Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(2)

“See?” Leo says calmly. “L.A. isn’t gonna knock out Dallas tonight.”

“Yeah they are!” I argue because I’m in a mood now. “This will fire them up. Just you wait.”

“The waiting would be better with beer,” Leo prods. “Just saying.”

“Fine.” I get up, full of nervous energy. “I’ll check the fridge.” I don’t need to watch the Dallas fans celebrate, anyway.

“There’s three six-packs in there,” Heidi says as I extricate myself from the sofa. “A Brooklyn lager and two ales from... Whoa! Silas!”

Heidi’s outburst makes everyone turn and look at the screen again. The cameraman is cruising the best seats in the house, and the commentator is pointing out the team owner and various celebrities in the audience.

And—holy shit—there it is, the celebrity face that fills my dreams. Delilah Spark, the most celebrated new singer-songwriter in the world, is in the second row at the fucking Dallas game. As I stare at her exquisite face, the commentator says exactly what I’m thinking. “This is incredible! Who knew that singer-songwriter Delilah Spark was a hockey fan!”

“Holy moly!” Jason yells. “Dude!”

“This is your chance!” O’Doul laughs.

Heidi gives a little squeak of excitement. “Now you have something in common! Something besides, you know, mooning over her and playing her music all day and all night.”

I can barely hear them, though. I’m still glued to the screen.

“Delilah Spark made the gossip pages last month when she left her on-again-off-again boyfriend, music producer Brett Ferris…” the commentator drones.

My friends all howl. “She’s single, man!” Leo yells. “Get in there!” someone else adds.

“Aren’t you hilarious,” I drawl. And I already saw those headlines about her breakup. But at the moment, it’s the furthest thing from my mind. Because I’ve just noticed something awful. “She’s wearing a…” Could it even be true? “A Dallas jersey.”

The room erupts. Drake howls, and O’Doul throws a paper napkin at the screen. “Ooooh!” Heidi wails. “Plot twist!”

“That is rough, man,” Jason says, shaking his head. “So tragic. You think you know a girl.” He laughs, because he thinks it’s a simple irony.

If only.

Slowly, I walk into the kitchen. I’m suddenly grumpy as fuck. I’m used to taking a lot of flak for my obsession with Delilah Spark, even if my interest in her is slightly less pathetic than everyone assumes.

Slightly.

Still, it’s not like I know her. But Dallas? It’s like a knife to the heart. It also makes no sense. Delilah is a California girl.

I pull out my phone and open Twitter. I follow exactly sixty-seven people on Twitter—teammates, other hockey friends, sports commentators, and Delilah Spark.

Sure enough, she’s been tweeting about the Dallas matchup. My first hockey game! Someone tell me the rules.

The tweet has 834 likes already, and dozens of replies. Don’t watch the puck, watch the players! And, All you need to know is that if the lamp turns red, they scored. And, Hockey players are hot! Etc.

I tweet a reply, even though I doubt she’ll see it. I’m a big fan of yours, but I have to know why you’d support Dallas. Will they even let you back into California after this?

Shoving my phone into my pocket, I don’t feel any better. Why couldn’t her first hockey game be mine?

I open the fridge. Heidi has stocked us up on beer, just as she said. I take all three six-packs out, grab an opener, and carry the whole lot into the living room. “Nobody better be in my seat,” I grumble.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Drake says from the floor.

There’s a knock at the door as I’m setting the beer down on the coffee table. “Get that like a good rookie, would you?”

“When am I done being the rookie?” he asks, getting up anyway.

Castro snorts. “The minute there’s someone else we can call ‘rookie.’ You see anybody like that here?”

“No.” Drake opens the door to find Georgia, Leo’s wife. She’s dragging a beanbag chair behind her. And also Bayer, our recently retired teammate.

There’s a chorus of happy sounds, because we never see this guy anymore. “He’s alive!” someone shouts. “Tell us everything.”

“I would, but there’s a game on.” He kicks the beanbag into place against the wall for Georgia. “Are we ordering pizza?”

“Let’s do it,” Heidi says. “Who has a phone?”

I unlock mine and hand it to Heidi. Then I open a beer for myself. On the screen, L.A. is looking more alive. “See? They’re going to fight for it. Sometimes being down a goal lights your fire.”

“Or down a game,” Jason argues. “We need a bet. Who’s with Silas that L.A. can win this thing?”

My teammates prattle on, and I’m trying to watch the game. But now that I know Delilah Spark is sitting just to the left of the Dallas bench, I can’t stop looking for her. And every time they cut to a wide shot of the coach chewing his gum behind his players, I get a glimpse. Dark, shiny hair and a smile that knows secrets.

And that green jersey. That’s the part I wish I could unsee.