Pride and Pucks and Prejudice - 3. Chapter 3

Jackson

After arriving a few days later, the first thing I learned about Philadelphia was that their Human Resources department employed people who looked as though they apologized to furniture after bumping into it.

"My name's Emily," the young woman said as she hurried across the players' parking lot, clutching a clipboard tightly enough to bend it. "I'm so sorry. I hope I didn't keep you waiting."

"You were early."

"Oh."

She blinked. "I was?"

"You've actually been waiting three minutes."

"Really?"

She looked faintly alarmed by this information.

"I suppose that's... good?"

"I'd call it punctual."

She laughed nervously. "I've never escorted a player before."

"I'll try to behave."

She wasn't entirely convinced.

The Bobcats' practice facility was newer than Chicago's, all steel and glass with enough polished concrete to build a motorway. Emily talked continuously as we walked inside, mostly because silence appeared to frighten her.

"...and your physical is after lunch, media tomorrow morning, equipment have already received your measurements, though they'll probably check them again because players never trust the paperwork..." She glanced sideways. "I'm talking too much."

"A little."

"I'm sorry."

"I wasn't complaining."

"Well..." Another blink. "I don't know how to stop."

"I'd gathered."

She looked relieved that I'd understood.

At reception, the security guard looked up from his desk. Recognition flashed immediately. "Lemaire."

"Morning."

He leaned back in his chair. "We letting Wolves in here now?"

Emily visibly stopped breathing.

I smiled. "Apparently."

"Hell of a thing."

He looked me up and down with theatrical suspicion before reaching across the desk. "Welcome to Philly."

I shook his hand. "Thanks."

"Just remember." He lowered his voice conspiratorially, "Bobcats' purple suits you better than Chicago green."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Emily exhaled as we walked away. "I thought he was serious."

"He was."

"...Hmm."

The locker room smelled reassuringly familiar.

Ice.

Laundry detergent.

Tape.

Liniment.

Coffee.

The universal scent of professional hockey.

Emily stopped just inside the doorway. "I should probably warn you..."

I looked around.

Half the lockers had been stripped down to bare timber. Construction plastic covered one wall. Electricians appeared to be arguing with a ceiling panel.

"The renovations are running a little behind."

"I've seen worse."

"There aren't any nameplates yet."

She pointed towards a row of temporary lockers. "We've just... assigned spaces."

"No problem."

"I'm really sorry."

"You've apologized seventeen times."

She frowned. "...Have I?"

"Approximately."

"Oh."

She looked genuinely embarrassed. "I'll work on that."

A handful of players were already changing.

Conversation dipped as I entered.

Not silent, just quieter.

Fair enough.

Yesterday I'd been the captain of the Chicago Wolves.

Today I was the former captain of the Chicago Wolves.

One of the veterans gave me a polite nod.

Another muttered a greeting.

Professional.

Cautious.

Normal.

Then two players detached themselves from a nearby conversation and walked directly towards me.

Neither looked remotely cautious.

One was built like a medieval fortress.

The other had the sort of face that suggested trouble was a hobby.

They stopped close enough to invade my personal space.

Then...

Nothing.

They simply looked at me.

Slowly.

Methodically.

Like farmers inspecting livestock they'd been reluctantly considering purchasing.

I gave them the standard hockey up-nod.

"Morning."

Neither returned it.

The larger one frowned. "Dude..." He kept staring. "...I think you're right."

The other nodded with immense satisfaction. "I know I am."

"I didn't see it before." Another thoughtful inspection. "But once you pointed it out..." He tilted his head. "...I can't unsee it."

"Weird, right?"

"Yeah." A long pause. "He's really not as ugly without that puke green Chicago jersey."

The other man considered this carefully. "Spooky."

They both grinned.

Then bumped fists.

I had absolutely no idea what had just happened. I felt fairly certain I'd just been given some kind of test.

Unfortunately I had no idea whether I'd passed or failed.

The first one finally held out a hand.

"Aleksander Malikov."

I shook it.

"Jackson."

"I know."

The second offered his own.

"Ben McKenzie."

"Good to meet you."

Ben pointed towards the locker I'd already started unpacking. "That locker is..."

Aleksander interrupted instantly. "...in a great location."

Ben caught the correction without missing a beat. "Right."

"Far away from the rookies."

The two of them exchanged what could only be described as an aggressive eyebrow conversation.

Eyebrows lifted.

Tiny shrugs.

Minute head tilts.

Several entire sentences appeared to pass silently between them.

Eventually Ben nodded. "Yeah." He looked back at me. "Welcome to Philly."

"Thanks."

Emily, who had witnessed all of this with increasing confusion, whispered, "So... I think my job here is done."

"I think it probably is."

She escaped.

I sat down and began unpacking my equipment bag.

Around me, conversations gradually restarted.

Someone argued about golf.

Someone else complained about preseason conditioning.

Tape was torn.

Music started somewhere near the showers.

Normal.

For almost four whole minutes.

Then the locker-room doors burst open.

"Morning, you magnificent disappointments!"

The voice arrived before the man.

Noah Lindholm swept into the room carrying enough energy for three professional athletes, his blond hair scraped back into a messy bun.

He high-fived one teammate.

Ruffled another's hair.

Pointed accusingly at someone across the room.

"Who stole my protein bars? Confess now and I'll make your death quick."

Laughter followed him like a weather system.

He turned.

Saw me.

Stopped.

The entire locker room seemed to stop with him.

His expression transformed with astonishing speed.

Sunshine.

Confusion.

Recognition.

Utter disbelief.

His face had never learned to keep a secret.

His gaze dropped to the bench beneath me.

Then rose slowly back to mine.

Silence.

Then: "Who the fuck gave him my locker?"