Between Two Eternities || Travis Hamonic

(3) Moon Breaking Through His Hair

"Is it really possible to tell someone else what one feels?"

-Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

Quiet people can have loud minds, which are good. Loud people are good sometimes. Loud mouths are not. Loud mouths in loud places are even worse.

And five minutes into my first hockey game, that's my first impression of hockey fans. Loud.

There was an excessive amount of swearing going on and I wonder if that helps anything: Swearing.

If it does, I may start trying it. The only time I swear is when I stub my toe or something stupid like that. I don't have any other reason to swear. Or talk in general.

I didn't know this many people watched hockey. There had to have been going on 20,000 people packed in this place, all around a sheet of frozen water. How do the people at the very top see the little black piece of plastic called the puck? How do I see the puck?

Matthew is in his element. He had never been to an Islanders game before. Neither have I. Obviously. I wonder if Matt will ever be like them when he grows up. These people swearing and yelling and talking trash.

We are way too close to the ice, in my opinion, because it's freezing. But to Matt, apparently being three rows back from fights and hits and flying black pieces of plastic is perfect.

If I'm being honest, I focused mostly on the soft pretzel that cost me $6.75. Rip off. It's a good pretzel, but not a pretzel that costs almost seven dollars. It'd have to be a pretzel that grants three wishes to cost seven dollars.

I could tell you some random guy spilled his beer all over my shirt. But that would be a lie. It was a close one, though. Landed by my feet. He didn't even notice. He was too busy yelling with outstretched arms.

And often, everyone would suddenly stand, either holding out their arms expectantly or holding up their arms in triumph. How do they know when to stand up like that?

The game doesn't end until almost ten o' clock. I was yawning. By the way everyone clapped, the Islanders won the game. I wonder what city the team they were playing was from.

"Arden, you can't be tired. We still get to meet Travis!" Matt's voice breaks through way too loud, but I simply nod in response.

Death. That was why Islanders tickets landed in our laps. Our parents' death. This guy, Travis, he meets kids who lost their parents. I had done research, believing it too good to be true that Matt won some silly contest as he thought. My findings only fueled anger.

Were the Islanders trying to make themselves feel good? Make themselves saints? I don't know, but it worked. Matt was ecstatic, even after I told him the real reason for the tickets and special treatment.

It reminds me of cancer perks. Ya know, when you have cancer, everyone is willing to do anything for you, give you anything. Everything. Well, this is a death perk. They aren't as common.

Matt did all the talking. He asked security guards and event staff where he was supposed to go, and showed them the letter. He was so independent. Maybe he just knew I was exhausted.

After walking around the whole goddamn arena twice, we ended up in a room decorated with huge framed pictures of players. Hmph. A little full of themselves aren't they?

We sat in hard metal chairs and were instructed to wait patiently. To occupy the time, I began releasing my thoughts, a technique I picked up back when I used to listen in Jeremy's therapy group.

I start tapping my foot because of the nerves. It's less of nerves and more embarrassment.
Me and my little brother, two normal people from New York, are about to meet a professional athlete. I'm about to feel even more average than I already feel on a daily basis.

"Arden, stop tapping your foot so loud!" Matt chides, "He could be here any minute!"

He's even pacing. Damn.

Matt groans and covers his ears exaggeratedly when apparently my leg refuses to listen to either him or my own brain. Am I really that nervous?

Finally, the door opens and my cheeks immediately burn. Oh crap, the moment of truth.

Should I even care? Well I do. It's a side effect of getting out of depression - a good sign of mental health. Caring is a good sign.

Matt stands up immediately. I don't fair particularly well when meeting new people, so I automatically feel sick.

This man has an amazing set of eyes. That's the first thing I notice. He is handsome - extremely handsome. He has dark hair, that curls at his neck, and a clean shaven face that allows his smile to brighten. His eyes are special, that's the only way to describe them. And his jaw, oh that jawline sends shivers down my spine!

My eyes travel once more over his face and connect with his eyes again. The eyes are what does it; I know this man. This Travis Hamonic. Travis from the grocery store. Travis with the beautiful face and good Oreo advice.

If I ever thought my cheeks couldn't be redder ... they were now. He looks even better now - if that was even possible. Something about a freshly showered man ...

Matt is in awe, but I can't make fun of him for it because I am as well.

Travis arrives alone, which strikes me as odd. I had assumed there would be a whole entourage following him around.

"Nice to meet you, Matt. I'm Travis," he says in a modulated voice, the same I remember hearing at the grocery store.

Ugh. His voice is so attractive. I can't see my brother because his back is to me, but I know that he must be smiling like crazy. He's just ecstatic that Travis knows his name, if I were to guess.

Immediately they go off into a conversation about hockey that I don't even attempt to follow. Instead, I follow other things, like movements and gestures. Little things can tell you a lot about a person. Next time you people watch, look at shoes. Look at arm position. Do they have a cell phone in their hand or a Bluetooth in their ear? Notice things.

I have a habit of noticing stupid little things. Travis has his hands almost in fists while his arms cross. It's a stupid thing to notice but I do. Usually it means you're closed off as a person, but he must be reading my mind because he uncrosses them and lets them drop to his sides in the same second.

Wow, I need to snap out of it.

Eyes do crazy things to me. Travis's eyes unexpectedly catch mine with a sweep, as Matt is offering his in depth analysis of the game, but then I can't look away. Travis is mesmerizing.

Please focus, Arden. He doesn't remember you. So calm down. Just try to get through this night. I hope he doesn't remember me and try to talk to me. The very thought makes me nervous. My hands clasp behind my back - a sign of anxiousness.

Beautiful boys should not be allowed to talk to girls like me. Girls with a past of suicidal tendencies and carvings in their heart. Because those boys who talk to those girls, make it their little project to fix them, to be a hero. And I'm not interested in being fixed. And especially not by Travis Hamonic.

Even when I look away and glance back at the boys, Travis's eyes are still on me, in a curious kind of way. I can't breathe when he looks at me. I can't think when he's looking at me. I assume it's not a result of him, but just my awkward persona around all strangers.

I look down at the floor when Matthew's eyes become curious, flitting between Travis and myself. "That's just my sister," he dismisses me like a piece of dirt on his shoe.

I love that kid.

Travis blushes in response to getting caught by a thirteen year old boy for looking at his sister.

I blush because I can finally breath again.