There Are Still Rules To Break

There was something about the night that she couldn’t stand to sleep through. Sure, the day was bright and sunny and busy, but the night… That was the time Amanda loved the most. Luckily, her laid-back job allowed her to stay up late and sleep most of the day away. It didn’t matter when she wrote her articles, as long as they were written and turned in on time. Amanda couldn’t begin to fathom how she was thrust into the world of journalism… kind of.

Working at an internet magazine was never in her life’s plan, but she had to admit that writing about the happenings of Boston was not a bad way to spend her life. And she was only twenty. Never a fan of school, she was fortunate to know the right people and to have basic English skills, something she found most people did not, as cynical as that made her sound. She was able to profile her favorite parts of the city, things that no one else knew about. Frankly, Amanda loved being able to say she was a journalist for BostonBeat.com.

She sat at her “desk” in her apartment, really just a chair and a TV tray that had been set up in the corner, and she fired her laptop up. She bobbed her fingers up and down on the tray, as she waited. “Piece of shit,” She mumbled to herself. She had just gotten it back from the repair shop and already it was running slowly.

She shook her head and looked out her apartment window as she opened Microsoft Word. The weather was cool enough to have her windows open, so she had hers open wide. There was nothing like the cool breeze of night whipping throughout her small, downtown apartment. Amanda sighed and ran a hand through her brown hair, adjusting her thick rimmed glasses on her face before settling down to write.

The digital clock in her kitchen hit four AM and Amanda’s fingers were still clicking over the keys. She smiled at the time, realizing she had plenty of more time before she decided to go to bed. She was wide awake, after all. She sipped her tea as she read over her article, high lighting some of her favorite restaurants that allowed her to eat on a dime. She smiled at her work, and emailed it to her boss; smiling at the response she knew she would get at eight AM, when her boss first checked his email.

Go to bed.

And when she woke up at one, she would laugh and delete it, before making herself lunch and working on another article. For such a nocturnal being, Amanda knew she was the most productive person working for Boston Beat. She could crank out three articles in a twenty four hour period, if she barely tried.

By seven forty-five in the morning, she had a good chunk of an article completed. She was starting to get tired, and she knew her bed time was coming shortly. She shuffled around her apartment, straightening her things, trying to pass the time and stay awake for a little longer. She quickly washed the dishes and gave the kitchen counters a wipe.

At eight ten, her laptop beeped, telling her she had an email. She smiled and walked to her desk, clicking on the email from her boss that said, as she predicted, “Go to bed.”

Deciding to take his advice, she walked into her room, yawning. Passing the coffee table in the living room, the ticket resting atop it told Amanda how she would be spending her day, only a few hours later when she woke up, and maybe what her next article would be about.

It had long been her dream to attend a Boston Red Sox game, sitting somewhere else besides the very top row in the cheapest seats, and now, she finally had a ticket. While she didn’t have a press pass for the event, she knew she would make the best of it, turning the story into a fan’s account of the day, capturing the feel, the vibe. With the game due to start just after three, and since it was already after eight AM, she quickly changed into a pair of shorts and a Boston Bruins tank top before falling asleep.

To Amanda, the beginning of the baseball season always signified the start of summer, even if there was two more months of spring. But with the weather the way it was, it was very hard to find anything summer-y about the day. The wind whipped around her, chilling her. Sure it was in the mid-sixties but it was cloudy, and that was not the kind of weather Amanda wanted to sit in to see her Red Sox play.

She bounced on the heels of her feet, waiting for the gates to open. She wore a pair of jeans, black converse, and a thin navy sweatshirt, ‘Red Sox’ written across her chest. Her hair was straightened but pulled into a high ponytail, red and navy ribbon hanging from it. She wore her glasses, and was grateful she hadn’t put her contacts in; the glasses blocked the wind from burning her eyes.

When the gates opened she took her time getting to her seat; the game wasn’t starting for another hour anyway. She walked through the park, reacquainting herself with it. Though, she could never forget anything about Fenway, just like she couldn’t forget any part of The Garden either. She stopped into the bathroom, sent a few texts, and grabbed herself a soda before she sat down in her seat in the Field Box section. Sure, the tickets were over one hundred dollars for a game, but this was her first time at a game in she didn't know how long! She could afford to splurge a little.

