Interference

by Sophia Henry

  “Why do you think she’s weird?” Landon’s gaze caught my eye.

  “Not weird,” I said, backtracking. “Just, I don’t know, different. She’s got all this grief and sadness pent up. They picked that date because it was right after the anniversary of her mom’s death. She literally wanted to cover something sad with something happy.”

  I hadn’t planned on telling Landon what Auden had confided in me, but I wanted him to understand that no one was being jerky when they couldn’t reschedule a courthouse wedding for a day Landon could be there.

  “Damn.” Landon shifted his eyes to the ice. “Isn’t she worried she’ll just be depressed for her anniversary every year?”

  “That’s what I said.” I knew my brother would understand. “She’s a really well-adjusted person, considering everything that’s happened, but she has this sad, morbid streak. Being with Sasha has helped her a little bit.”

  “Yeah, he has.” Landon nodded. “She’s a lot different than when he first met her.”

  “And they’re gonna have a party to celebrate at some point.” I changed the subject and threw my brother a bone simultaneously.

  “Not sure I believe that. Last time I talked to Sasha, Auden was in the background yelling about celebrating on their fiftieth wedding anniversary,” Landon said.

  “Well, Sasha talked her into a party. Soon. Then another one on their fiftieth.”

  “Really?” Landon’s expression softened.

  “Well, that’s what they said, but you never know with Auden. She’s complicated.”

  “You don’t have to insult her for my sake. She’s an awesome girl. Her complications are understandable considering her situation.”

  Okay, so throwing Auden under the bus wasn’t the best way to make Landon feel better. I suck at heart-to-heart talks, even with my own brother.

  “Complicated is not an insult,” I said, defending myself. “Calling her a head case would be an insult.”

  Landon sighed and his face morphed into a Really? expression. “She’s been through a lot.”

  “We all have,” I pointed out.

  “You, of all people, have a reason to be pissed,” Landon told me. “But you’re stronger than that, man. You’ve had a great life with people who love you.”

  “So has she.”

  Now it was my turn to stare at the massive scoreboard and avoid his eyes. I wasn’t looking for sympathy. I’m allowed to be pissed at the birth mother who gave me up for adoption but kept Auden.

  “Don’t be like that.” Landon bumped my knee with his, which broke me out of my trance.

  “Enough of the deep shit,” I said.

  “You started it.”

  “No, you did, by whining about not being at your boyfriend’s wedding.” I lifted my fists to my eyes and pretended to cry. “I couldn’t go to my best friend’s wedding because we both play in the NHL.”

  Landon laughed and smacked my ribs with his elbow. “Fuck you, man.”

  —

  We watched the rest of the first period in relative silence, speaking again only to a discuss a play here and there.

  Landon leaned forward in his seat, watching with an eager eye. He probably longed to be out there with the Pilots, since most of those guys were still his best friends. But not enough that he’d ever give up the opportunity to be in the NHL. My brother was a player’s player—a guy that went all out for his team. He could make friends in an empty box.

  Landon smacked my arm with the back of his hand, saying, “Come on.”

  I glanced at the scoreboard. “There’re five minutes left.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Landon stood. “But I have a surprise for you.”

  Indie would be amused to know surprises ran in my family. Thinking about her made me smile, and I realized how deep into her I was.

  Instead of getting caught up in thoughts of how deep I wanted to be in her, I stood up and followed my brother to the concourse. Landon led me to the Zamboni entrance to the ice, where two Pilots employees stood, clutching sticks and pucks.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “You get to shoot for a car!” Landon said in his best game-show-host voice.

  “Oh my god!” A little girl took a step in front of me, knocking me backward. “Landon Taylor! Can I please have your autograph? Please?”

  Nice hip check, kid.

  “Sure.” Landon grinned and took the Pilots game program she’d thrust out to him.

  “I don’t have a pen.” Her long, brown ponytail smacked against my chest as her head turned and her eyes darted from side to side, searching for something for Landon to sign with. “Oh no! I don’t have a pen.”

