with cheese aren’t bad either. But that has to wait for intermission number one. I usually get a twist soft-serve cone during the second one.
“Pretty good,” I say, taking a sip of my Coke. “Some of my kids are getting a little testy since they can’t blow off their energy outside. But it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Sue-Ann chuckles. “Please don’t start telling me all your teacher horror stories involving bodily fluids again. I might never want to have one of my own if you keep scaring me like that.”
My lips quirk upward. “Nah, it’s not like that, so don’t worry. The positive outweighs the negative. I guess it’s just natural to talk more about the crazy stuff they do than the cute and sweet stuff.”
She gives me a pointed look. “Why do I think you’re talking about this through your rose-colored glasses?”
“I’ve learned the hard way never to frighten women of child-bearing years if I can help it. Did I ever tell you about the day that little Jaxon Ball puked all over—”
She stops me with a hand to my arm. “Unless you want me to lose it all over your shoes, you better not tell me.”
I wink at her. “Forgot about your weak stomach for a second there, Sue-Ann.”
We both lean forward when Max and Blaine hit the ice. Despite some good work in the enemy zone and a flurry of shots on goal, they come up empty and skate off for a line change.
Sue-Ann fires off a text and then sighs. “Cora, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
I set down my Coke and turn toward Sue-Ann. “You can ask me anything, although I’m not sure what I could actually help you with.”
She pauses. “Knitting.”
My gaze sweeps the perfectly presented Sue-Ann Monroe and her makeup, nails, designer jeans, and t-shirt, hidden underneath Max’s oversized game jersey. I can’t imagine her wearing something she made herself like I do every time I come into this arena. I made sure my hat, mittens, and scarf were done in Caribou colors for Blaine’s sake, but other than that, I just want them to be comfortable.
“You want to knit something?”
She nods and worries the hem of her jersey. “Yeah, I’ve always wanted to learn. My mom doesn’t know how, and my grandma can’t see well enough to teach me at this point. I was wondering if you could.”
“I can think of something even better. Every Tuesday, a bunch of us get together at Barb’s Yarns and we have a knitting circle. There are ladies of all skill levels so you wouldn’t have to feel self-conscious or anything. There’s even these amazing homemade cream cheese Danish my nana’s friend Roxie makes from scratch. And hot chocolate with marshmallows.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
The horn sounds to end the period and I stand up to go use the restroom and grab my cheese nachos. It’s like a ritual. Sue-Ann decides to stay put but she promises me that she’ll come to Barb’s for knitting circle the first Tuesday she can cover her boutique. Apparently, Tuesday night isn’t that busy in retail.
While I’m standing in line at concessions, I hear a familiar giggle. I dig some ones out of my cross-body wallet and glance over my shoulder.
“I told you that was her, Rachel. Only a porker would eat processed cheese sauce. No wonder she looks like a slightly smaller version of the Goodyear Blimp.”
“OMG, I can’t believe she eats that,” one of the bobbleheads says, rolling her eyes, which I can barely see behind her overdone cat eyeliner.
If these stupid bitches think they are going to shame me into a Diet Coke and no intermission snack, they can damn well think again. I ignore her and when the employee delivers my processed cheese goodness, I made a show of dipping my pointer finger into it and bringing it to my lips with a moan. After waggling my eyebrows in her general direction, I grab some napkins and head back to my seat.
Blaine’s seat.
The one that Bitchy McBitcherton is not sitting in.
I munch on my chips and watch the tiny mini mites from a local youth program out on the ice trying to skate but falling down more often than not. Before long, Sue-Ann comes back with a bottle of water. But I know her better than she knows herself—she’ll steal one of my chips before the next period starts. I guess I’ll never understand chicks who starve themselves all in the name of looking perfect. I’d rather be