Pride and Pucks and Prejudice - 16. Chapter 16

Noah

We were down three-nothing midway through the second period. Coach Hayes called the timeout. Nobody said much. Nobody needed to. We all knew we'd been outworked.

Hayes looked around the huddle. "They're faster because you're trying to be clever." Silence. "So stop." He jabbed a finger toward the whiteboard. "Simple hockey."

One pass. North. Get pucks behind their defense. Shoot everything. Crash the net.

He looked at Jackson. "Lemaire." Then at me. "Lindholm. Keep doing what you're doing."

Jackson frowned. "We're down three."

"I noticed." Hayes folded his arms. "I'm not changing the only line generating anything." He tapped the board once. "Go play."

---

We won the faceoff. The game suddenly felt... simpler. Not easier, but cleaner.

I'd spent six years playing against Jackson. I'd spent four months playing beside him. Somewhere during those four months I'd stopped wondering where he would be.

He was simply... there.

---

The puck rimmed around behind our net. I collected it without looking up.

Normally I'd survey the ice. This time I didn't.

I chipped it into open space near the far blue line. Not because I saw Jackson. Because I knew he would already be skating there.

He was.

He gathered it in stride. The crowd came alive.

---

Next shift. Jackson crossed the line with speed. The defender committed early. Normally he would've slid the puck across immediately. Instead he held it another half-second.

I changed direction before he even moved his stick. The pass arrived exactly where I'd just skated. Not where I had been.

Tape to tape. One touch. Back to him. Give-and-go. Odd-man rush.

Jackson snapped the puck low blocker.

Three-one.

The building woke up.

---

A few minutes later we forced a turnover below the goal line. The puck squirted free. I barely touched it before slipping it toward the slot.

Jackson wasn't visible. Then he was. He one-timed it through traffic.

Three-two.

The crowd became deafening. As we skated past one another he tapped my glove once. Neither of us said anything.

There wasn't much to say.

---

The third period felt inevitable. Not because we were dominating. Because we weren't thinking anymore.

Everything happened before either of us consciously decided. Loose puck. Pressure. Outlet. Support.

One of us moved. The other filled the space left behind.

It was hockey stripped down to instinct.

---

Five minutes remained.

Three-three.

Their defenseman pinched too aggressively. I poked the puck past him into open ice.

I still hadn't looked. Jackson was already there.

Of course he was.

He carried it wide before cutting back toward the middle. The second defender drifted toward him. Without thinking I drove the far post.

Jackson delayed.

One heartbeat. Two.

Just long enough. The pass slid through two sticks. I redirected it.

Inside the far post. The red light flashed. The arena exploded.

Jackson reached me first. His gloves hit my helmet hard enough to rattle it.

"Nice one."

"You passed."

"You were there."

"I usually am."

"Yeah."

He was right.

He usually was.

---

We held on.

Four-three.

---

The television in the locker room was replaying the highlights while everyone changed.

One of the analysts shook his head. "Lemaire and Lindholm look like they've been playing together for ten years."

The replay showed our final goal from three different angles.

The other analyst laughed. "That's chemistry you can't coach."

I toweled my hair.

They were exaggerating.

Behind me Ben spoke without looking up from unlacing his skates. "No."

Eddie nodded. "Actually..."

I turned. "What?"

Ben pointed toward the television. "They're right."

"They're paid to say things like that."

"They're still right."

Coach Hayes walked past carrying a clipboard. He glanced at the replay just as Jackson found me at the back post again. A corner of his mouth twitched. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. Nobody on the bench argued with the commentators.

Apparently I was the only one who thought they were making far too much of it. As far as I was concerned, Jackson had simply been where he was supposed to be.

And, increasingly...

So had I.

-------------------

Over the next couple of weeks, life settled back into its usual rhythm. Morning skate. Meetings. Practice. Video. Repeat.

If anything had changed after the comeback win, I didn't notice it.

At least, not immediately.

---

The first thing was the coffee.

We stopped at the café inside the practice facility almost every morning.

Not together.

Just... Around the same time.

Jackson reached the counter first. "Large coffee."

The cashier smiled. "Two sugars?"

"One."

"Milk?"

"A little."

She rang it up.

Without looking up from my phone, I stepped forward. "Same."

