Pride and Pucks and Prejudice - 4. Chapter 4

Noah

The first thing I noticed was that he had the nerve to look comfortable.

The second thing I noticed was that he was sitting in my locker.

I stopped dead.

Then every miserable emotion I'd been carrying since the trade detonated at once.

"Who the fuck gave him my locker?"

Twenty heads swiveled towards me.

Lemaire looked up from untying a skate lace.

He didn't leap to his feet.

He didn't apologize.

He didn't even have the decency to look guilty.

He just looked at me with those infuriating blue eyes, as calm as a monk who'd wandered into the wrong monastery.

"I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding."

That voice.

Even.

Measured.

Reasonable.

I hated reasonable.

I crossed the room before anyone could stop me and planted myself directly in front of him. "You are sitting."

"Apparently."

"In."

He glanced down. "...A locker."

"My locker."

He looked around the construction zone. "There don't appear to be any names on them."

"It's still my locker."

"I believe you."

That somehow made it worse.

Steam should have been coming out of my ears.

Actual, visible cartoon steam.

"It is the principle of the thing."

"I don't disagree."

"You don't?"

"No."

He nodded once. "If someone gave away my locker in Chicago, I'd have been annoyed too."

I blinked.

That wasn't the response I'd been prepared for.

"So..." He rested his forearms casually on his knees. "...we should probably ask whoever assigned them."

His expression was infuriatingly patient. Like he was humoring an overtired five-year-old who'd become convinced the moon had stolen his bicycle.

I narrowed my eyes. "Don't patronize me."

"I'm not."

"You absolutely are."

"I really don't think I am."

"You've got that face."

"What face?"

"That..." I waved vaguely at him. "...reasonable face."

"I only have one face."

"It annoys me."

"I'd gathered."

Around us, the silence had become spectacular.

I glanced sideways.

Every single teammate had stopped pretending to do anything useful.

Tape hung forgotten from someone's fingers.

A jersey remained halfway over another player's head.

Even the electricians had paused whatever they were doing.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught movement.

Behind a stack of plasterboard and plastic sheeting, Aleksander Malikov and Ben McKenzie had somehow concealed themselves behind the renovation supplies.

Both were grinning like raccoons that had discovered unattended garbage.

Traitors.

Absolute traitors.

Aleksander caught my eye and gave me two enthusiastic thumbs up.

Ben silently mouthed, Keep going.

I made a mental note to slash both their tires.

"Everything all right over here?" Lemaire asked.

I looked back at him. "No."

"I suspected not."

Before I could continue explaining exactly why his continued existence offended me on a spiritual level, a shrill whistle split the room.

Every head turned.

Coach Hayes stood in the doorway.

Hands clasped behind his back.

Expression carved from granite.

Nobody spoke.

Coach looked first at me.

Then at Lemaire.

Then at the gathering audience.

He sighed.

"I leave you people alone for six minutes." Nobody volunteered an explanation. "I see our renovations have already created one workplace hazard." His eyes settled on me. "Lindholm."

"Coach."

"Step back."

"I am standing exactly where I need to stand."

"I noticed." Another pause. "Take one step backwards."

I did. Mostly because it was easier than arguing with a man who had once made an assistant coach cry using nothing but prolonged eye contact.

Coach turned towards Jackson. "Lemaire."

"Coach."

"Welcome to Philadelphia."

"Thank you."

"We're pleased to have you."

"I appreciate it."

Coach nodded once. "Right." He raised his voice enough for the room. "Since everyone appears fascinated by today's seating arrangements, allow me to clarify something." Nobody moved. "Lemaire is now a member of this organization." Silence. "He will be treated with the same professionalism and respect as every other player in this room." Another pause. "He is your teammate." Coach's gaze swept across us. "My expectation is that everyone will behave accordingly."

His eyes landed on me again. Especially me. "Lindholm."

"Yes, Coach."

"A word."

He jerked his head towards the hallway. I sighed.

"Now."

As I followed him towards the door, Eddie Lefebvre called after me in an unbearably cheerful sing-song voice. "Ooooooh..." He clasped his hands dramatically. "Noah's going to time-out."

Laughter rippled around the room. I pointed at him without breaking stride. "You're dead."

