Within less than two weeks the opportunity for a date fell right into Josh’s lap. The American all-stars were playing the Russian ice-hockey team and Max had a pair of tickets he couldn’t use.

Josh’s jaw dropped. “How about it, Debbie?” he asked reflexively.

“Wednesday is band practice,” Debbie said. “Try Edie. I bet she’s never been to a game.”

Josh made a pretense of considering before he called Eden. “Ice hockey?” she said. “I’ve never been to a game.”

“But you skate.”

“I’m sure it’s a lot different from figure skating, but yes, I’d love to go.”

At exactly seven on Wednesday Josh rang the doorbell. Eden was waiting. “I’m ready.”

Josh ushered her into the waiting car. “Free rental. Goes with the tickets.”

“So much traffic,” Eden said, as they entered the expressway. “Where’s everyone going?”

“Same place we are, I bet.”

She turned to him in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. This is a big game.”

“I feel privileged,” she said. “It’s nice of you to ask me.”

“I feel privileged too.” It came out before he could ask himself if it was safe. Luckily the traffic kept moving, and half an hour later he parked on Pattison Avenue, far enough from the arena that it took all but five minutes of the remaining time to claim their seats. They passed the parking lot, where a dozen attendants with fistfuls of money were directing patrons.

“People spend good money so they don’t have to walk, but you should see this place after the game. Gives new meaning to the term ‘gridlock.’ ”

“I don’t mind walking. Especially when the moon’s out.” She looked at him and grinned.

It was almost a new moon. “Quite a change since last time, isn’t it?” Josh said.

“Yes, but I like it this way too. I can even see the outline of the dark side.”

They entered and found their seats. Although the game had not started, there was action on the ice. Russians in red and Americans in blue were circling casually at opposite ends of the rink. To Eden it seemed they were merely strolling on ice, occasionally lengthening their stride as if testing their ability to accelerate. There was a detached air about them which disturbed her. Something was missing. Here was fluid motion with no consciousness of its fluidity, grace without any expression of joy. They simply skated to get from one place to another! Strange, never to have thought of skating as a way to get around.

Suddenly there were pucks on the ice. Now the men were pushing the little black disks with their sticks, flicking them across the ice to other players who dribbled them farther before taking a shot at the goal. There was no serious attempt at defense; the players were simply warming up. The goaltenders, with their huge pads and oversize sticks, blocked most shots. Then the players took turns advancing on the goal. A few skillfully placed shots found the net and Eden noticed that the goaltender could be maneuvered out of position by a zigzag approach. Maybe there was more to this sport than a poor substitute for figure skating.

All players now left the ice except the goaltenders and five others on each side. Those remaining lined up facing each other and removed their helmets for the national anthems. When the audience was seated again, the referee approached the center spot and dropped the puck. Right away the Russian center scooped it back to a teammate, who advanced toward the center and passed it across the centerline. A second later he was hit by an American and sent crashing to the ice. By this time, however, a force of three Russians was advancing into the American half. As the puck slid across the blue line, the Russian right wing came in from the boards, stepped in front of a defender, and passed to a teammate who had broken free. No sooner had he sent the puck on its way than he too was knocked down. By this time all players except the Russian goaltender were in the American half. Again a Russian was knocked down after dispatching the puck, and still the visitors controlled the game. The crowd was silent.

Now the Russian center passed back to a teammate standing at the left point, just inside the blue line. Anticipating the body check that followed, he stepped to his right just as a blue-clad body went hurtling past. Unable to stop himself, the American lost his balance and fell.

Eden was on her feet applauding the victory of finesse over brawn. Josh, though in complete sympathy, smelled danger and pulled her back down. Too late. “What’s the matter with you, girl?” came an angry voice from two rows back. “Whose side’re you on?”

Eden was about to answer her accuser, but Josh cautioned her. Puzzled, she turned to him. “What did I do wrong?” His answer was cut off by a roar from the crowd, half of whom were on their feet. The American goaltender was prone on the ice. As he handed the puck to the referee, it was evident that he had blocked a shot. For now the Americans were safe.

