Pride and Pucks and Prejudice - 17. Chapter 17

Jackson

On a free afternoon the day before playing at Minnesota, Noah and I are driving through the prairie on the way to Noah's parents' home.

He had invited me along after practice, apparently deciding that there was no reason for me to spend my free afternoon alone in a hotel.

Snow began somewhere west of Minneapolis.

Not much at first.

Just loose white streaks racing across the highway under the headlights.

Noah drove with one hand resting lightly on the steering wheel, entirely unconcerned.

I watched another gust sweep across the road.

"You people choose to live here."

"We do."

"Voluntarily."

"Mhm."

"It hurts my face just looking outside."

He didn't even glance over.

"You'll survive."

"I don't know."

"You've been hit by Zdeno Chára."

"That was indoors."

"True."

"This feels more dangerous."

Noah nodded thoughtfully. "Fair."

We drove another twenty minutes through fields that seemed to stretch forever beneath fresh snow.

Eventually he turned onto a long gravel drive lined with bare maples.

A large farmhouse sat at the far end.

Warm lights glowed from the windows.

Smoke drifted lazily from the chimney.

Comfortable.

Lived in.

As soon as I climbed out of the rental car I stopped.

Two enormous men stood on the porch.

Both at least two or three inches taller than me.

Both built like defensive linemen.

Broad shoulders.

Buzz-cut blond hair.

Arms that looked capable of lifting tractors recreationally.

Both wore expressions suggesting they had been born scowling.

They were unmistakably related to Noah.

I looked at them.

Then at Noah.

Then back again.

Noah walked past carrying the cake we'd picked up from a Swedish bakery downtown.

"I see you've found Yeti and Bigfoot." He nodded toward the porch. "Good job."

One of the giants snorted.

"You bring company and that's your greeting?"

"I had higher standards for you."

"Liar."

The first giant offered his hand.

"Nils."

The second.

"Anders."

I shook both.

Neither appeared to realise how hard they were gripping.

Or perhaps they did.

I looked from them to Noah again.

Nils caught it.

He smirked. "We're confused too."

I blinked.

He jerked a thumb toward Noah. "We figure Mom got frightened by a Chihuahua while she was pregnant."

"And somehow..." Anders looked Noah up and down. "...this happened."

Noah sighed. "You've had thirty years."

"And it's still funny."

"It wasn't funny the first time."

Both brothers reached over simultaneously and ruffled his hair.

Noah squawked. "Oh, fuck off—"

"Noah!" A woman's voice floated from somewhere inside. "Language!"

Noah closed his eyes. "...Yes, Mom."

The brothers grinned with identical satisfaction.

"I hate all of you."

"Right back at you."

---

The front door opened before we reached it.

Another enormous blond man appeared.

Older.

Grey at the temples.

Hands like shovels.

He smiled easily.

"You must be Jackson."

"I am."

"Jens."

His handshake somehow managed to be even stronger.

Wonderful.

Apparently everyone in the family had been assembled from spare timber.

Then Ingrid appeared.

I understood Noah immediately.

The resemblance was unmistakable.

Same blue eyes.

Same sharp cheekbones.

Same fair hair.

Only where Noah tended toward permanent skepticism, Ingrid radiated warmth.

The sort of warmth that made you feel welcome within seconds.

It also became obvious almost immediately who actually ran the household.

"Jackson." She smiled. "I'm very happy to finally meet you."

"Thank you for having me."

She accepted the bakery box from Noah.

"Perfect."

Then looked at me. "Would you help me in the kitchen?"

"Of course."

Noah looked alarmed. "...Mom—"

"Nonsense." She waved him away. "You go spend time with your brothers."

"I can help."

"You can," she smiled sweetly. "But you won't."

He looked at me with the expression of a condemned man.

As Nils dragged him toward the living room, Noah caught both my shoulders. "Remember, soldier."

"What?"

"Only name, rank and serial number."

"What are you expecting her to ask?"

"You'll see."

His brothers hauled him away.

I heard Anders say, "He's already trying to hide behind the guest."

---

It turned out Noah had been worrying about nothing.

Ingrid asked about hockey, my parents, travel, if Philadelphia was treating me well, and whether I'd eaten enough.

She somehow prepared dinner, organised grandchildren, delegated chores and held three conversations simultaneously without ever appearing rushed.

It became increasingly obvious why four enormous Scandinavian men obeyed her without hesitation. Ingrid never raised her voice. She didn't need to. She was steel wrapped in kindness.

Noah never stood a chance.

