Page 2 of The One Timer

Barely making it off the ice before the Zamboni comes out, I sprint through the tunnel, waving at the kids hanging over the bars, and head for the locker room—the visitors’ locker room—at the fucking Garden, the place I used to spend my happiest times as a kid watching Brawlers games.

We’d always sit in the same center ice seats because our family has owned those season tickets forever—the seats where Grandma should be right now.

The seats where the mystery girl sits. At least for now.

I wonder if she’ll still be there once the game starts or if the ushers will toss her out.

Then I wonder why I even give a shit.

Either way, I need to give Gran a call to check on her to see why she didn’t show up. A trickle of nerves runs down my spine, but I brush it off. As soon as I hit the locker room, I head for my cubby and reach for my phone. Gran’s fine. Old Molly Whittier is as healthy as the proverbial horse. I tap on her icon—the W logo for the family business—Whittier Whiskey.

The phone only rings once like she was expecting my call.

“Who’s the chick sitting in your seat?”

She laughs. “Hello Chase. She must be one of the Foster girls. I sent the tickets over to them. I’m sorry I couldn’t make the game tonight.”

The Fosters have lived next door to our family in Louisburg Square, a toney neighborhood of the already toney Beacon Hill section of Boston, for two, going on three generations if you count me. But I moved to Portsmouth when I joined the Whalers six months ago.

Either way, I’ve known the family all my life, so I would know if the chick was one of the Foster girls. I don’t bother pointing this out to Gran. I’m more concerned about why she ditched coming to the game.

“I was going to take you out on the town dancing after the game, but now I’ll have to take some strange chick instead.” This makes her really laugh. Then she coughs, and I frown, turning toward my locker, away from the crowded locker room where guys are adjusting equipment and getting in some last-minute stretches before the coaches give us our pre-game pep talk. “Seriously, Gran, what’s up? I was looking forward to seeing you tonight.”

“I know, my boy. I’ve missed you since you moved away to play for the rival team in Portsmouth.”

I snort. “Not much of a rivalry. Are you okay?”

She sighs. “I’m fine, but I’m tired tonight. I spent a lot of time working on the Whittier Foundation’s annual holiday charity gala. I need the rest. But don’t you worry. I’ll be cheering you on from the comfort of my chair in the den. Uvi and I will be so loud you’ll hear us at the Garden.”

“Make sure you do a cartwheel for me when I score a hat trick.”

“How about if I toss a hat at the television?”

I can hear the smile in her voice, but I can hear the tiredness, too. While I weigh whether or not I should bother her anymore about who the mystery girl is sitting in her seat, Coach Spence intervenes, shouting my name and getting in my face.

“Gotta go,” I say quickly.

“I love you, Chase, my boy. Play your heart out, and all will be well.”

Coach Spence stands directly in front of me, staring with his infamous scowl, taking up my entire field of vision. There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and I know Gran is waiting for me.

Fuck it. Even though I know how it will sound if I say the words she expects, the words I always say to her, I say them anyway, willing to take shit for it.

“I love you, too.” I end the call and watch Coach’s eyebrows lift and his scowl deepen at the same time, though I didn’t think it was possible.

“Are you fucking serious? Do I really need to tell you how wrong it is to be on the phone with your girlfriend at game time, Whittier? If you want any playing time, get your fucking head in the game. We’re playing our division rivals. Short of the playoffs, it doesn’t get any more fucking important than this. And you’re on the phone with a girl?”

I stand there and take his tirade because I’m no whiner, and I’m not about to make excuses or even try to explain. He’s right. Bottom line is, this is a big game, and I need to focus.

Sabien stands up beside me, and while Coach shakes his head, quieting for a beat, he interrupts—because that’s the kind of guy Sabien is—no shame, no reverence, no fear, even when he should be afraid, probably because he grew up with the proverbial silver spoon, and it’s still stuck in his mouth—or in his brain. He can’t seem to lose the privileged S.O.B. attitude.

“Coach Spence,” he says in a confident voice, though not disrespectful, definitely not deferential. Coach turns to him with one eyebrow raised, and Sabien, despite me squeezing his elbow, takes this as an invitation to continue. “Maybe you didn’t realize Chase was calling his grandmother because he was worried when she didn’t show up for the game.”

My jaw drops in shock. WTF? I’m grateful for Sabien standing up for me, even touched and fucking surprised. But he makes a reasonable pitch.

Coach scowls and turns to me, but before he speaks, Sabien has to push the envelope a little too far.

He says, “You know the Whittiers have owned the center ice seats for generations.”