Pride and Pucks and Prejudice - 14. Chapter 14

Noah

The children's hospital visit was scheduled for our first off day in almost three weeks.

Apparently community outreach was important. So was punctuality. Unfortunately, those two concepts had collided with Emily.

Emily was filling in as the community-relations intern. She carried a clipboard, a color-coded itinerary, two pens, a folder and a look of determined optimism that suggested she still believed professional athletes could be organized with enough planning.

I almost felt bad for her.

Almost.

---

"Okay," Emily said brightly. "We'll split into pairs."

She consulted her clipboard. "Lemaire and Lindholm together."

Jackson looked at me. "Morning."

"Morning."

Emily smiled. "You'll start in Radiology for twenty minutes, then Physical Therapy, then the playroom."

She handed us matching visitor badges. "I'll come and get you between stations."

"Fine," I said.

"Great!"

She looked genuinely relieved.

It lasted approximately four minutes.

---

Radiology went well.

Jackson somehow managed to make three nervous children laugh within sixty seconds.

I still wasn't entirely sure how. One minute they were hiding behind their parents. The next they were explaining dinosaurs to him with complete confidence. He listened to every word as though each one were critically important. Ten minutes later he was greeting each of them by name.

It was... Unexpected.

On the way out he glanced at my stick. "You changed curves."

I looked down. "...You noticed?"

"You've opened the toe."

"A little."

"You'll lose backhand control."

"I know."

"Worth it?"

"So far."

"Hm."

We stopped walking. Jackson took my stick, turned it over. Examined the blade. "Huh."

"What?"

"I would've gone less aggressive."

"I know."

"You did anyway."

"I did."

We were still discussing it when Emily rounded the corner. "There you are!"

"We're right here."

"I know."

She checked her watch. "You were supposed to be in Physical Therapy fifteen minutes ago."

Jackson looked mildly surprised. "Were we?"

"Yes."

"We were comparing stick curves."

Emily stared. "...In the hallway?"

"Yes."

She blinked twice. "...Okay."

---

Physical Therapy went much the same way.

The children wanted to race us. Jackson let them win.

Mostly.

One little boy insisted on seeing the difference between our sticks.

Jackson handed him mine. I handed him Jackson's. The boy frowned thoughtfully. "They're different."

"They are," I agreed.

Jackson nodded. "Very observant."

The boy looked pleased with himself.

Emily looked at her clipboard. "We're late again."

---

The playroom was louder.

Much louder.

Someone had set up a miniature floor hockey net. Foam sticks. Soft balls.

Half a dozen children immediately decided we should organize a tournament.

Jackson didn't hesitate. "Teams?"

Six hands shot into the air.

I found myself collecting balls while Jackson explained the rules. Neither of us discussed who was doing what.

We simply got on with it.

One little girl hung back near the wall, clutching a tiny plastic stick.

Jackson noticed first. He crouched until he was eye level with her, completely serious, and for some reason I watched him longer than I needed to.

"Want to try?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I'll miss."

"Probably."

She looked offended.

He smiled. "So does everyone."

She thought about that. Slowly she walked over. Jackson rolled the ball towards her.

She swung.

Missed.

He didn't react. "Again."

She missed twice more.

I stepped quietly beside her. "Can I?"

She nodded. I shifted her hands slightly farther apart on the stick.

"Now."

She swung again. This time the ball rolled cleanly into the little net.

Her eyes went wide. "I did it!"

"You did," Jackson said immediately.

"See?" I added. "I told you."

She beamed. For the next ten minutes she refused to let anyone else take the next shot.

---

Eventually she wandered over while Jackson and I were signing jerseys. She looked from him to me.

"How long have you been best friends?"

Silence.

Jackson looked at me as though expecting me to answer.

I looked back with equal uncertainty.

He shrugged. "...We're teammates."

The little girl nodded patiently. "So..." She smiled as though explaining something obvious to two particularly slow adults. "...best friends."

Neither of us saw much point in arguing.

"Sure," Jackson said.

She looked satisfied.

A few minutes later another child appeared carrying a Bobcats jersey.

"I got his autograph." He pointed at Jackson. "Can your best friend sign it too?"

Jackson didn't even answer. He simply handed the jersey to me.

I signed beside his name. The boy grinned. "Now they're together."

Emily was watching from across the room. She had the expression of someone trying to solve a complicated math problem.

---

By the end of the afternoon the hospital visit was finally winding down. Emily gathered us near the entrance while she completed whatever forms interns completed.

"So..." She looked up from her clipboard. "How long have you two known each other?"

"Six years," Jackson said.

"Were you close before this season?"

We answered simultaneously. "No."

Emily frowned. "But..." She gestured helplessly. "You finish each other's drills."

Neither of us spoke.

"You don't have to ask who carries what."

Jackson looked puzzled. "We've been working."

I nodded. "Efficiently."

"Every time I come looking for one of you..." she said carefully, "...I find both of you."

"We've been discussing hockey."

"For twenty minutes."

"There was a disagreement about stick curves."

Emily stared. "I know."

Jackson frowned. "...Yes."

"I assigned you together."

"Correct."

She opened her mouth. Closed it again, then sighed in surrender. "...Never mind."

---

We were halfway across the car park when I realized she'd stayed behind.

She was talking to one of the hospital staff. "I don't think they know."

I glanced sideways. "What do you think she meant?"

Jackson was considering something entirely different.

"I still think the puck comes off the heel more consistently."

"It doesn't."

"It absolutely does."

"It comes off the toe faster."

"You sacrifice accuracy."

"I don't."

"You do."

"I have statistics."

"I don't believe your statistics."

"They're very convincing."

"They're wrong."

We reached our trucks still arguing.

Whatever Emily had meant dissolved somewhere between heel curves and release angles.

By the time we reached our trucks, the conversation had drifted so far into stick design that neither of us remembered she'd said anything at all.