It was not to last. Unable to make up with force for the Russians’ agility and team play, and short-handed because of a penalty, the Americans gave up a goal two minutes before the end of the period. Their goaltender had stopped twenty-eight shots before being beaten; his Russian counterpart had never been challenged.

The second period provided the kind of hockey that brought a certain class of fans to their feet. Restraint and discipline had stood the Russians in good stead for thirty minutes of play. However, some of them were in no mood to submit to thirty more minutes of bullying by a team that behaved like football players on skates. When their left wing was elbowed in the abdomen, he backhanded the aggressor across the face. The American, more surprised than hurt, dropped his stick, then his gloves, and lit into the Russian with both fists. A Russian skating to his teammate’s assistance was waylaid by another American, and two fights were in progress. The other six players recognized the futility of further inaction. As if by common consent, each picked an opposing partner and began swinging. Only the goaltenders remained out of the fray, leaning on their goals, roughing up the creases, waiting with studied boredom.

Three officials couldn’t break up five fights, so they waited for the storm to subside.

“Penalties coming up,” said Josh.

“Is everyone going to be sent off?” Eden asked.

“I don’t think the goalies alone would make much of a game,” Josh said, laughing. “The first pair will go off for sure. I don’t know about the rest.”

The referee issued his verdict: Five minutes for the pair who started it, two minutes for the second. While gloves, sticks, and assorted trash contributed by the audience were being cleared from the ice, Eden asked, “Is it always like this?”

“Not this bad. But for a couple of guys to fight, that happens all the time.”

“Why do they do it?”

“Wish I knew. I think it’s tradition. The fans seem to expect it.”

“They obviously enjoy it, the way they yell and clap. It’s a shame. I think I could really get to like hockey, especially” in a loud whisper “the way the Russians play.”

A quick hand on her arm. “Hush! This is war, not art.”

She turned to him, neck outstretched. “Sorry.” Self-consciously he withdrew his hand.

Play resumed. With both sides two men short, passes were longer, skating faster, and bodily contact less frequent. The sides seemed more evenly matched. The Americans came close to scoring when a shot from the right point struck the post on the side away from the goaltender. As it ricocheted, straight onto the blade of a Russian stick, a counterattack developed that ended with two Russians passing the puck back and forth in the American zone and only one defender close enough to interfere. The goaltender didn’t have a chance.

The period ended without further scoring or penalties. During the second intermission Josh stopped for a moment at a concession stand, weighing chivalry against thrift.

“These prices are outrageous,” he said to Eden, “I hope you won’t think I’m stingy, but I can’t see paying that kind of money. We can do much better someplace else after the game.”

“You’re not being stingy. You’re being sensible. I wouldn’t spend money here either.”

The answer pleased him. It meant one less cause of anxiety on future dates.

“Do you have permission to stay out after the game?”

“I’ll call home,” she answered. “I don’t think they’ll give me a hard time. They know you too well. But just to be sure, I’ll tell them you were concerned that I shouldn’t get into trouble. They’ll like that.”

“My dad would call it the ‘gentlemanly thing.’ He’s big on respecting others. Any age.”

“And sex?”

“What about sex?” He was sure he was blushing and sure that she noticed.

“I mean, does he believe in respecting people of both sexes?”

“Of course! That’s where the ‘gentlemanly’ comes in.”

“Then I’ll do the ‘ladylike’ thing. I’ll pretend to hesitate, then I’ll agree. How’s that?”

They found a pay phone that the caller was just hanging up. “Dad said he was too tired to chaperone, but he was joking. What he really meant was it’s OK.”

Josh’s hand automatically reached for her arm, but his brain caught it just in time to bring it back to his side. She noticed the interrupted movement and looked at him thoughtfully.

