you wanna call it.”
The one next to the aisle, with a dark bob and an elegant wool scarf, gave him a polite, measured smile. “Better you than some shlep with a hockey mask or foam finger or one of those horrendous horns,” she said. Her voice was calm, clear. “I’m Serena.”
“Christopher. But my friends call me Norm.”
“Why Norm?” The woman who sat beside Serena next to him said. Turned in her seat, her vibrant green/blue eyes taking him in. She had a wild tumble of light and dark curls and a smile that seemed to take up her whole face. A modified Canadiens jersey, with a deep-necked V stretched across a frankly spectacular chest.
“It's easier than saying Christopher, really. I'm not a fan of 'Chris' but Norm was fine... part of the last name...,” he said, leaning forward to see her. “It stuck.”
“I am Isabelle,” she said, her voice melodic with a French-Canadian lilt. “But Izzy is fine. You are here for d'game, d'view or da beer eh le cuisine?”
“All of that. Equally passionate about everything you just said.” his smile beaming as he reflected the energy in her eyes.
The third woman, in the cap and a unzipped hoodie, showing her impressive chest and toned shoulders, elbowed him as he realized his gaze was trailing down Izzy’s jersey and resting on her lap. “I’m Britt! You ready to get fucking loud?” She sat to his left, waiting for his high five, beer in hand and ready to get rowdy. She had an athletic presence and ADHD restlessness, her knee bouncing.
“You know it, Britt! Let's get this game started!!” Chris laughed.
The lights dimmed then, and a thunderous roar erupted as the home team skated onto the ice. The noise was a physical pressure. The anthem played, a screaming, off-key collective rendition that made Serena wince and Izzy sing passionately in French, her hand over her heart. Britt whooped, long and loud, right in Chris’s ear.
The puck dropped.
The game was a blur of speed and violence. Chris got lost in it for a few shifts, yelling at a missed pass, groaning at a shot that rang off the post. He was a dad, a gym rat, a guy who loved this stupid, beautiful game. For a moment, it was just him and the ice.
Then a warm pressure leaned against his shoulder. Izzy. She was pointing, her other hand gripping his forearm.
“Look! LOOK! TabberNACK - lewk at 'ow dey collapse in de neutral zone? Dey are giving our boys dee outside, but Montreal is too fast! They will break it! You will see! Allez! ALLEZ!!!” Her analysis was sharp, expert. Her breath was warm against his cheek. She smelled like cinnamon buns, ale and fresh air.
Sure enough, a Canadiens winger sliced through, deked, and took a blistering shot that the goalie snagged with a glove. The crowd roared.
“You called it,” Chris said, impressed.
“I know my game and I know my boys,” she said, sitting back but squeezing his forearm. Her gaze was still locked on the play. “Mon Pere 'ad me skating before I could walk.!
On his other side, Serena spoke softly. “I’m sorry, can you explain offside to me while there's a break? It has something to do with the blue line, doesn’t it?”
Chris turned. Her expression was one of genuine, intelligent curiosity. “Yeah, you got it, it's the blue line,” he explained, using his hands to point at the blue line running across the rink in front of them. “See, the puck has to fully cross the line before any attacking player…”
He was mid-explanation when a spray of cold, frothy liquid hit the back of his left shoulder and arm. He jerked.
“Oh, fuuuuuuuck! Not the beer! ! Sorry, dude!” Britt cackled, holding a half-crushed plastic cup. She’d high fived the woman next to her and sloshed her beer over his arm, which was now dripping in suds.
“Mon dieu!” Izzy laughed, reaching over to wipe his arm off. “Brittany! 'Dis poor man! It is a baptism! Now you are part of the game!”
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Chris said, also wiping and shaking off the remaining beer; the smell of cheap lager was strong.
“I’ll get you another,” Britt said, already half-out of her seat. “My treat. Gotta keep the section hydrated!” She vanished into the streaming crowd before he could refuse.
Serena offered him a napkin from her purse. “Here. She’s… energetic.”
“That’s one word for it,” Chris said, taking it with a grateful smile.
Britt returned not with one beer, but four, clamped between her hands. “Round one!” She distributed them, clinking her cup hard against Chris’s. “To new friends and some solid checks!” She took a long, aggressive chug, then let out a belch that was, frankly, championship caliber. Izzy howled with laughter, a rich, infectious sound that made people around them turn and smile.
Izzy howled with laughter, a rich, infectious sound that made people around them turn and smile.
“Alright, alright! A toast to the section!” Britt declared, raising her fresh beer high. “Bottoms up, you beautiful people! Chug, chug, chug, chug!”
Izzy met the challenge with a competitive glint, tilting her head back. Serena watched, amused, before taking elegant but determined swallows. Chris, not to be outdone by the trio, joined in. The cold, bitter lager was a shock, a liquid catalyst. They slammed their empty cups down on the concrete floor in a ragged, triumphant unison, breathless and grinning.
The effect was swift. A pleasant haze descended, softening the arena's sharp edges. Inhibitions, already low, evaporated.
