The minute the bus’s door opens and the people in front see Connor step off, they go wild. They’re screaming and calling his name, jabbing Sharpies at him and jerseys or pieces of paper to sign. There are kids trying to get him to sign their sticks and their helmets. He takes it all in stride and tries to accommodate as many of the kids as he can with a wide, friendly smile on his face. He’s less apt to stop for an adult, and he ducks the women trying to touch him as he moves through the crowd.
While we were in Las Vegas I had almost forgotten how beloved he is. Sure, we had the occasional run-in with fans, but nothing like this. This is a mob, and they all want a piece of him.
I keep my eye on him as I sign some things for the few kids gathering around me as well. There’s some little bruisers in this bunch. One of them is sporting an impressive shiner that I compliment him on. He smiles with pride. He’s even missing a tooth. I give him a fist bump for it and let his father take our picture together.
“He’s your biggest fan,” his dad says.
I tell the kid I’ll keep a lookout for him in the league. He looks like I’ve made his day. I hope that’s true.
I make my way towards Connor again as the sea of people has separated us. I’m pleased to hear my other teammates’ names being called as they get off the bus as well. If it had only beenConnor being made a tremendous fuss over, we might have lost some of the camaraderie we finally achieved at training camp.
“Looks like I have some competition,” I say to Connor, leaning so I can speak directly into his ear. Ahead of us is a group of women wearing American flag bikinis despite the frigid winter weather. They have Connor’s number painted across their chests.
Connor looks at me and fake gags. So I run interference for him and block him like I’m playing defense to keep the other team away from the net and get Connor inside, past the sliding glass doors. Quiet comes over us again. Well, as quiet as it can be on the inside of a building when there’s screaming fans outside.
“Hey, Kennedy!” Bouchard yells as the automatic glass doors slide closed behind him. He ruffles Connor’s hair. “Do you mind if I try to turn those girls out there into Bouchard fans?”
“They’re all yours.” Connor laughs as he smooths his hair back into place.
A few other players make their way in, and we follow security to the elevators. Which is comical since I’m larger than both men assigned to escort us to the eighth floor.
“You hiring?” I ask them. They both laugh, breaking their serious demeanor.
The heavy steel doors close and the elevator begins to glide up the shaft.
“Is it always going to be like this?” Connor asks.
“This is the biggest crowd we’ve seen yet,” one of the security guards says in a thick Italian accent.
“We’ll keep it under control,” the other one says.
Connor and I share a look. I discreetly place my hand across his lower back. We’re squashed against the wall behind everyone else anyway, but I want him to know I’ve got him.
When the elevator reaches the eighth floor, I feel my phone vibrate in my pant leg. I pull it out of my pocket. “Hey, Dad,” I say. “Yeah. We just arrived. It’s complete chaos here.”
Connor looks at me with expectation. He’s been listening to one-sided conversations of me trying to convince my dad to let mepay for him to come here for the past week. Even if I convinced him now, there’s no way he could arrive on time to make it to our first game tomorrow.
“Yeah, I know you can watch it on TV,” I say as we walk, looking for our room.
Connor frowns and quietly says, “Damn it.”
I shrug at him, trying to convey that it’s fine. This is how my dad is. He’s a simple man, and while I know he wants to see me skate on this humongous stage, doing so is anything but simple. He’s never once asked me for anything, and he’s never accepted my offers to upgrade his life. I’m not shocked or offended in any way that he won’t accept my offer now. I just wish he’d let me give this to him to thank him for all he did for me growing up. I know it wasn’t easy doing it mostly by himself. Thanks to him, though, I somehow beat the odds. No one back where I’m from has ever been a part of anything like this. The parts and people of Alaska everyone wants to pretend don’t exist—as they eat the crab and halibut and salmon men like my dad caught for them to feast on at their fancy parties—don’t belong at the Olympics.
“Call me if you change your mind,” I say into my phone. “I’ll get you a cheap seat and a cheaper hot dog.” My dad laughs at this, and I join him. “Alright. Talk to you soon.”
I hang up my phone and come to a stop where Connor is standing in front of the last door on the floor. Thank the hockey gods we only share a wall with one set of teammates. It better be Bouchard and Olsen. I check the door and breathe a sigh of relief when I see their names.
“Still not coming?” Connor asks as he opens the door.
“Nope. But I can tell he’s tempted. Maybe if we make it to the semi-finals I can get him on a plane.”
“We’ll keep trying,” he says, like getting my dad here is our problem and not just mine. It endears him to me more.
He closes the door and leans against it as we take in our new home for the next two weeks. It’s tiny. Ridiculously so and it’s organized around two small beds. They’re twin sized at most.
I stride towards them. “This won’t do,” I say, then lean down to push one bed against the other. I admire my work. “Much better.”
“Thanks!” Connor says. “Now, where are you planning on sleeping?”