The last period began as an anticlimax to the second. Evidently the ice-clearing mêlée had been discussed in the locker rooms. The Americans became strikingly temperate in their use of body checks; the Russians, meeting them half way, played a more physical game, to the detriment of their artistry. For fifteen minutes there were no penalties. The game no longer excited the crowd. Five minutes to go. Few saw any hope of erasing a two-goal deficit.

Josh did feel some loyalty to the American team, but he was resigned. Some fans, equally realistic, were leaving early to beat the rush. It was an unfortunate decision, for a remarkable event occurred behind the Russian goal. An American player, puck at his feet, was pinned against the board by a Russian. Trying to break free, he lost his balance and fell. It would never be known whether the fall was staged, but as the referee’s hand went up for a tripping call, a fan gleefully punched his neighbor on the shoulder. “D’ya ever see a better fake?”

For only the second time, the Americans had a one-man advantage. The other time they had barely managed a shot on goal. Now, buoyed by the hope of yet avoiding a shutout in their own country, they played like a team inspired. They outmaneuvered the Russians and scored thirty seconds into the penalty. Now even the skeptics were on their feet.  Patriotism was rediscovered. “U-S-A, show ’em the way! Reds, Reds, back to your beds!”

The crowd never sat again. As play resumed, with the teams at equal strength, the chant continued with rhythmic handclaps. Josh and Eden were caught up in the home-team fervor.

One minute left. “Why’s the goaltender being sent off?” Eden asked, suddenly alarmed.

“He’s not being sent off.  He’s being pulled. They’re putting in another forward. They’ve got nothing to lose.”

The Americans, finding skills they didn’t know they had, were now beating the Russians at their own game. Suddenly, an American coming down the right wing drew the goaltender to his left, and a cross-ice pass presented the receiver with an open net. However, a Russian was on him before he could shoot, and the puck slid free. As the American recovered it, the goaltender reversed direction to cover the near corner of the goal, and fell. The American let fly at the corner to his left. The goaltender was in no position to defend his goal. His eyes were on the rafters. He had hit the ice so hard that his foot kicked up and he felt the impact as it hit the crossbar. As far as he was concerned, the game was over.

Utter silence. The goaltender didn’t understand. He expected cheers from the partisan crowd as the Americans pulled a tie out of certain defeat; he heard only his own breathing. Later he discovered what had happened. His foot had not hit the crossbar but the puck traveling inches below it. A Russian defender fell on it as it rebounded and the game was over.

The Russian victory had been preserved, and the crowd was at a loss for expression. They had nothing to cheer about, but the rare show of skill and luck silenced even the worst losers.

The Russians didn’t hoist their sticks in the time-honored symbol of victory. They didn’t need to be reminded how lucky they were. While their goaltender stood with his arms spread, their captain skated to his counterpart and extended his hand. The American hesitated a mere second before the two embraced. Now the crowd burst into applause. Eden’s eyes were moist.

“It’s only a sport,” Josh tried to console her, “even if some people like to politicize it.”

“I’m not crying over losing, you dummy,” Eden said, laughing through her tears. “It’s the cheering and the hugging after all that fighting. It’s wonderful they’re being such good sports. Oh, don’t mind me. I’m not used to this, especially the way they behaved at the beginning.”

As he looked at her embarrassed expression, he fought back his own tears. He didn’t want to be caught crying, especially not knowing what he was crying about.

They walked past the crowd outside, noticing the congestion in the parking lot that Josh had predicted, and got back into the car. “Now where to for our after-game treat?”

“If center city isn’t too far out of the way, we can go to the Deli Belly. Mom goes there with her friend from the office. Maybe if I tell them who I am, we’ll get special treatment.”

“They probably have different staff at night. But you deserve special treatment anyway.”

Immediately he wanted to recall his words. But she went him one better. “I wouldn’t if I were alone, but I’m with a gentleman, and that does make a difference.”

Again his hand was about to escape from cerebral control, and again he caught it at the last moment. He was thankful for the darkness.

“I had a wonderful time, Josh. Thank you for asking me.”