“My turn,” Serena announced, her voice cutting through the crowd noise with new authority. She stood smoothly as a beer merchant trudged up the stairs, his tray laden. She returned with four more, payment handled with a tap of her wrist. “A gentleman would have done that,” she said, handing Chris his beer with a sly, un-Serena-like wink. “But we’re among equals here.”
“You are a goddess,” Britt slurred, throwing an arm around Serena’s shoulders. “A classy, classy goddess.”
The game, meanwhile, had become a grinding war of attrition. Checks slammed into the boards right below them, the thwack of plastic and wood echoing up through their feet. A scrum formed in front of the net, a knot of angry, padded men. Gloves dropped.
A fight.
The arena erupted. Britt was on her feet, screaming, “Punch his fucking face in! YES!” Her whole body vibrated with violent enthusiasm. Izzy was also standing, but her commentary was analytical even through the buzz. “He is protecting dee goalie, see? 'Dis is strategy. 'Dis idiot took a liberty. Now he pays.”
Chris found himself explaining the nuances of enforcers to Serena, who listened closely, her knee now casually brushing against his. “So it’s sanctioned assault,” she said, her eyes on the tangled fighters.
“Pretty much,” Chris laughed.
The period ended with a blistering slap shot that found the top corner. The red light ignited, the horn blared. Their section, a mix of fans, exploded.
In the celebratory chaos, Izzy threw her arms around Chris from the right, her ample chest pressing against his side. “You see! You see 'dat release! C’est magnifique!” On his left, Britt jumped up and down, bouncing into him with each leap, her whoops deafening. Serena remained seated, but she was clapping, her sophisticated composure replaced by a bright, flushed exhilaration.
They collapsed back into their seats, breathless and buzzing. The intermission music pumped. The energy between the four of them had solidified, warmed by alcohol and shared noise.
“Okay, serious question,” Britt said, leaning across Chris’s lap to address Izzy, her beer sloshing. “Your jersey. How do you not, like, fall out of that during a big cheer? It’s engineering.”
Izzy laughed, a throaty, unselfconscious sound. “It is good stitching, eh? And maybe I do not mind a little… freedom.” She glanced at Chris, her green-blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “What do you think, Norm? You are a man who appreciates 'dee game'. Is my jersey… distracting?”
Chris felt the heat rise up his neck. He took a long pull of his beer, buying a second. The alcohol and the directness of the question stripped away his usual dad-filter. He met Izzy's gaze, his own eyes crinkling with a mix of embarrassment and honest appreciation.
"Distracting?" he said, his voice a low rumble under the arena's din. "Izzy, the jersey is a masterpiece. And what's underneath it is... let's call it a very welcome diversion from a missed power play."
A beat of silence hung between them, then Britt let out a roar of laughter, slapping his thigh. "He admits it! The man likes tits! I fucking knew it!"
Serena didn't laugh, but a slow, knowing smile spread across her lips. She took a delicate sip, her eyes never leaving Chris's face. The dynamic in their little row shifted, charged and clear. They had a handsome, good-natured man in their midst who was not just tolerating their energy, but enjoying it. Specifically, enjoying them.
The game resumed, but the focus had subtly fractured. Now, every big play was a duel.
When the home team leveled the score with a wraparound goal, Britt was the first to react. She launched herself from her seat, but instead of just jumping, she turned into Chris, throwing her arms around his neck. The momentum and the alcohol made her clumsy. Her body, strong and soft, pressed against him, and her chest collided squarely with his face in a muffled, fragrant impact.
"WOO! That's how you fucking do it!" she yelled, not letting go, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
Chris, half-smothered, let out a muffled laugh, his hands coming up instinctively to steady her hips. She finally released him, grinning down without an ounce of shame. "You okay in there, Norm? Use you as a rally towel?"
Before he could answer, Izzy was tapping his other arm. A penalty had been called. "See! 'Dis is what I was saying! 'Dey take the stupid penalty, and now we have 'dee power play. 'Dis is where we win." As she explained, she leaned across him, one hand on his knee for balance, her jersey plunging open to offer him an unobstructed, dizzying view of her cleavage as she pointed down at the offending player in the box. She stayed there, suspended, for a few seconds too long, her cinnamon-and-ale scent enveloping him. "You see where I mean, eh?"
"I see it," Chris croaked, trying and failing to keep his eyes on the penalty box.
Serena observed this from his other side, her expression unreadable. During a commercial break, she smoothly extracted a tray of nachos from a passing vendor. "You need sustenance, Christopher," she said, her tone practical. She held the tray between them, and as he went to grab a chip loaded with cheese and jalapeño, she deliberately shifted, causing the tray to tilt. A glob of warm cheese landed on his shirt, just over his pec.
"Oh, how clumsy of me," she murmured, not sounding sorry at all. She plucked a napkin. "Here, let me." Her movements were slow, deliberate, as she dabbed at the stain, her knuckles brushing firmly against his chest through the fabric. Her touch was electric and precise. "There. Almost good as new."