Eddie beamed. "Worth it."

Traitor. Every last one of them.

As the door swung shut behind me, I caught one final glimpse of Jackson. He was trying very hard not to smile. Which somehow annoyed me even more.

Coach Hayes didn't speak until the sounds of the locker room were muffled. The hallway was quiet except for the distant drone of construction somewhere upstairs.

He folded his arms. "I know this comes as a shock."

"He's just such an asshole."

Coach fixed me with The Glare.

Every organization has one.

The look that had reduced rookies to apologizing for crimes they hadn't committed.

"...Did you not hear what I just said about respect?"

Well. That shut me up.

Coach waited another couple of seconds, just to make sure I'd absorbed the lesson. "I don't care if you like him or not."

I opened my mouth. He lifted one finger. I closed it again.

"I don't care if you become best friends."

That seemed extraordinarily unlikely.

"I don't care if, ten years from now, you write a memoir explaining in exquisite detail why Jackson Lemaire is the single greatest abomination ever inflicted upon professional hockey."

That... actually sounded therapeutic.

"What I care about is this team."

His voice stayed calm.

Which somehow made it worse.

"They look up to you."

I shifted my weight.

"They follow your lead."

I stared at the floor.

"So when you look at him..." A beat. "...pretend he has glitter and confetti shooting out of his ass."

I looked up. "...Coach."

"Noah."

"But he's..."

He held up a hand. "I don't want to hear it."

I sighed. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

"I know exactly what you were going to say."

"...Fair."

His expression softened just enough to stop resembling carved granite. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. It wasn't a warm smile. More the sort of smile a man wore before informing someone they'd be skating suicides until they regretted being born.

"Plausible deniability."

I frowned. "What?"

"I don't want to know." He shrugged. "Lord knows he's been a burr under my saddle for six years."

I blinked. "...Seriously?"

"Oh, absolutely."

That was unexpectedly comforting.

"He argues." Coach counted on his fingers. "He's irritatingly difficult to disrupt."

"Maybe he's just stupid."

Coach ignored me. "He reads the collective bargaining agreement for fun."

"...Who does that?"

"He once highlighted sections." I stared. Coach nodded solemnly. "In different colors."

"...That's disturbing."

"It is."

For the first time since the trade had been announced, I felt a tiny flicker of kinship with the man standing beside me.

Coach sighed. "But." The word carried enough weight to flatten a building. "He's on our side now." Silence. "You understand me?"

"I do."

"Good." Another pause. "Now go inside and pretend..."

"... he has glitter and confetti shooting out of his ass."

"Right."

Coach gave me one last level look. "I'm trusting you."

Which was somehow worse than being ordered.

I pushed open the locker-room door.

Conversation dipped for a heartbeat.

Then resumed.

The show was apparently over.

I glanced automatically towards my locker.

Stopped.

Lemaire had moved.

His gear now occupied another temporary stall two rows away. Mine was exactly where I'd left it. I hadn't even asked.

He was standing beside the new locker arranging sticks with maddening precision.

He noticed me looking. For a second neither of us moved. Then he crossed the room. He stopped a comfortable distance away. Not too close. Not confrontational.

Just... Professional.

He held out his hand. "No hard feelings?"

I looked at it.

His hand was bigger than mine.

Strong.

Tape burns across the fingers.

A pale scar running over one knuckle.

A hockey player's hand.

I stared at it considerably longer than good manners required.

Behind him, I caught sight of Ben pretending to retape his stick while very obviously watching us.

Aleksander wasn't even pretending.

He was openly spectating.

Bastards.

With all the enthusiasm of a man signing his own parking ticket, I reached out and shook Jackson's hand. "...Fine." His grip was firm. Brief. "No hard feelings."

Liar.

He smiled anyway. Not smug. Just... pleasant. Which was almost worse.

I let go first, muttered something that might have resembled "good," and sat down to lace up my skates.

Across the room I heard Aleksander whisper, "You owe me twenty bucks."

Ben sighed. "I really thought he'd leave him hanging."

I looked up. "What?"

"Nothing," they said together.

I narrowed my eyes.

There was definitely a conspiracy developing in this locker room.

And I had the distinct feeling I was the last person to know about it.