The word left my mouth before I'd thought about it.

The cashier nodded.

Jackson looked at me. "So..."

I frowned. "What?"

"You drink your coffee like I do now."

"I do?"

"You used to drink it black."

I blinked. "Huh."

Apparently I did.

That seemed like the sort of thing a person ought to notice.

---

Warm-ups before games were loud. Music. Tape ripping. Players talking over one another. Most of us had headphones on.

One afternoon Jackson paused beside my stall. "What're you listening to?"

I held up one side of the headphones. He listened for a couple of seconds.

"Haven't heard that in years."

"It's good."

"It is."

That was the end of the conversation.

Or so I thought.

Three days later I walked into the dressing room and heard the same guitar riff drifting across the room.

Jackson's stall. Same album. I looked over.

He shrugged. "You were right."

"I usually am."

"So I've noticed."

Neither of us mentioned it again.

---

Coach Hayes introduced a new rush drill the following week. Three-on-two. Recover. Backcheck. Reset. Again.

Halfway through I realised Jackson and I weren't saying much anymore.

We didn't need to. If he accelerated, I matched him. If I cut inside, he drifted wide. When the whistle blew we were already circling back at exactly the same speed.

Assistant Coach Daniels watched us for a while.

He leaned toward Hayes. Quietly enough that he probably thought we couldn't hear him. "They're syncing."

Hayes didn't look surprised. "I know."

Daniels nodded toward us. "They're starting to skate the same game."

Hayes smiled. "Good."

I wasn't entirely sure what they meant. Jackson and I had simply spent a lot of time on the same line.

That was bound to happen eventually.

Wasn't it?

It certainly seemed like the most reasonable explanation.

I couldn't think of another one.

-----------------------

The first sign something was apparently wrong came on a Tuesday morning. I was halfway through my coffee when Ben stopped walking.

He looked at the cup in my hand. Then at the doorway. Jackson walked in carrying breakfast. One paper bag. One coffee.

He took exactly one sip before making the same face I had.

"Still too hot?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

I nodded back. "Thought so."

Ben slowly turned toward Eddie. Without saying a word, he simply pointed at us.

Eddie looked from my cup to Jackson's.

Then back again.

He sighed. "It's spreading."

"What is?" I asked.

"Nothing."

Jackson frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Ben shook his head.

"Nothing."

The two of them walked away looking deeply concerned.

Jackson watched them leave.

"They're strange."

"They really are."

---

Ten minutes later we were stretching before practice.

Nothing unusual. At least, nothing I considered unusual. Hamstrings. Groins. Hip flexors. Calves. Same routine I'd done for years.

Halfway through I looked sideways. Jackson was stretching beside me. Same leg. Same position. Same count.

We switched sides at exactly the same moment.

Aleksander happened to skate past. He slowed. Watched us for several seconds.

Finally he muttered, "This is getting creepy."

I looked up. "What is?"

"...Nothing."

He pushed off again without another explanation.

I glanced at Jackson.

He shrugged. "I've stopped asking."

"Probably for the best."

---

Warm-up before the game was louder than usual. Someone had stolen the speakers again. Eventually Jackson reclaimed control of the playlist.

Music filled the dressing room. I wasn't really listening. I was taping my stick.

The first song ended. The second began. Then the third.

Without looking up I said, "Track four's better."

Jackson didn't answer. There was a click. The third song stopped. Track four started.

Exactly the one I'd meant.

I nodded absently. "Better."

Silence. Not from the speakers. From the room.

I looked up. Every single person appeared to be staring at us.

Jackson looked around. "What?"

Nobody answered. Ben was looking at Eddie. Eddie was looking at Aleksander.

Rick, the equipment manager, had actually stopped sharpening a skate.

I frowned. "Why's everyone looking at us?"

Nobody said anything for another few seconds.

Finally Ben cleared his throat. "...Nothing."

Then everyone abruptly found something else to do. Tape. Skates. Phones. Water bottles.

Anything except look at us.

I leaned toward Jackson. "What was that about?"

"No idea."

"Weird."

"Very."

Track four continued playing.

It really was better.

---

Hockey was a game of habits. Good linemates picked up each other's habits. Coffee. Stretching. Music. Skating patterns.

That was all this was.

Probably.