Pride and Pucks and Prejudice - 22. Chapter 22

Noah

"The biscotti has nothing to do with it."

I nearly ran into Emily the Intern, with her hair up in a bun clutching a clipboard and two binders to her chest like armor.

"Sorry!" she squeaked.

I smiled at her. "It was my fault. Wasn't watching where I was going."

She blinked, looking from me to Jackson.

A faint blush spread across her cheeks.

She looked at me.

Looked at Jackson.

Then back again.

Her eyes widened.

"Oh." Her jaw dropped. "Ohhh!" Her eyes flicked from me to Jackson as her expression shifted from confusion to dawning comprehension.

"Are you okay?" Jackson asked.

"Yes!" A beat. "No." Another beat. "I mean, yes." She cleared her throat. "Have a good game."

Then she smiled. It was a very knowing smile that I didn't like at all. "Sorry!"

She hurried down the hallway before either of us could ask another question.

I shook my head at Jackson. "I just don't get it."

Jackson watched Emily disappear. "...What was that?"

"No idea."

"Weird."

"Very."

The dressing room buzzed with the familiar rhythm of pre-game routine. Tape being torn. Music humming softly from someone's speaker. Equipment bags unzipping.

I was sitting beside my stall while Jackson leaned against the next one over, the whiteboard from our pre-scout balanced between us.

"Their penalty kill still cheats high," I said quietly.

He nodded. "Especially their weak-side winger. If he bites on the point, the seam opens."

"I noticed that."

"They'll adjust after the first period."

"So we only need it once."

He smiled. "Exactly."

I tapped the board with one finger. "Their defense likes to gap up through the neutral zone."

"So chip it behind?"

"Only if they're standing still."

He nodded again. "Otherwise we carry."

"Otherwise we carry."

Neither of us noticed we'd fallen into the same easy rhythm we'd found everywhere else lately, finishing each other's thoughts before the other had quite finished speaking.

Across the room, Ben looked up from lacing his skates. He watched us. For several seconds. Then looked at Eddie. Then back at us.

Finally he frowned. "...There's something different here."

Aleksander glanced over. "What?"

"I don't know yet."

Ben narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "But there definitely is."

I looked up. "What are you talking about?"

He pointed vaguely between Jackson and me. "You two."

Jackson looked equally confused. "What about us?"

Ben opened his mouth.

Coach Hayes clapped his hands once. "Alright, gentlemen. Five minutes."

Conversation died immediately. Players drifted toward the whiteboard.

Ben sighed dramatically. "You've been saved by the pre-game meeting."

"I don't think I needed saving," I said.

"We'll revisit this."

He stood and wandered toward the coaches.

I looked at Jackson.

He looked back at me.

"No idea?" I asked.

"No idea."

We followed everyone else over.

Behind us, I could have sworn I heard Ben mutter to Eddie, "I'm telling you..."

Eddie's reply was almost lost beneath the scrape of chairs. "I know."

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

Warm-ups were usually predictable. A few easy laps. Stretch. Passing drills. A handful of shots to wake the hands up.

The coaches pretending not to notice that half the team had their own routines anyway.

I was skating lazy circles near center ice when I noticed Ben, Eddie and Aleksander gathered by the boards.

All three were leaning in. Talking quietly. Which was unusual enough. What made it stranger was that every few seconds one of them glanced in my direction. Then looked away very quickly.

Ben shook his head. Eddie appeared to be making an argument with both hands. Aleksander looked as though he was trying very hard not to laugh.

Curiosity eventually won.

I drifted over just in time to hear Ben say, "...I still want to put twenty-five bucks on it."

"It's a sucker bet," Eddie replied.

"What is?" I asked.

Three heads turned towards me. For half a second they all looked like schoolboys who'd been caught passing notes.

"What?" I repeated.

Ben recovered first. "Nothing."

"I literally heard you."

"He's got you there," Aleksander agreed.

I frowned. "...What's a sucker bet?"

Eddie answered immediately. "Horse racing."

"Yeah."

"What horse?"

Ben looked at Eddie for inspiration.

"...Seabiscuit."

Ben nodded with complete seriousness. "I want to put twenty-five bucks on Seabiscuit in the fifth at Pimlico."

I stared at him. "...Didn't Seabiscuit die like a hundred years ago?"

Eddie didn't even hesitate. He pointed straight at me. "See?"

Ben sighed dramatically. "No way he wins that race."

"Absolutely no chance."

Aleksander nodded in solemn agreement. "Terrible investment."

The three of them pushed off together before I could ask another question.

I watched them skate away.

"...Weirdos."

Honestly.

I'd reached the point where I wasn't even surprised anymore. A conversation with them was like playing chess with a cat: they swiped the pieces off the board and strutted around proclaiming victory.

----------

My eyes drifted across the ice.

Jackson was circling near the far blue line, waiting for the next drill to start.

Good. I'd tell him.

If anyone could explain what was wrong with the rest of the team lately... It was probably Jackson.

He'd appreciate just how bizarre everyone had become lately.

At the very least, he'd agree Ben had finally lost what remained of his mind.

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

The first period settled into the sort of hockey coaches loved and commentators called uneventful. Simple exits. Good gaps. Nothing fancy. Jackson's line had already spent most of one shift cycling the puck deep when we changed on the fly.

Halfway through the second period, Cleveland dumped the puck into our corner. Routine play. Jackson reached it first. A defenseman arrived half a second later.