Josh took the gamble. Placing his right hand, with his brain’s permission, on her left arm, he said: “So did I. In fact, I don’t think I ever enjoyed a game so much.”

She didn’t pull away. If only the ignition weren’t to the right of the steering column! He thought about reaching across with his left hand, but there was no graceful way.

“What’s funny?” Eden asked.

“Oh, nothing. Something stupid I just remembered.”

They parked a block away from the deli, walked past it, and retraced their steps till they stood in front of its unpretentious door. To their surprise, half the tables were occupied.

“See? They didn’t all go to the Spectrum!” Eden said.

“I can’t imagine why not. Wherever they went can’t have been half as good.”

Both ordered cherry pie and tea. “You know,” Eden began, “when they were warming up, I was sort of disappointed. I didn’t dare tell you, because you might be sorry you took me. But once the game started, I really enjoyed it.”

“What didn’t you like at first?”

“Well, they seemed so ― bored, you know? Just skating around. At the rink, people also skate around in circles, but you can tell they’re having a good time ― even the ones who keep falling down. It took me a while to realize you can’t compare hockey with figure skating. Those guys are chasing a puck. Instead of running, they skate. That’s it. Right?”

“An interesting analysis. Shows how differently people see the same thing, depending on where they’re coming from. For me, hockey’s a variation on soccer, chasing an object and trying to get it into the goal. You come from figure skating, which is all about graceful motion — like dancing. I thought you’d like it because you like skating. I never thought that could be a reason for not liking it. I’m glad I didn’t, or we wouldn’t be sitting here now.”

Eden felt as if she had deceived him. “Maybe it would have been better for you to have someone along who appreciated the game more.”

“Edie,” he said, “I can’t think of anyone who’d have been better company than you.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious. Here’s the food. I hope you don’t mind if I talk with my mouth full.”

“Debbie’d go crazy. You two are pretty funny together.”

Josh smiled. They each took a drink, stuffed pie into their mouths, and resumed talking.

“Where was I?” Josh said. “Oh yes. Watching you change from a skeptic to something approaching a fan. I enjoyed that, and I didn’t have to lift a finger, except to keep you from getting in trouble with those roughnecks. They tank up before the game, and what little self-control they start with goes out the window. I’ve seen fights break out among the spectators.”

“Oh gosh, yes. When that guy yelled at me, like whose side I was on, I really got the shivers. I don’t think it would have taken much to make him swing at me.”

Josh raised his eyebrows and answered seriously, “That could have happened. Lucky you’re a girl. That was probably the only thing that stopped him.”

She looked up coyly over the brim of her cup, and asked, “Suppose he had come at me?”

“I’d be sitting here with a black eye or two. I wouldn’t have let him touch you.”

“Not ‘the gentlemanly thing to do,’ is it?” They both laughed.

“You’re fun to be with,” he said after a while, looking down into his tea. “You know, all these years you’ve been coming to our house, playing or working with Debbie, I only thought of you as her friend. It never occurred to me that we ― you and I ― could be friends too.”

“I hope I always will be her friend. But I can be friends with you as well.”

“I don’t mean that way. What I mean is, I never thought of you as — you know — a person, separate from Debbie. No! Wait—” She was laughing. He blushed.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t laugh. You took me out, and I’m being ungrateful.”

“No, I left myself open. What I mean is, something’s come over me. I’m even beginning to take Debbie seriously. You might not guess that from the way we acted up, but it’s true.”

Eden saw that he was embarrassed. Her look conveyed interest and sympathy. “Is this a matter of growing up? Or did you have a conversation with someone that made you think?”

“I’d like to tell you, but it’s getting late. We’re going to be kicked out of here soon. Let me take you home. If you still feel like talking, we can do it another time. May I call you?”

Eden looked into his eyes steadily for a couple of seconds. “I’d like that,” she said softly.

