boston {h.s.}

deux.

WHEN I WATCH Jack's games now, I can't help but remember the ones from when we were children. I can't help but remembering the freezing cold hockey rinks that were somehow always colder on the inside than they were outside—even in the middle of a Massachusetts winter. I remember our father stopping to buy me a hot chocolate before every game and I remember Jack moaning about how he was going to be late. He was never late.

The TD Garden isn't cold. Especially not in the box.

I've not missed a game. Not since we were kids and I had strep and our father wouldn't let me go to the game. Even in college I always found a way to be there. Jack has always been the most important person in my life. Some have told me that my life revolves around his. In a bad way, though. Nose turned upwards kind of way. It didn't make sense to me, the way that they could say it sounding so plussed. To me, this is normal. This is just what it means to have a twin. Of course, I digress. Now, the only games I miss are the games that are out of state that prevent me from going.

As such, Jack insists on situating me in a luxury box to watch the games. A couple of other family members and romantic partners and kids join us up here in the space provided by the venue. Drinks and food are free of charge to us as we linger around and converse. I still live with Jack. The members of his team are like my own brothers, in a way. Extended family. Jack spends a lot of time with them, even in the off season. By proximity, I do, too.

A stack of papers sits on my lap. Damn the fact that it's pre-season and even more than that, damn the fact that it's September. Even still, I have papers sitting on my lap ready for grading. The summer reading essays were written in class today, and I am eager to see the writing level of my students—eager to see where this year is going to take us. In between plays and periods I take glances down to mark the stack sitting on my lap with the red pen that I chew between my lip.

Every once in a while, someone will come up and start discussion with me; conversation I'm more than happy to engage in. But, it's pre-season. These games don't typically generate much traffic, anyway. Such a statement carries over to the family members and friends who are regulars at the games. Only about half of the typical crowd is here with me.

Though, still, I'd be a fool not to recognize the definitive new face in the crowd.

She's pretty. Pretty in a soft, understated sort of way. Her tanned skin glows with the last remnants of summer, her brown hair falling down in luscious waves down her back. Brown eyes study the plays with a watchful eye that every once in a while turns back on the room behind her. She's out of place. That much, I know. One of us, certainly—due most obviously to her presence in this room. But she's not one of us. "You're new," I comment lightly, making no effort to raise my voice.

Her head snaps towards mine. A bare face stares back at me, though pretty, nonetheless. Freckles dance across the skin of her nose and again I'm pressed with the realization that she is simply sun-kissed. "What gave it away?" Her voice sounds like bells, trilling lightly as she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear.

It's a boisterous crowd in this room. If I'd not been around them so much, I would not be able to tune them out as I do now. I would not be able to focus in on the papers that I'm grading and I would not be able to ignore the obscene sounds coming at me. "I've never seen you here before." I admit, hating how condescending I must sound to her. Prideful. The unspoken language lays heavy between us—the implication that I am here frequently enough to know who is and is not typical.

Fortunately, she takes it in stride. She smiles softly at her hands that are folded neatly in her lap. "I'm watching my boyfriend play."

"Boyfriend," a low whistle sears through my teeth—right through the gap between the front two. An imperfection of mine that was never meant to be a fashion statement. After all, it existed long before it could be considered such. Braces were never in my father's budget. Now, I've grown endeared to them. Perfect teeth seems like peak narcissism for me. "Are you with Rooney?"