  Landon reached out and touched her shoulder. “It’s okay.” He turned to one of the Pilots employees I recognized from previous events and used his hand to mimic writing. “Jess, do you have a pen?”

  “Yeah, of course,” Jess answered. After digging around for a moment, she produced a black Sharpie from the Pilots backpack hitched over one of her shoulders.

  “Thanks,” Landon said, taking the marker from her. He turned back to the excited little girl. “What’s your name?”

  “Safina.”

  Landon scribbled and handed it back to her. “Here you go, Safina.”

  “Thank you! Thank you!” The girl clutched the program to her chest.

  Just then, a furry, white, cat-looking thing with an oversized head snuck up behind me.

  Orville, the Pilots’ creepy-ass mascot.

  I didn’t even know what animal Orville was supposed to be. But his name came from the Wright Brothers. Stan Martin liked his teams to stick with North Carolina’s “First in Flight” theme. Wilbur, the Pilots’ creepy-ass mascot’s twin brother, was in Charlotte, entertaining Aviators fans. The mascots dressed almost identically, wearing jerseys representing their respective teams and old-time aviator goggles sitting on top of their heads.

  The horn sounded to end the first period. Jessica waited at the entrance, giving the players time to clear the ice and head toward their respective locker rooms before she unhooked the latches on the doors and swung them open.

  “Okay.” She cleared her throat. “Orville’s gonna lead you guys out there. You’ll take two shots each. Good luck!”

  The Pilots employee standing next to Jessica, a young dude with a shaggy, blond mullet (sometimes known as “hockey hair”), handed sticks to Safina and me. I nodded my thanks, then bent down and gripped it like I would if I were taking a shot. The shine of my shoes caught my eye while my head was down.

  Fuck. My shoes had absolutely no traction. Which would pose a problem when walking on the ice. I silently cursed Landon for not giving me the heads-up so I could have worn a different pair.

  It would be super fucking embarrassing to fall on my ass in front of the crowd that stayed in the stands during intermission.

  Completely missing the net would be equally embarrassing. I could hear the chirping already: No wonder Landon Taylor’s brother never made it to the big leagues.

  I let Safina go ahead of me, and made sure to take careful steps as I followed Orville across the ice. Jessica and the other Pilots employee walked behind us, carrying the pucks.

  Neither of poor little Safina’s shots even made it to the goal, but she got a huge round of applause from the crowd anyway. They should’ve let her move up a bit so she had a chance.

  But rules are rules. Move aside, kid.

  Jessica set the puck down in front of me on the blue line, then backed away. When I looked at the net to line up my shot, Orville was there, dancing in front of it, hopping from one foot to the other and waving his grimy arms.

  Stupid cat-thing hadn’t done that to Safina. No worries.

  I bent over, drew my arms back, and sent a sick slap shot at the net.

  I should explain that it’s virtually impossible to make this shot. The entire goal is covered by a huge plank of wood, with a tiny rectangular cutout in the bottom center, just an inch or so taller and
wider than the size of a puck. I mean, even Pavel Datsyuk might have a hard time making that shot. Notice I said might. He is the Magic Man and all.

  The puck slid across the ice straight toward its target. The crowd seemed to take in a collective breath.

  Then it careened off the wooden barrier just to the left of the tiny opening.

  I released a breath along with the fans. And the cheering began. Hooting and hollering from every angle.

  The shot missed, but it was a great try.

  I had a better chance of winning the lottery than hitting as close to the opening in my second attempt as I had in my first, so instead of lining it up, I flicked a wrist shot toward the goal.

  The puck caught a tiny bit of air and bounced off Orville’s shin. He cocked his fat head at me and then raised his arms up as if to say “What the fuck?”

  The fans roared as Orville skated toward me with his dukes up, ready to fake a fight.

  At least, that’s what I thought, until he got close enough for me to hear him.

  “Why the fuck would you shoot the puck at me?” Orville yelled, his voice muffled by the mesh of the costume’s mouth opening. “I’m gonna kick your fucking ass!”