They went out. Without thinking, she slipped her hand into his as they walked to the car. Neither spoke a word during the drive. He walked her up to her door. “Here we are,” he announced lightly to Karen. “A successful evening. I think your daughter’s become a fan.” Even as he said these words, he was savoring their ambiguity.

“I’d ask you in, Josh, except it’s so late. Thanks again for taking her.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Eden went to her room. Her most pressing need right then was privacy to sort out her thoughts. She would have preferred darkness, but her mother had a tendency to ask questions if light didn’t show under the door. So she lay down with her eyes closed.

In all the years she had known Josh, the question of defining their relationship had never arisen. Had she been asked two weeks ago, she’d have said something like friendly cousins. As an afterthought, she might have wished for a brother like him. Debbie and he obviously enjoyed one another. But having liked him all along only highlighted her confusion. An evening with a very familiar person had left her with a very unfamiliar feeling. She needed to understand that change before being alone with him again, as she felt sure she would. Of course, it was a date, that was the difference. All other encounters had been incidental to Debbie’s company. She almost laughed aloud, . . . “a person, separate from Debbie.” How aptly those words applied to him too! She’d never thought of him separate from Debbie either. Tonight she’d met him as a person. She really must apologize again for laughing.

She thought of other boys she had met at parties or summer camp, and how she had felt after a few minutes alone with any of them. They had been irritating, pathetically amusing, or boring, sometimes all three. She knew she was not pretty, and their advances seemed to her nothing more than exercises in male posturing. She had brushed them aside, with her hands if necessary. She couldn’t remember having an interesting conversation with a single one.

Josh had turned out refreshingly different. In fairness, she tried not to judge him and her classmates by the same standards. He was, after all, two years older than they. Besides, her expectations from this date had been different, for Josh had asked her only because Debbie was tied up. What she expected was a pleasant outing at which she would be initiated into ice hockey. And learn about hockey she did, for Josh had proved a knowledgeable and willing teacher. What she had not expected was to find the experience of Josh’s company so affecting.

She reviewed the events of the evening. The game had afforded her a wealth of pleasant surprises. Once she had disposed of her initial disappointment, she had been caught up in the communal excitement over the competition. All the details ― the rules of the game, the artistry and the roughness, the behavior of the spectators, the hostilities forgiven in the end ― all were now pleasant memories. If that had been all, she would have been well satisfied.

But there was something else. It had begun in the car, for she had been conscious ― most pleasantly conscious ― of his hand on her arm. Then tea and cherry pie, and conversation.

I can’t think of anyone who’d have been better company than you. . . . You’re fun to be with. She didn’t think he’d say such things just because they were right for the occasion. Then he’d dangled before her that reference to a personal transformation. Something’s come over me. . . . I’d like to tell you . . . . That was intimate stuff. Why would he trust her with it? And bringing it up just as they finished at the deli, leaving it in the air — was that deliberate? Was he setting her up for another date? If so, she was ready.

