1
Nolan
It was a brutal practice. The kind that makes me think I’m too old for this even though I’m only thirty. Professional hockey has a way of making you feel like you’re geriatric, especially when you’re in a losing streak and the coaches push you hard to get out of it. Yeah, I’ll be feeling the aches and pains from this practice well into the rest of the week. Thankfully, we only had two more games before winter break. I’m ready for a shower and a nap when I step into the locker room and my eyes grow three sizes bigger.
My teammate, and our current Captain, Xavier Oakes, is walking behind me and bumps right into me because he wasn’t anticipating my abrupt stop. He looks up, his eyes taking in the newly decorated locker room, and he laughs—hard. I frown harder. “I thought we talked to management and told them we didn’t want this crap anymore.”
Viktor Volkov, our stellar goalie, cackles. “No bro, you told management we didn’t want Christmas decorations in the locker room and dressing room this year. We didn’t say shit because we aren’t the Grinch.”
I flip him off, but he smiles even brighter and pushes past me, his bulky gear almost slamming me into the door frame. Xavier follows, clapping me on the shoulder and giving me a somewhat sympathetic smile. I think. It’s hard to tell with him. He’s such a joker all the time. “You’ll live, Duggan.”
“But I won’t enjoy it,” I mumble and march over to the bench in front of my locker. I know I’m being a total brat about this, but this team has become ridiculous when it comes to Christmas. Like, certifiably nuts. And it’s all because of one person.
“I really like it,” Viktor goes on as we begin to undress in the dressing room, which is also decorated within an inch of its life with garland and tiny, multi-colored lights and a giant blow up Santa in the corner. “I mean most of us can’t be with our families for the holidays because of the tight turnaround in the schedule, so this at least makes us feel festive.”
“It makes me feel like I’m wearing an Under Armor made of porcupine quills,” I shoot back in a growl that only makes Viktor’s goofy grin grow.
“Aren’t you going to get a Christmas tree at home now that you have someone to share the season with?” he asks and then cocks his head, making a sad face suddenly. “Are you going to deny your poor kitten his first Christmas?”
“Leave Max out of it,” I warn, and my heart warms just a little bit at the thought of the tiny but fluffy charcoal grey puff ball with one eye. I hadn’t meant to keep him. But when I found him shivering behind a dumpster in October, barely two pounds with a heinous eye infection, I couldn’t just leave him there. The vet I took him to put me in contact with a shelter but they said they were beyond capacity and they’d only list him for adoption on their website if someone could foster him. Somehow that someone became me.
“You finally named him?” Xavier asks, stunned.
“It’s not his name,” I argue. “It’s just something I call him by until someone adopts him and gives him a name. It’s a place holder.”
“Uh-huh,” Xavier and Viktor exchange looks I don’t understand but I don’t like anyway.
Not wanting to continue this conversation any further, I just glare at them and head to the showers. When I’m done, almost everyone on the team has fucked off, so I’m left to dress in peace. I throw on my jeans, boots, and Vancouver Comets hoodie and stomp my way to the admin offices.
Oh my God, I thought it looked like Father Christmas had thrown up in our dressing room, and our locker room that had a fully decorated Christmas tree with lights, fake snow and a million glittery ornaments, but now I know I was wrong. Father Christmas had only sneezed in the team’s space. He puked all over this floor. From the second I get off the elevator, there’s so many sparkly things and lights everywhere that I have to squint. There’s also mistletoe above every office door and a five-foot blow-up Santa, complete with reindeers, in the conference room..
Felicity Roark’s door is open, and before I even reach it, I can hear Bing Crosby crooning out “White Christmas.” My eyes roll so hard in my head I think I sprain them. I lift my hand to rap on her door but she speaks before I can. “Nolan Duggan, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
Her smile is bright. It’s always so damn bright but especially at Christmas. “I don’t like the Christmas crap in the downstairs.”
“Would you like some Hanukah items added?” She blinks those big, happy blue eyes.
“No.”
“Kwanzaa?” She asks.
“I don’t want anything added. I want it taken away,” I bark.
She doesn’t look the least bit surprised, and I realize she was being sarcastic. She got the memo when I complained last year. But she doesn’t care. She stands up, and I try to keep the scowl on my face. The fact is, Felicity is the stuff I fantasize about, physically. She’s tall, curvy, with long brown hair she usually wears up and eyes that remind of me of cornflowers my mom used to plant in the garden for the very short time we got summer in Alaska.
“Your complaint was reviewed and we deemed it ridiculous. So the decorations went up,” Felicity explains. “I did however, rein it in a little. I didn’t put mistletoe outside the locker room door or put the inflatable reindeer in the tunnel to the ice like I’d originally intended. You’re welcome. And if you really hate decorations, I would steer clear of the arena concourse until about January second. It’s filled with all sorts of holiday décor.”
The deeper my scowl gets, the bigger her grin gets. This woman…she was put here just to fuck with me, I swear. “Listen, Felicity I don’t want to make a big deal about this but I will. I find it offensive.”
“It’s non-denominational,” She explains. “All the decorations are Santas and reindeer, not Jesus and Mary or anything.”
“I’m still offended.”
“I can add more snowflakes to the decor if that will make you feel more at home,” Felicity shoots back. Her perfectly glossed lips moving from a smile to a smirk. “You’re from Alaska, right? You must love snow.”
She is more frustrating than a broken stick on a breakaway. “Look, I think we just really need to focus on hockey right now, Felicity. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re like second to last in the division. That hasn’t happened since—”
“Ten years ago, the Comets finished dead last in the league,” she finishes the sentence for me crossing her arms over her chest. She’s wearing a blouse that’s red and as shimmery as a Christmas ornament, and I know it’s on purpose. I try to focus on the fact that it brings out the pink in her apple cheeks and not the Christmas aspect. “But then we got a high draft pick and were able to draft this really talented defensemen fifth overall and our luck changed. And it will again. After all, we still have that really talented defenseman, and he’s only gotten better with age.”
Me. She’s talking about me.
She pats my shoulder. I grit my teeth. She’s the only person I have ever met that can anger me with a compliment. “Thanks but this talented defenseman wants the decorations dusted.”
She casually walks over to her desk. “You’re welcome to go above my head.”
I know that will do no good. She’s a total goody-two-shoes rule follower. If she says she has approval, she does. So instead, I huff and say, “Why are you so into the holidays?”
“Why are you so out of them?” She counters my question with her own.
I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I don’t know this woman, and I’m not about to share personal details with her. So instead, I turn and stomp my way back to the elevators, trying to come to terms with the fact that I’m going to have to endure another holiday season full of sparkle and joy and all that other crap. I swear she turns up her stupid Christmas music when I storm off because I hear it all the way down the hall.