The Fifteenth Minute (25 page)

T
he hockey game
starts in two minutes, and I am still hoofing it toward the rink. Tardiness is inexcusable, because this is a quarter-finals game. Harkness men’s hockey is trying to squeak into the Eastern championships, and then hopefully into the NCAA finals. And I have become nearly as rabid a hockey fan as Bella these past couple of months.

It’s a sickness, and I don’t want to be cured.

As I trot across campus, I try to keep my mind on Harkness’s chances. The team has been hit hard by injury the last two weeks, and I’m worried. Our Boston opponents are having the same problems. I know it’s bad karma to wish injury on anyone. But it would be really nice of God to keep these things even. All the talk at Orsen’s house this week has been about whether or not O’Hane will be able to play this weekend. He’s nursing a shoulder injury. And we’ve already benched Big-D for a stress fracture.

Our defense could be a problem.

These are my thoughts as I hurry toward the rink. Because the other thing that’s on my mind is an email I received a little while ago out of the blue. And I feel a shiver of nervous excitement thinking of it.

D
ear Lianne
,

A couple of weeks ago I received a letter from your college friend Daniel Trevi. He told me that you might be considering a change of management, and he thought you could use my help. And he suggested I reach out to you.

I have to tell you, I felt really guilty when I got this note, because I should have asked you long ago whether there was any way I could help. And to be honest, I’d lost track of the fact that you’re all grown up and making your own decisions now. Every Christmas when I call your mother to say hello and ask about you, she gives me a big fat brush-off, which didn’t encourage me to keep asking questions.

That’s no excuse, though. I’m sorry. I can’t believe it’s been eight years since I’ve seen you.

I went home and I told my girlfriend the whole story. She called me an asshole, and I’m sure I had it coming.

Lianne—if you need any help or advice on the management side, or if you’d just like to have lunch next week when I’m next in New York, please let me know. I’m on the East Coast about a third of the time. I have an office in Union Square. So if next week doesn’t work, I’m sure we can find another time.

Sincerely,

Rick Challice

T
here are
several mind-blowing things about this letter, not the least of which is the fact that leaving Bob might turn out to be easier than I thought. And that Rick speaks to my mom. Every year. And my mom has failed to tell me. Every year.

But also, when I first read it, I couldn’t imagine what possessed DJ to hunt down Rick and then ask for his help without consulting me. But then I remembered the conversation we’d had in the hotel lobby, and how I’d said I was afraid to ask Rick to help me.

I’d forgotten all about that chat, but obviously DJ had not. Then the logic became clear—if DJ asked Rick for help and Rick blew him off, I’d never have to know. DJ did this for me because I needed help, and he wanted to fix it.

I got a little teary over it. Like J. Lo on American Idol, but without the highlights. Then I realized I was going to be late for the hockey game, and my makeup was starting to run. So I had to fix it.

Even as I scamper across campus, I’m thinking warm, happy thoughts about DJ. Some of those thoughts include various ways we might celebrate later. I’ve gotten better at expressing my appreciation lately. It got easier to say sexy things to DJ when I realized how much he liked it. So I’ve been practicing with little things that I’ll whisper in his ear.

Tonight seems like the perfect time to step up my game. So I pull out my phone, taking a page out of Bella’s book. She’d told me what to say once before, and I’d refused. But now I’m so full of gratitude, it’s time to surprise my man.

The phone rang only once before he answered, and the sounds of a very full hockey stadium were suddenly in my ear. “‘Lo?”

“DJ,” I sort of shout into the phone so he can hear me. “I want to strip you naked and bounce on your dick.”

“Lianne?”

I yank the phone away from my ear and stare at the call screen. It says “DJ” on it, just as it should. “DJ?” I yell into the mouthpiece.

“It’s Graham. DJ had to—”

I don’t give him a chance to finish. Instead, I hang up, my heart pounding.

Holy God.

T
wo minutes
later I show my ID at the door and scurry through the student entrance. I don’t bother looking for Bella in the stands, because I’ll be watching the game from the press box. That’s where I sit for every game now, watching DJ work and interfering with his playlist when I see fit.

But Graham will be in there.

What have I done?