She played with her phone as she waited for the game to start. The Red Sox had finished their batting practice, so they were all in the outfield, far from her spot behind home plate. Her nose was buried into the screen of her cell phone looking up the start time of the next Bruins game, the first game of the playoffs for the relatively young hockey team the following night when the seats next to her became occupied. She glanced over out of the corner of her eye to see a few guys. Rolling her eyes, she hoped they wouldn’t annoy her.

The beer man walked past her, and the man next to Amanda motioned that he wanted one. Amanda sat back in her seat and let the transaction take place. The vendor handed the man his beer, and when the man took it, the tiniest bit of beer spilled onto Amanda’s knee.

“I’m so sorry!” The guy said, an accent to his voice, grabbing a napkin from his friend that was eating nachos to dab up the liquid on her leg.

Amanda shook her head, “Don’t worry about - ” She paused to look up at the guy, almost dropping her cell phone from her hand.

The guy only flashed a charming smile at her, and continued to sop up the cold beer. Amanda just sat there, her eyes wide behind her glasses, unable to say anything.

Patrice Bergeron. Patrice fucking Bergeron was touching her. Sure, he was wiping up the beer he spilled on her, but still. Patrice fucking Bergeron!

She glanced at the people next to him to see both Marc Savard and Chuck Kobasew laughing at Patrice, laughing at the situation.

“Bergy! What the hell did you do?”

“Shut up,” Patrice mumbled, blushing slightly.

Amanda smiled, able to find her voice to talk to Marc and Savy, “He spilled some beer on me.”

Patrice’s two teammates laughed again and shook their heads, turning their heads to the field where the game was just starting.

Patrice cleared his throat, “I really am sorry.”

Amanda shook her head, “It’s fine, really.”

He nodded, “I’m Patrice, but call me Pat.”

“I know,” She said, quietly and Pat blushed again. “I’m Amanda.”

He offered his hand to her, and she sat there looking at it. Why was he being so nice to her? He was a superstar in Boston, a fan favorite. He was at Fenway to enjoy a game with his teammates, obviously; why should he care about the young girl sitting next to him?

Mentally smacking herself, she realized he was looking at her expectantly, his hand still outstretched to her.

“Sorry,” She mumbled, turning red.

His hand gripped hers lightly and Amanda shivered. Whether it was from his touch or the wind picking up, she didn’t know.

The game. Amanda finally started paying attention in the second inning, but she wished she hadn’t. At the end of the inning it was seven to four, Baltimore. Not amused by her team’s performance so early into the game, she slumped her shoulders and sat back on her seat. She heard Pat chuckle next to her, and as frustrated as she was with her baseball team, his laugh made her shiver again. She made the conclusion that before, when they had shaken hands, it wasn’t the wind that made her shiver. It had been Patrice’s touch like she thought.

The next two innings were routine baseball, but the Sox were able to get another run, shortening the Orioles’ lead to two. Amanda was happy, but she still wasn’t satisfied. It was cute, she thought, the guys from the Bruins trying to figure out the game. It was clear by the looks on their faces that baseball wasn’t their thing.

As the game went on, Amanda learned they were there celebrating Chuck’s twenty seventh birthday. Amanda wished him a happy birthday and told him that if she was twenty one, she’d buy him a drink. Chuck laughed and thanked her.

As the game went on, the Orioles scored another run, but the Red Sox scored five more, making the final score ten to eight, in favor of Boston. Amanda cheered her beloved baseball team along with three players from her beloved hockey team, as well as the thousands of Boston Red Sox faithful.

She stood from her seat and stepped into the isle with the flow of the traffic. When she reached the top of the stairs, she felt a hand grab her arm. She turned to see Pat, nervously (as far as she could guess, anyway) rubbing his other hand along the back of his neck.

“It was nice meeting you, Amanda.”

She smiled, “Same to you.”

“Thanks for helping us understand some of the rules and the stats,” He offered, quite
lamely.

She laughed, “It was no problem.”

“Do you think I can have your number?” He asked her. “Maybe get together and have lunch… or something?”

Amanda, as much as she was freaking out inside, kept her calm demeanor. She decided to do something ballsy, in her opinion.

“Nah,” She told him with a wink. “See you around.”