Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(3)

“Everybody owes Silas fifteen bucks,” Heidi says, tapping away at a food-delivery app on my phone. “If you don’t have change, just make it twenty.”

“Did you remember to order one with—” Drake starts.

“Yes,” Heidi cuts him off. “You think by now I don’t know what everyone likes?”

“My bad,” Drake says from the floor, because he’s not stupid.

Heidi is a full-time assistant to the team’s general manager. Underestimate her at your own peril. “Silas,” she says, “your Twitter is blowing up. Here.” She hands back my phone.

“Really,” I say slowly, taking it from her. Forty-two new notifications. Huh. That can only mean one thing. “Delilah Spark tweeted me back.”

“What?” Heidi squeaks. “Let me see!” She grabs the phone before I can read it. “OMG! Listen: ‘Can’t I be fans of both teams? A Dallas radio station sent me to my first game.’”

“Wait, you’re busting on your idol for wearing a Dallas jersey?” Jason asks, and then everyone else roars.

“I had to ask,” I say, and it comes out sounding defensive.

My teammates find this hilarious. They laugh so hard that beer comes out of Drake’s nose.

“Let me see!” Jason says, and then my phone gets passed around the room, as if we’re all in seventh grade again, and a cute girl passed me a note.

“You have to reply,” Leo says.

“She should wear an L.A. jersey for half the game,” Georgia points out, “so she doesn’t piss off her hometown fans.”

“Ahhh,” says the room, because that’s a good point. Georgia is a publicist, so she has to think of these things on the regular.

“Who do we know at the game?” Leo asks.

“Well, we know all the guys on the ice,” O’Doul says, and I snort. “Can’t exactly ask Gaborova to hand the girl his jersey.”

“Besides them,” Leo argues.

Georgia lets out a little groan and then reaches for her handbag. “You guys are going to make me work right now, aren’t you?”

“Please?” I beg. “You must know someone in the L.A. office.”

“We need an L.A. jersey, right?” she says, poking at her phone. “In a gift bag. And someone to run it down to her?”

“And a note,” I say.

“Ooh!” Heidi squeaks and then pokes me in the arm. “What should it say?”

What indeed? “Say… ‘This jersey has two purposes. First, it will keep you on the good side of your hometown crew. And you’ll also be on the right side of history when L.A. clinches this series in the third period.’”

“They can’t clinch tonight,” O’Doul argues.

“Just you wait,” I snap back.





But waiting is hard. I eat too many slices of pizza because I’m nervous. L.A. is fighting for it, but halfway through the second period they’re still trailing 2-0. “Come on, come on,” I chant on their next possession of the puck. “You can do this. Dallas is getting complacent.”

“For a reason,” Jason whispers.

“You shut up.”

The stress of the game is compounded by Delilah Spark’s frequent appearance on our screen. The TV camera loves her almost as much as I do. She’s still wearing that godawful jersey, though. I’m trying hard not to see it as some kind of jinx.

But then L.A. calls a time out, and while they enjoy their sixty seconds of togetherness, the camera cuts once again to Delilah. And—holy shit—someone wearing an L.A. jacket is trying to hand her a bag. After a moment’s negotiation with a burly-looking bodyguard, the bag is in her hands.

“Did it!” Georgia yells. She gets up off the beanbag chair and pumps her fist.

“You are such a babe!” Leo says, getting up to high-five his wife. He blocks my view of the screen for a second, and when I look again, Delilah is pulling a black garment out of the bag.

“What’s this?” a commentator asks. “Delilah Spark is getting a gift at her first hockey game. It’s…” Delilah reveals the L.A. logo on the jersey.

The crew in our living room goes wild.

“This is hilarious,” Jason says beside me. “Even if Dallas wins—”

“Bite your goddamn tongue.”

“Wasn’t there a note?” Heidi asks. “Did she see it?”

We don’t find out, because the camera cuts away again to set up the faceoff.

Bummer.

“You have to tweet her again,” Heidi says. “She needs to know it’s from you.”

“No, she doesn’t.” It really doesn’t matter one way or the other.

“But what if the note fell on the floor?” Heidi presses, and there’s a worried line between her eyebrows.

“Then it fell on the floor,” I say. There are worse accidents of fate. Ask me how I know.

“Let me see your phone,” Heidi says.

“No way.”

“I just want to see if she replies.”

“Tweet something and die,” I threaten, handing it over.

“Power play!” Drake yells, and my attention goes right back where it should be—on the game.