  Then he charged me and I had to bat his nappy paws away.

  Oh, it’s on, mofo.

  Instead of letting this prick beat my ass in front of the crowd, I turned the tables. I grabbed the hem of his jersey and attempted to lift it over his head.

  “Don’t take my head off, you jackass!” he yelled at me. “Get over here, fucker!”

  Orville’s vulgar vocabulary had me wondering if it was one of the kids I coached hiding beneath the costume. He sounded like Damien Meadows after I’d benched him. Good thing Safina wasn’t close enough to hear him.

  From the cheers of the crowd, they thought we were putting on a show, but Orville truly wanted to beat the shit out of me. Though I had the advantage of not having a horrible costume on, I didn’t want to drop him in front of children, so I threw a few fake uppercuts into his stomach, then lifted my hands and waved to the crowd.

  Orville spun away and brushed his paws over his jersey. Then he bopped me over the head with a fuzzy fist, which sent me down. Total cheap shot.

  I watched, still on my ass, as he skated around the rink with his hands clasped over his head and his hula-hoop stomach sticking out. Instead of letting him get the last laugh, I scrambled up and slid across the ice. My wet jeans clung to my thighs, sending chills through me, but Orville had to pay for that sucker punch.

  I have a hard time letting things go.

  That fat cat didn’t know what hit him when I rammed into him with my shoulder and checked his gloating ass into the boards. When Orville’s body banged against the glass, he collapsed to his knees and the entire crowd jumped to their feet as if the Pilots had scored. I stood above him, placed a foot on his chest and pumped my fist at the crowd.

  Jessica and Mullet Boy had to drag me away so Orville could pick himself up.

  When I reached the Zamboni entrance, Landon stood there, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “You’re an officer of the law.”

  “He charged me!” I said, defensively.

  My brother laughed and lifted his hand for a high five. “Nice clapper, though.”

  I slapped his palm as I stepped off the ice and onto the arena floor. “Better get out of here before Orville gets back.”

  Landon patted the back of my head as I skimmed past him. “You’re the best big brother a boy could have.”

  —

  Sometimes the scent of a musty old basement and stale beer evokes more memories of home than one of Mom’s freshly baked pumpkin pies.

  That’s how I felt walking into the Garage, the bar my uncle owned. I’d been coming here to play Pac-Man and Golden Tee since I was a kid.

  “Why didn’t Gaby come out after work?” I asked, nudging Landon’s side with my elbow to get his attention.

  “She had to study for—” he began.

  “Jason!” Our uncle interrupted Landon’s answer with his gregarious greeting. Brian walked around the bar with his arms extended. No handshakes in our family.

  “Hey Bri,” I said, meeting him halfway. I threw my arms around him and hugged him tight.

  “I didn’t know you were coming into town.” Brian wiped sweat off one of his crazy bushy eyebrows.

  “Didn’t Dad tell you? I brought my girl down for Landon’s game.”

  Brian glanced behind him, a quick check on the patrons at the bar. “Charlie hasn’t been in here for a beer in over a week.”

  “A week? A whole week?” Landon quipped.

  But Dad not making his weekly visit to see Brian was a big deal.

  Every Monday night for as far back as I can remember, Dad has sat at the bar, hanging out and shooting the shit. Brotherly bonding time. It’s been a tradition since Brian bought this lump-of-crap building fifteen years ago.

  Brotherly bonding time. Another reason I should have stayed in Detroit and kept trying to get a job with the department here. Though Bridgeland was less than two hours away, with my schedule and all the extra shifts I’d picked up, it was next to impossible to get home. And then I started dating Indie, and going home was barely on my radar.

  Sometimes I feel like I left my brother in his time of need. Back when he still hadn’t been called up to the NHL yet. And before he had Gaby to confide in.

  “You were at this guy’s game yesterday, right?” Brian threw an arm across Landon’s shoulders and caught his neck in the crook of his elbow. Prime noogie-giving position. “So you saw that blocked shot? Thought he’d cracked his kneecap after that one.”

