“Penalty for holding.” I grumble before bellowing, “That was a crap call, ref, open your eyes for a change! Here, I think I’ve got a spare pair of glasses for you!” Brooklyn bursts into peals of laughter before yelling, “Yeah, crap call, ref! Totally crappy call!” We grin at each other before we both plunk down onto our seats and reach for our shared box of popcorn. Whistle. That one I don’t have to answer because it’s obvious. Fighting. “Crap call, ref!” Brooklyn yells again. I shake my head. “No, it was actually a good call. Not in our favor, but it was the right call to make.” I sip my diet cola watching as one of our players skates over to the penalty box. You can tell he’s still mouthing off to the player he’d just been brawling with. “Whose team are you on?” She asks this as if she knows a damn thing about hockey. What Brooklyn likes about hockey are the hot guys who look even more strapping, and thus hotter, with all their padding and gear. And… well… she’s not exactly wrong about that.
