Free Hockey Is My Boyfriend: Part One by Melanie Ting Page A

see you whenever.” Phil seemed ultra-casual.
    I drove home after practice and took a quick shower. I debated wearing a pair of my new jeans, but I decided that Phil probably wouldn't even notice, so I pulled on some yoga pants with a t-shirt and a hoody. With April's lectures echoing in my head, I applied lip gloss and mascara, miraculously not poking myself in the eye. I walked to Phil's since it wasn't raining too hard.
    Downstairs at Phil’s was the perfect place to hang out and watch the game. It was a traditional wood-panelled family room with striped couches and wood side tables. Not dark, since the house was built on a slope, and there were sliding glass doors to the outside letting in sunlight.
    Thanks to his mom, the room was completely orderly, antiseptically clean, and fully stocked with drinks and snacks. His dad was into the latest technology, and it seemed like every time I went there, the TV was bigger. Plus the couch across from the TV was ginormous; It had to be since Phil, his older brother Ray, and his dad were all over 6 feet and his mom was about 5’10”. When I sat there it felt like land of the giants: if I scooted my butt to the back of the couch, my feet would not touch the floor.
    In addition to the mega-TV, they had a pool table and an air hockey table. Phil had a music corner for his two guitars and his retro Orange amp. Because of this sweet set-up, everyone came to Phil’s to hang out.
    Phil was a pretty relaxed host, which was nice. His mom was scary though, and when I was younger I spent a lot of time worrying that she was going to yell at me. Having a giant German woman get mad at you was unnerving, although Phil never seemed to mind.
    One lucky thing was that the stairs squeaked, so you actually had time to look around and see if you had forgotten to use a coaster or left crumbs on the couch before Greta entered the room. Once I had commented to Phil on how lucky he was that the stairs squeaked. He laughed and told me that he had gone to the sub-basement and fixed them to do that. Guess that was why he was going into engineering next year: better living through science. It did make me wonder what else Phil did in the basement that needed an early warning system, but I didn’t ask about that.
    When I got finally to Phil’s, I was surprised that none of his buds were there watching the game.
    “Where is everyone?”
    “Homework,” Phil said, his eyes on the TV.
    The score was 2-0 in favour of Chicago when I got there, and it was still the second period. Phil told me that it had been a penalty-filled game so far, and that’s why it was going on so long. Just after I got there, the Canucks scored their first goal. Then, they shifted into a smarter game, stopped taking penalties, and Chicago lacked the finish to put the game away. The Canucks tied up the game in the middle of the third, and then as part of a seemingly fateful comeback, scored in the OT. A very satisfying finish, and I felt really happy.
    “The Blackhawks aren’t very good,” I commented, pulling on my hoody and looking for my shoes.
    “Wait,” said Phil.
    “It’s late, I’ve got to get going.”
    “You’ve got spare in first block tomorrow,” he pointed out, which I had forgotten. We both had spare. He continued, “I’ve been thinking about your problem—with electricity.”
    “It’s not really a problem; it’s actually kind of nice.” An understatement, as it was the energy fuelling the time I spent with Nicklas.
    “Well, I think it is a problem. It used to be that you couldn’t stand Ericcson. Remember that game in Sechelt when the three of us were on the same line? Afterwards you said he was the biggest asshole ever and he wouldn’t know a pass if it up and bit his butt. You never liked playing on a line with him.”
    Phil had an inconveniently good memory.
    “He’s different now. He plays rep, and he’s better,” I lied. I hadn’t had a chance to watch Nicklas play yet, but he had to be