She brought herself up short. Her head was spinning. My goodness, from family friend to  ― to what? All in one evening. She took a deep breath and willed herself to be rational.

~~~~~~~~~~

Josh had the advantage of solitude after leaving the Averys’, without having to get past his parents. He would have preferred to walk, but he was stuck with the car. As he drove, so slowly that the transmission never shifted past second gear, his thoughts drifted to that moonlit night. For almost two weeks he had wondered whether that experience had had any meaning. Now there was no escaping the obvious. Eden was no longer just his sister’s friend; she had acquired a new dimension. The transformation could not have happened in Debbie’s presence. It required having Eden’s company to himself, seeing her as a “person” separate from Debbie. He had brought laughter on himself trying to explain that, but she had forgiven his bumbling attempt when she saw his embarrassment. Maybe that was why she had reached for his hand.

The touch of that hand! How many hands he had shaken in his lifetime. Men’s, women’s, children’s, soccer captains’. Soft handshakes, firm handshakes, crushing handshakes. Always in friendship, at least courtesy, always accompanied by a smile, always leaving behind a good feeling. He was sure that he had even shaken Eden’s hand on one occasion or another, say, his bar mitzvah. But never had any hand, even hers, felt like this! What a revelation!

He drove into the garage, turned off the motor, and closed his eyes. His hand had lain on her arm. Through her sleeve he had made out the form of a slender limb consisting mostly of bone and skin. He digressed briefly to marvel at the sense of touch, by which one recognizes objects without looking. But his focus shifted to another sensation — one that had exploded in a different part of his brain, one whose impact depended on the identity of the arm’s owner. How can this be? My fingers sense a form and a texture, a message goes up a nerve, and my brain says arm. My fingers sense a form and a texture, my consciousness says Eden, and my brain blows up!  How does that happen?

He tried not to set his expectations too high. She wasn’t even sixteen. But she was not at all childish. Perhaps her maturity was the result of that dreadful illness. A close brush with death could make you grow up faster. He knew very little about that illness. During her convalescence he had sometimes visited along with Debbie, but Eden hadn’t even looked sick. He had to find out more. Without knowing about this defining event, he could not know her.

His ruminations were interrupted by a flashlight bobbing up and down on its way to the garage. Attached to it he saw his mother’s silhouette, and in the instant between recognizing her and exiting the car he divined with certainty that her arm must feel nothing like Eden’s.

“Are you all right?” came her concerned voice.

“Fine, Mom. Sorry for dragging you out here.”

“It’s a nice night for a walk to the garage, but I was afraid you weren’t feeling well.”

He walked up to her and kissed her on the cheek. “Never better. May I escort you back?”

“Who can resist such an offer?” She slipped her arm into his. Yes, it did feel different.

“Now what were you doing all that time in the garage?” she asked.

“Oh, just thinking.”

She turned to him with exaggerated innocence. “Was it a good game?”

“Real good.”

“Well, I’m very happy.” She gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. Damn it, he thought, she sees right through me, even in the dark. Better say nothing.

Inside, he headed for the freezer and helped himself to ice cream. “We had cherry pie at the Deli Belly, but we didn’t take it à la mode. I’m making up for it.” Esther didn’t remind him that no explanation was necessary. But she couldn’t resist a subtler prod.

“Don’t you think you should have brought Edie over for a scoop too?” she asked, with a twinkle that would have done credit to the Averys’ Christmas tree.

“Shame on me,” he answered, laughing as naturally as he could. “But it was late.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to your food and your thoughts.”

He was sure she knew everything ― maybe more than he. He tried to sound casual.

“By the way, since you mentioned Edie, what do you know about that illness she had?”

“Rheumatic fever. A bad case. She was in intensive care for weeks.”

“I know she was real sick, and it took her forever to get better. I remember Debbie was real scared she’d die, like Uncle Milt. . . . I was scared too.”

“Milt had bad coronaries. Rheumatic fever’s quite different, comes from a strep throat.”

“But what’s going on now? She still gets shots, doesn’t she?”

“That’s to stop her from getting strep throat again. Her dad could tell you all about it.”

“He might think I’m being nosy.”

“Then ask her. She knows more about it than I, and I don’t think she’ll mind telling you.”

He wasn’t ready for sleep, but the comfort of bed and the darkness of his room invited him to continue where he’d left off when the flashlight appeared.

Her hand had sought his. It was her initiative. With it she had assented to his reach for her arm. He had taken risks and he had not been rejected. There could be no doubt she’d want to date him again. Once more he gave himself up to the touch of her fingers. Like the couplings on a train, his had closed over hers on contact. Didn’t that imply a mutual recognition?

A girl of fifteen, until a couple of  weeks ago nothing more than a friend once removed, had now become the object of feelings he had never had to deal with. What a miraculous transformation! How had it happened? For that matter, exactly what had happened? How had a full moon and a few million light years led to this?

The next day would be busy. Up early to go over his calculus once more, chemistry lab, soccer practice. After that, he would deal with the delicious crisis that had descended on him.