---

When I wandered into the great room half an hour later, chaos had settled comfortably over the house.

Several children were engaged in an increasingly passionate dispute over a video game.

Someone had built a blanket fort.

A couple of huskies lay asleep beneath the coffee table.

Noah sat on a sofa with a beer.

He looked relieved to see me.

"Still alive?"

"Barely."

"I warned you."

"Your mother's terrifying."

"I know."

"You undersold it."

"I was trying to protect morale."

I sat beside him.

Across the room Anders wandered over to the picture window overlooking the backyard. "Huh."

"What?" Noah asked.

"The pond's looking good this year."

Noah didn't even look. "Oh no." He did look. "No." Another pause. "No way." Then louder— "Absolutely fucking not."

From the kitchen— "Noah!" His mother's voice cracked like a rifle shot. "Language!"

"...Sorry."

He sounded about twelve.

Nils joined Anders at the window. "We flooded it again yesterday."

"Ice is smooth as glass."

"No."

I stood, curious.

Beyond the house sat a backyard rink enclosed by weathered wooden boards. Not league regulation size, but big enough.

Snow skittered across perfect ice.

Two tractor tires marked the goals.

Stick marks already crossed the surface.

Noah groaned. "If Coach finds out we played pond hockey on an off-day he'll bench us until Easter." He looked at me, helpfully. "Back me up."

I looked at the rink. "It might be fun."

His expression was one of absolute betrayal.

Behind us both brothers punched the air.

"Yes!"

Nils already had his phone out. "Nyquist?" A pause. "You busy?" Another. "Bender around?" He grinned. "What do you say to sending one arrogant little prick back to Philadelphia with his tail between his legs?" Another pause. "Oh." He glanced at me. "Yeah. Lemaire's here too." Another pause. "No, he's not as bad." He grinned showing a mouthful of perfect sharks teeth. "But I figure he could still use an attitude adjustment." He laughed. "See you in twenty."

He hung up.

Anders moved to the basement stairs. "We've got skates." He looked me over. "I think the pair I wore when I was eight should fit."

I couldn't tell if he was joking.

I wasn't convinced he knew either.

---

A few minutes later I sat beside the rink lacing up scarred old skates that had seen more Minnesota winters than I could count.

My stick looked old enough to qualify for archaeological protection.

Noah inspected his own equipment. "This tape might be older than I am."

"It still works."

"So do rotary telephones."

A pair of pickup trucks rolled into the driveway.

Out climbed two more men.

Both enormous.

Both built like they occasionally wrestled bears for exercise, thighs like fir trees, shoulders like snowplows.

They waved.

Apparently this was normal.

Children poured outside behind them.

Within minutes we'd split into teams.

Naturally Noah and I ended up opposite one another.

Just like old times.

Nils gathered everyone together. "We've got kids out here." He pointed around the circle. "So keep the rough stuff to a minimum." Then he pointed at Noah and me. "And we've also got a pair of professional prima donnas." He smirked. "So watch your language."

One of the boys, perhaps ten years old, snorted. "Fuck that noise."

His father looked over. "If your grandma hears that..." The boy visibly wilted. "...you'll spend the rest of winter cleaning the attic."

"...Sorry."

We warmed up with easy passes.

The ice wasn't perfect.

Neither were the boards.

The tractor tires made for surprisingly unforgiving targets.

Then someone yelled, "Puck!"

The game began.

Within thirty seconds I realised local knowledge mattered far more than professional contracts.

The snowbanks became passing lanes.

The boards produced impossible rebounds.

The tractor tires rewarded angles I'd never considered.

Every man on the ice competed with cheerful ruthlessness.

Hooks.

Stick lifts.

Snow showers.

Questionably legal body positioning.

None of it malicious.

All of it relentless.

The kids darted fearlessly into every loose puck.

The adults laughed almost as much as they competed. The huskies milled around outside the boards, howling play-by-play commentary on the action.

Noah looked happier than I'd ever seen him.

He argued with everyone.

He complained constantly.

He never once looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

He wasn't smiling constantly.

He didn't need to.

Just... home.

Comfortable.

Free.

Late in the game he deked around me exactly the way he'd done a hundred times in NHL arenas.

I stole the puck anyway.

He pointed accusingly.

"That was interference."

"This isn't the League."

"Apparently."

Before the argument could continue, Ingrid opened the back door.

"Dinner!"

Instantly every stick dropped.

Nobody argued. Nobody delayed. Twelve people headed for the house at once.

The score remained tied.

No one seemed particularly interested in changing that.

For once, nobody seemed to care who won.