They met shoulder-to-shoulder against the boards. Nothing unusual. I'd seen heavier hits than that before warm-ups.

The puck squirted loose. Our defenseman collected it and started the breakout. Play continued.

Except... Jackson didn't.

He pushed himself up onto one knee. Stopped. Tried again. Didn't get any farther.

The crowd noticed before I did. A ripple of concern spread through the arena.

The whistle sounded. Without thinking, I was already skating toward him. Then my brain caught up.

Don't.

You'll make it obvious. Too late.

I was already there. "Hey."

Jackson looked up. "I'm fine."

He wasn't. He was trying very hard to look annoyed instead of hurt. The trainer reached us a second later.

"So that's obviously a lie," he said mildly.

Jackson managed half a smile. "I might've overstated things."

"You think?"

I took one step back. Then another. Exactly what any teammate would do.

Nothing unusual. Nothing to see.

Coach Hayes was already reorganizing lines on the bench.

The game wasn't stopping.

Jackson accepted the trainer's arm only long enough to get his balance, then waved him away and limped the first few strides himself.

The crowd applauded as he disappeared down the tunnel. I watched him go. For perhaps half a second.

"Noah!" Coach's voice snapped across the ice. "You're up."

Right. Professional mode. I climbed over the boards. The puck dropped.

For the next thirty-five minutes there wasn't time to worry.

There was only the next shift. The next faceoff. The next breakout. The next chance.

That's the strange thing about hockey. Life can change in one corner of the rink.

The clock keeps running anyway.

---

The diagnosis was a Grade One MCL sprain. Good news, apparently, two weeks, maybe three if Coach Hayes could be persuaded not to argue with the medical staff.

Jackson accepted the news with the sort of quiet professionalism that made it impossible to tell whether he was relieved or disappointed.

"Could've been worse," he said.

He was right.

That didn't make it good.

---

Coach called me into his office after practice.

"You'll move over."

I nodded. "I figured."

"You'll center the first line until he's back."

"Okay."

He studied me for a moment. "You've done it before."

"I know."

"Nothing changes."

I believed him. At least, I wanted to.

---

The newspapers seemed delighted.

LINDHOLM ANCHORS FIRST-LINE DUTIES

PHILADELPHIA'S OFFENSE AGAIN RUNS THROUGH NOAH LINDHOLM

One television analyst called me "the primary driver of the team's attack once again."

Another spent three minutes explaining why elite centers elevated everyone around them.

Earlier in the season, I probably would've watched the clips twice.

Maybe three times.

Now I switched the television off halfway through.

---

We kept winning. Mostly.

The first line still scored. The power play still worked. Coach seemed satisfied.

The numbers looked fine. If anything, they suggested everything was working exactly as intended.

Only... It didn't feel that way.

The timing was off. Not by much. Half a second here. A stride there.

I'd carry the puck over the blue line and instinctively look for a passing lane that wasn't there. I'd thread a puck into open ice... only to remember a fraction too late that the player skating beside me wasn't Jackson.

He wasn't wrong. He was simply... Someone else.

Different instincts. Different habits. Different reads. Perfectly good hockey.

Just not ours.

---

A few mornings later I found myself standing in the tunnel before practice.

Helmet on. Gloves tucked beneath one arm. Waiting.

I frowned.

Waiting for what?

Then I realized I was looking towards the entrance players used after treatment. The same doorway Jackson usually appeared through.

Except he wasn't skating today. He was upstairs with the trainers.

Right.

Of course.

I shook my head and headed onto the ice.

---

Every practice followed the same pattern.

I'd glance towards the tunnel. Remember. Adjust. Run the drill. Score the goals. Answer the media questions. Go home.

Everything worked. It simply didn't work as well. I kept telling myself it was because we'd built chemistry.

That was all. Good linemates needed time.

Anyone would miss that familiarity. That explanation made perfect sense.

It should have been enough.

Somehow... It wasn't.

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

By the end of the second week, everyone else had gone home.

Again.

The coaches' offices were dark except for the faint glow beneath Coach Hayes's door. Somewhere down the corridor an equipment dryer rumbled steadily.

I sat alone in the video room.

Tablet balanced on my knees.

One clip ended. Another began. Then another.

Nothing extraordinary happened.

Jackson chipped a puck behind a defenseman because he'd already seen me cutting across the middle.

I reversed the puck behind our net because I already knew where he'd be.

He drifted into open ice before I needed an outlet.

I hit him without looking.

Not because I was guessing.

Because I knew.

It all looked so...

Ordinary.

Until it wasn't there anymore.

I paused the video.

The room became very quiet.

For months I'd convinced myself I wanted to be the player.

The one who drove the line.

The one everyone depended on.

Now I had exactly that.

The coaches trusted me.

The media praised me.

The line still produced.

I'd proved everything I'd once wanted to prove.

So why did every game feel as though something important was missing?

The answer had been sitting in front of me for the last twenty minutes.

It wasn't the extra ice time.

It wasn't the responsibility.

It wasn't even the hockey.

I didn't want Jackson's role.

I wanted Jackson.

On my wing.

In the dressing room.

Waiting outside after practice.

Across a dinner table.

Laughing at Ben's terrible jokes.

Beside me.

Everywhere.

I stared at the frozen image on the screen.

Jackson was halfway through a turn, looking toward me because he already knew where the puck was going.

Without meaning to, I smiled.

Then the smile faded. Because he wasn't there.

For the first time since he'd been injured, I stopped pretending that what I missed was my linemate.

I wanted Jackson.