Luck of the Irish

“You cannot actually be wearing that,” Joan looks at the black jersey I have on. Adorned on the sleeves and back are number 10’s and in big letters ‘SHARP’.

“What?” I sigh. It was a legit, certified jersey and had been a gift for my college graduation.

“Kane obviously has a thing for you! You can’t show up in his equally attractive teammate’s jersey.” She digs through my closet and throws a green ‘Hawks hoodie at me.

“What are you wearing?” I ask as I ditch my jersey and slide the hoodie over my white V-neck.

Joan unzips her jacket to reveal a long sleeved, Indian head V-neck of her own. She smiles a smart ass grin and cocks her head to the side sassily.

“If you’re worried about what he’ll think,” I say as I fixed my straightened hair. “Then why don’t I just wear my Kane shirt?”

“Because you can’t give him that much credit right now,” she says, tossing me my purse. “And I don’t have a Shaw shirt yet.”

We take a bus to the UC, opting to the car we still share at the apartment. Parking is crazy and equally expensive and I have a feeling Joan hopes they invite us out after.

I wouldn’t be opposed, but I’d much rather go home after and sleep. Things were coming down to the wire for the Boston match and needed to be in ready. As soon as I wrapped up in New England, I would come back to Chicago and start tapering my workouts for Golden Gloves.

“And we can see the marathon in Boston too!” Joan had obviously been talking about our travel plans while I’d been looking out the window. “Fun, right?”

“Hmm?” I turned my head. “Oh, yeah.”

She rolled her eyes and we gathered out things together before getting off the bus a block from the arena. Falling into step with the moving crowd, it was amazing to see the number of people sporting their Blackhawks apparel, even if they weren’t going to the game and were instead taking it in from sports bars or their homes. The lockout had taken a toll on some hockey markets, but obviously not in Chicago.



“So you can thank me later,” Andrew says from his place next to me in the locker room.

I snort. “For what? Actually being semi quiet today?”

He rolls his eyes. “No! For getting your girl here. She and Joan are sitting behind Crow for the first and third.”

I nod wordlessly, a little peeved. I’d have much preferred I’d given them the tickets and been able to get myself some points in her book. But having her here was better than knowing she was watching at home.

“Shawzer says you’ve got a thing with the waitress?” Jonny asks as he passes. “True?”

I shrug. “I wouldn’t say it’s a… thing.” But I want it to be. In fact, I’m practically praying that it will be.

“Right,” he smirks. “Maybe we’ll get you the puck?” It’s a joke and I know it, but I can’t help but let it rub me the wrong way. This is the first time since my rookie season that Jon’s been involved with someone without me being so as well. He and Lindsey are relatively new, but everyone seems to know about them.

Soon, we’re all headed out onto the ice for warm ups and even before my skates hit the rink, I’m looking for her. At first, I’m looking for her familiar curls. But I don’t see any. So then I look for her creamy, fair skin, but only realize that it would all be covered by some form of Blackhawks merchandise. In the end, I resort to following Shaw’s line of sight.

They’re right beside the net and against the glass. Her hair isn’t an auburn curly mane tonight because she’s probably spent forever straightening so that it’s pin straight. And indeed, her pale skin is covered by a green ‘Hawks hoodie. But her eyes pop and I see them darting around, looking.

Please let her be looking for me.

Her sister finds Andrew and she waves, only encouraging his little show he’s putting on for her. Joan sees me first and she nudges Jane in my direction.

Her eyes shoot up and connect with me. A small smile spreads across her lips and I lift a glove in response. Joan says something to make her scowl and shove her sister’s shoulder.

“Let’s get the puck tonight, eh?” Shaw shouts above the din of the crowd. “You and me?”

“Why does it seem like you all think I can’t score on any other night?” I complain a little.

“Did you eat your sushi?” Sharpie grins.

“Fuck off,” I grumble.

It’s going to be a long night.



Fuck, this night is going to go on forever.

Especially if Joan keeps making suggestive comments about players’ asses; particularly Toews’.

“Don’t you have a boyfriend or a fuck buddy or whatever the hell it is that you two are?” I complain as the arena’s anticipation begins to mount for the anthem.

She frowns. “Just because I’m okay with casual sex doesn’t automatically make him a fuck buddy.”

Well, shit. Joan would choose now to be sensitive.

“Oh, come on, Jo,” I sigh. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. I think it’s great that you met Andrew.”

“He’s a good guy,” she says. “Young, but really sweet.”

“Yeah, you’re such a cougar,” I tease as we all rise for the anthem. “Three whole years on him.”

She laughs as the arena comes alive around us. It’s not the Madhouse for nothing.

It’s not long before the game is underway and shots are being fired. Detroit comes out hot and they get one through Crawford’s five hole not even ten minutes into the first.

Frustration is evident on everyone’s faces and what surprises me is that Patrick seems more upset than his captain. He battles harder for the puck and even finished a few hits; much to the annoyance of the Red Wings.

On a boarding call near the end of the first period, Chicago is given the chance to tie it up. But it’s like a collective groan came from the arena as the offender headed to the box. It was no secret that it had been quite some time since the Blackhawks had scored on the power play.

Coach Q put out a PP unit that hadn’t been seen on the ice of a game and it was like you could practically see the whole bench crossing their fingers.

As time ticks down on the penalty and the period, we all hold our breath. True to fashion, Patrick Sharp rips one… and it hits the post. Brent Seabrook gets ahold of the puck and taps it over to Hossa with a beautiful tape-to-tape.

And it goes in.

The Madhouse erupts as Chelsea Dagger streams through the speakers and Joan and I find ourselves singing along. The bench is on their feet, celebrating with number 81 and company. Not only is a power play goal drought over after nearly ten opportunities, but so is Hossa’s scoring drought.

As the period comes to a close, both teams return to the dressing room and Joan gets up out of her seat.

“I’m headed to the bathroom and then for food,” she stretches her arms. “Want anything?”

“Popcorn,” I say. “A big bag.”

“Should you be eating that?” she teases.

I make a face at her. “Well aren’t you fucking hilarious?”

She surrenders and goes off to do her business while I lean back in my seat, playing on my phone. I’d managed to get an afternoon session in the gym for the following day, and I fully planned on enjoying a little time off.

On a spur of the moment idea, I open up a blank text and think about texting Patrick. But then I realize two things.

One, he’s playing a hockey game and even though they’re in the locker room right now, he probably won’t be checking his phone.

And two, I don’t have his number. Dammit.



I drop down into my stall with a loud thud and heave a sigh of relief. Twenty minutes down, only forty to go.

I wonder what Jane thinks about my playing tonight. The way her sister talked earlier, it seemed like they knew a lot and they’d recognized us at the bar. Jane had to have some opinion on the team tonight.

Discreetly, and before Coach begins his period break speech, I take out my phone and hold it between my knees to conceal it. Opening a text, I search her name in my contacts, but don’t come up with a number.

Because I don’t have it.

She gave me a fucking address. I knew it wasn’t her apartment because I’d stood on the sidewalk in front of her building. It wasn’t the address of the bar because that was right by the river.

What else did I know about her? She was a boxer and a former English major. She’d gone to the Olympics- and taken gold. Her family was extremely Irish and she had two names.

Wait, she was a boxer. I’d seen her working at her gym, which wasn’t far from my apartment.

I let out a sound of disbelief. Jane had given me the address to her gym.