Tamiko can be the one to tell me if her social media strategy worked because I won't be checking.
"Here you are," the team rep says, gesturing to a spot directly behind the bench. 
I slide into my seat and take off my jacket. The thick glass separates me from the team, but it's still the closest I've been to the action. During the Bellerive games, I'm always in the box with my dad, the royals, and any other members of the Advisory Council who decide to cheer on the team. 
The game is already in the third period, and when we agreed on this plan, we knew I'd be cutting it close to make today's game. It's why I took my family's jet. Bellerive is tied 2-2, and I scan the ice.
There he is. 
Locking in on him allows all my tension to melt away. Maybe the fans' reaction matters from a financial standpoint for Logan and the team, but their opinions can't change real feelings and connection. Maybe it doesn't make sense to anyone else, but he's what I need right now. 
At shift change, Logan sails toward the door, and as he steps in, he glances up. Our gazes connect, and Radek, who's behind him, bumps into him. A pleased but quizzical half-smile tilts Logan's lips as he takes his seat on the bench. Whatever Logan says to Radek has Radek glancing over his shoulder and giving me a little wave before conferring with Logan again. 
The media savvy part of me knows television cameras might have already found me from that one little reaction. My mother trained me to be aware of appearances, what the expectations of any situation were. When I was a politician's girlfriend, I was told what was expected of me. But with Logan—the star player's girlfriend—is a depth I don't know how to measure. It doesn't feel like I truly need to make anyone happy, but that instinct is still there. The desire to do the right thing—whatever that might be. 
I didn't used to see the right response as also the one that made the most people happy, but somehow over the years, my perception became clouded with this desire to please, even at my own expense.
Logan and his line change on the fly, back out on the ice. The puck whizzes around the rink in quick passes that I almost wish I could see from above. There's real efficiency and speed on Logan's line, and it's obvious whenever they're on the ice. 
Logan's told me that the team's biggest problem is that the talent doesn't go deep enough. One player can't carry a whole team. They can dominate a single game by scoring goals or assists—make league top scorer lists—but to win the top prize at the WHL level, he says the Bullets need more depth.  
Radek passes to Auston who finds Logan sailing down the ice, and he passes him the puck, somehow skipping it over the defenseman's stick in what looks like luck, but knowing Auston, is probably skill. Either way, Logan's stride doesn't break, and he's one-on-one with the lone defenseman who he dekes out before flipping the puck into the top corner over the goalie's shoulder. It's so quick and beautiful, but a move I also know from all the games I've watched, tough to pull off. I'm already on my feet when the buzzer sounds, and the crowd roars. The thrilled noise surprises me, and I take in all the fans cheering, the number of Bullets' jerseys. Maybe Logan's recently televised performances in Bellerive haven't gone unnoticed. The goal his line scored is a regular occurrence there—just phenomenal hockey.
When the team's done celebrating on the ice, Logan skates to the bench and he points at me when he gets close. Then instead of sitting down, he leans over and puts his gloved hand on the glass that separates us, and I put my hand against his for a beat. 
"That was for you." He grins. "I'm not fucking losing when you're here."
I can't help the laugh that bubbles up, and I'm sure the grin that lingers on my face is ridiculously wide.