I open the press-box door a couple of inches, just to make sure Graham is busy at his computer. If I’m going to be avoiding him for the rest of my life, I kind of need to start now.

But he isn’t in front of his computer. Instead, he’s standing over DJ’s setup, poking at the sound board.

And DJ is nowhere in sight.

Graham turns around and catches me watching him. “Hey! Could you please get over here? I can’t find the introduction music.”

Damn it.

I scurry over, and there’s no time, because the players are circling the ice to silence. Bending over DJ’s computer, I flip between playlists until I find U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.”

The crowd actually cheers when the music starts up, and Graham heaves a sigh of relief.

“Where’s DJ?” I ask.

“My God, do you two not talk?” He slides out of the way. “He said you’d cover for him.”

“We
would
have talked except…” Gah!
Why did you have to answer his phone?

A slow smile spreads across Graham’s face. “Right. You know, it’s a shame, but the last call to DJ’s phone was a terrible connection. I couldn’t hear a
thing
.”

I roll my eyes. “Good. We shall never speak of this again.”

“Fine. But anyway—DJ needs you to back him up tonight.” He waves at the equipment.

“Why?”

“The players are lining up, Lianne.”

Shit! I whip around and fade out the song so the announcer can call for the national anthem. A women’s a cappella singing group does the honors while I slip into the seat and check everything over. DJ’s computer is all cued up and ready to go. But where is he?

Down on the ice, players circle into position for the first faceoff. I hit play on Santana’s “Smooth” while they get into position. They crouch in readiness. The ref drops the puck, and I fade out the song.

Again I turn around. “Seriously—is something wrong? Where’s DJ?”

“Not a thing is wrong. Not really.” Graham’s smile is strange.

“Okay? Then…?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“What?”

He only gives me that odd smile and moves down the row to sit in his seat.

Below me the game is in progress, and I have to pay attention. Harkness looks strong tonight. Leo and John Rikker execute a number of fast passes which leave the other team struggling to keep up. But two minutes in, they haven’t gotten off a shot. There’s a line change, and then we lose possession. Fortunately the other guys get called for icing. I play “Ice Ice Baby” for the faceoff, and wonder where DJ is.

I’ve gotten good at this, and my hockey knowledge is a whole lot better than it used to be. DJing the game is easy now, though I still wish I weren’t doing it alone. These past couple of months together have been a lot of fun. I’ve always loved DJ’s company, but after his problems were resolved, he became lighter. Sillier. We have a great time both in and out of the press box.

Things are going pretty well down on the ice, too. Boston gets called for high sticking, so I play “Hard to Handle” by the Black Crowes. I’m squinting at the line change when I notice something odd. One of our defensive players is much shorter than the other one. Who is that?

“Oh my God,” I say suddenly. “Oh my GOD!”

“Now she gets it,” Graham mutters from two seats down.

“DJ!” I squeal. I’m so excited that I forget to fade out the Black Crowes and the song plays three seconds too long before I jam down the fade lever. Then I plant my hands on the desk and lean so far over for a better view of the ice that falling into the stands would be a real risk if I weren’t so short.

DJ is chasing down a Boston player on the backcheck. “GET IT!” I scream. He makes several attempts before successfully lifting the other player’s stick and knocking the puck out of the other guy’s control.

The skidding puck goes wide until it’s picked up by another Harkness D-man, who barely gets the pass off to a forward before getting slammed into the plexi. It’s not the cleanest play, but THAT WAS MY BOYFRIEND WHO STOLE THE PUCK!

I’m practically in defib from the excitement.

Harkness charges around, looking for a scoring opportunity while the penalty clock ticks down on the opponent. Coach calls for an unlikely line change of forwards at the forty-second mark, and I can barely breathe. The fresh legs take a run at the net, but it’s a fake-out. Leo Trevi flicks the puck backward under his own skate to his brother. My heart is in my mouth when DJ fires it back immediately to Rikker.

Who
scores
.

My scream could shatter windows.