  “Dude! Get off!” Landon laughed, twisting out of Brian’s grasp.

  “Don’tcha know his old Pilots boys are over there? He’s a big-time NHL player now,” I teased. “Gotta act like a big man.”

  Landon stood up straight and rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

  But it was there, the hint of embarrassment at being messed with in front of your friends by your uncle.

  Luckily for Landon, Brian knew enough to let it go. As we grew up, our relationship with Uncle Brian had morphed from hanging out with our fun uncle to actual friendship. As Dad’s youngest sibling, Brian was only thirteen years older than me, close enough to be our oldest brother. He spent a lot of time passed out on our couch in his college days, so it was almost as if he lived with us back then, anyway.

  “Go hang out with your friends. I’ve got customers to serve.” Brian slapped my shoulder and retreated toward the bar. He stopped next to a guy resting his forehead on the bar and used his thumb and middle finger to flick the guy’s skull. “Wake up, Donnie! I’m calling you a cab.”

  Landon and I wandered over to the three Pilots players who had pushed two small tables together to make one large enough for all of them to fit around. As we approached, the cologne worn by three freshly showered hockey players replaced the homey scent of mildew and stale beer. I almost preferred the mildew.

  “Small-town cop graces us with his presence!” Luke Daniels, captain of the Pilots, called out.

  “Did you ride down here on your horse, cowboy?” Blake added.

  I shook my head but chuckled at the greetings. “Fuck you, city thugs.”

  Landon had made Brian’s dive bar the hot spot for Pilots players to hang out after games. Only a few fans, and even fewer puck bunnies, had caught on. And the fans that had were always respectful of the players’ privacy.

  “We are thugs now? This is not what your mother call me last night,” Pavel Gribov, King Dick of the Pilots, quipped.

  The entire table turned to him and gave him the same pissed-off glare, even though we were all used to him being the one who took everything too far.

  “Mention my mom again and I will cut off your dick, Gribov,” Landon warned, sliding into the open seat next to Luke.

  Gribov pointed finger guns at his crotch. “You need chain saw for this monster.”

  “Fuck
that! We’ve showered with you, man!” Blake, Gribov’s best friend on the team, joked.

  Which caused a roar of laughter from each one of us.

  Every head in the bar turned toward our table. Granted, there were only a few other people at the bar—the guy Brian flicked, another old dude, and two cougars playing pool. Lines like that could be taken out of context by anyone who didn’t know it was a group of athletes, which made it even funnier.

  Blake’s joke eased my initial annoyance with Gribov, who I normally don’t have much tolerance for, since he screwed with my sister’s relationship. When he set up Aleksandr to make it look like he’d been cheating on Auden, it threw all my patience out the window. I don’t have time for petty, high school–drama bullshit.

  But Aleksandr seems to have forgiven him, or let him slide, or something, so I deal with him, since he’s not going away anytime soon.

  Plus, as much as Gribov could be a complete dick to others, he did say some funny shit. Most of which came back to bite his stupid ass.

  I dragged a chair over from the next table and took a seat.

  “I forget you have same mother,” Gribov said. “I apologize.”

  The thrum of laughter halted. All you could hear was the static crackle from the ten-year-old box TV hanging in the corner above our heads.

  Blake broke the silence with a whisper. “Did he just apologize?”

  Gribov pushed his chair back and stood. “And now I take a piss. In case you writing this down.”

  “He’s going soft on us,” Blake said as Gribov walked away.

  “That’s what she said,” Landon and I said in unison.

  “The Taylor brothers are back.” Luke laughed and downed his beer. Then he stood. “I’m going up. Anyone need another?”

  The three of us raised our beer bottles, but no one got up to help Luke.

  “Dicks,” he muttered on his way to the bar.

  I turned to Blake, lowering my voice when I asked, “How’re you doing, man?” I didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable, but I wanted to express my concern.

  “All right.” He set his empty beer bottle at the end of the table. “Horrible.”

  “I’m so sorry.” What do you say to a guy who found his wife in bed with a neighbor after coming home from morning skate? Poor Blake.