I’m jumping around and shouting, tearing my way over to Graham. He’s on his feet too, because his boyfriend just scored the goal that mine assisted. “Oh my GOD!” I shriek, throwing myself at him. I’ve probably shattered his eardrum. Down on the ice they’re having a proper celly, high-fiving Rikker and rubbing DJ’s helmet. “This is awesome! I love you, Graham.”

Laughing, he sets me on my feet. “You know there’s dead air right now, right?”

“FUCK!” I skid back over and double click on “Moves Like Jagger.” I’m the worst DJ ever tonight. And it’s totally worth it.

D
uring the break between periods
, I finally get the story from Graham.

“It’s O’Hane’s shoulder,” our resident sportswriter explains. “Coach wants to take it easy on him if he can. And Bridger has a stomach bug.”

“Oh!” Bridger is the senior who filled in last year in the post-season when Graham got injured. I try not to think too hard about how dangerous hockey really is. “So they just came up to the press box and said, ‘DJ where are your skates?’”

Graham laughs. “I think they caught him at home when he was packing up his computer to come here. But, yeah. Pretty much. He dropped his computer here, plugged it in and told me to have you take over. Meanwhile, Leo was practically dragging him out of here by the collar. He looked a little stressed out.”

“I bet.” I
hope
DJ is enjoying himself. Skating in a Harkness playoff game wasn’t something he ever thought he’d do. I hope this night is everything for him.

Also, I resolve to be a better DJ for the rest of the game. If he hears me slipping up, it will stress him out.

This gives me an idea.

There are six minutes left in the break, and already the Zamboni is halfway done surfacing the ice. So I’ll have to work fast.

M
y next batch
of songs is eclectic, to put it mildly. There won’t be any calls to give me the job permanently after tonight’s game. But I don’t care. This is for DJ. The first time I ever watched a game from the booth I was already on my way to falling for him. So if nobody but DJ understands my picks tonight, it’s really okay with me.

My choices might sound weird. But my cues are all perfect, no matter how nervous I am. Even when DJ is crosschecked into the boards, I keep it together, and he’s back on his feet before I have the song cued up. I play:

“Dynamite” by Taio Cruz
.

“Jump” by Van Halen.

“Dancing in the Streets,” the Bowie and Mick Jagger version.

“Jenny” by Tommy Tutone, the only song that made the world memorize a phone number.

“Dancing with Myself” (The Green Day Cover, because what is a hockey game without Green Day?)

“Just What I Needed,” the old Cars tune.

“Daughter” by Pearl Jam.

“Justify My Love.” Thank you Madonna.

“Dancing in the Dark.”

“Jailhouse Rock.”

“Dark Horse” by Katy Perry.

“Jet Airliner” by the Steve Miller Band.

In other words: D J D J D J D J… I spell out my boyfriend’s nickname over and over with the starting letter of the songs I choose. And even if they throw tomatoes at me afterward, it’s worth it.

Three periods seem to last three years, and DJ doesn’t get anymore shots at greatness. But when it’s over, Harkness has won the game, 3-1.

I’m sweaty and high on adrenaline by the time the buzzer sounds. With shaky hands I carefully pack up DJ’s computer and cables in the bag he’s tucked under the desk.

“Good game, right?”

I look up to find Graham waiting for me. “The best.”

He winks. “You need anything?”

“I’m good. Except…” This is weird. “Where do I wait for him?” I’ve never been a puck bunny before. I don’t know the protocol. Too bad there isn’t any time to make a stupid sign. Like MEET ME BEHIND THE ZAMBONI or YOU CAN HOOK ME ANYTIME YOU WANT.

“In the hallway downstairs. C’mon. I’ll show you.”

I follow Graham down a staircase and into the bowels of the rink. It’s the same place we went the night DJ walked me out the back to keep out of the photographer’s way. Except we turn right instead of left, and the corridor is stuffed with people. Girls, mostly. “So this is puck bunny central,” I say, eyeing all the swinging ponytails and Harkness Hockey T-shirts.

“Watch it,” Graham says, elbowing me. “I don’t like that term.” He crosses his big arms in an exaggerated way and gives me a comical face.

“Sorry!” I laugh. “Present company excepted. Obvs.”

“Obvs.”

“Is it weird to wait here? I mean…last year you were in there.” I point to the locker room door.