Leo. He sounds nice and normal. And there are no exclamation marks after her answer. That’s good.
Astrid knows that my entire life is organized and arranged for me, from my diet to my schedule to what I wear out in public. Sure, I occasionally go out without wearing clothing from one of the brands I promote, but it’s rare. And even then, I tend to wear stuff that looks like the outfits my stylist puts together for me.
Like today. I don’t expect to be photographed, since no one in the sports media knows I’m here, so I dressed myself in the dark gray pants, the thick white t-shirt, white tennis shoes, and a casual gray blazer. I got some appreciative looks in the airport, so I figured I did okay.
I’m twenty-six years old and pretty much every part of my life is mapped out for me by someone else. All I have to do is concentrate on the thing my family, mycountry, has wanted from me from the time I was old enough to ice skate: playing excellent hockey.
I definitely don’t like having to keep track of boarding passes and checking in my suitcase.
And yes, my personal assistant packed that suitcase for me.
Unknown number:god, I hope you’re getting these messages and aren’t already in the truck!!!! Don’t believe whatever they tell you!!!!
Who is this person texting me? Who are these men? Is this person actually insinuating that I’m going to be kidnapped or something? What the hell is going on in Louisiana?
And here I am using a lot of fucking question marks too.
I get to the escalator that will take me down to the lower level, where I can already see what seems like a million people milling about, going in and out of the doors, pulling and pushing mountains of luggage. Through the large glass windows and doors, I can see lane after lane of traffic outside. Cars, taxis, trucks, vans, buses.
There is absolutely no discernible organization to what’s going on. Is this how all airports are? This is an unhinged way to have millions of people traveling every day.
I scan the area below as I descend. There’s a jazz band playing in the center of the large “lobby” area, and there are hundreds of people with thousands of suitcases and bags. Still, I see the three men, all wearing Portland Grays hockey jerseys, holding the WELCOME ALEX OLSEN sign immediately.
All of the exclamation marks in the texts truly had me expecting something else.
These men are easily in their seventies. They’ve all got gray or white hair. Well, the one wearing the bowler hat could be bald, I suppose, but these men are not going to be able to overpower me. I’m a professional athlete, for fuck’s sake.
Youwerea professional athlete. Now you’re an ex-professional athlete with a fucked-up knee.
Fine. I’m not in the best shape of my life at the moment, but Iwasa professional athlete, and I’ve been working on my damned knee. I’m still stronger than these three men, surely.
Unless they have chloroform or a taser or…
I look around, then drop my head and crouch slightly behind the man on the escalator in front of me. The minute we hit the bottom, I glance in their direction. They are absorbed in their own conversation and are not looking this way, so I quickly hang a left and duck behind the wall.
I text my sister again.What does Leo look like?
I glance to my right and see a huge silver carousel begin turning with suitcases on it. The nearest crowd of people rushes forward until they’re standing right next to the circulating platform. People behind them have to push past to get their luggage and then pull the bags off without taking anyone’s legs out. Some are more careful about that than others.
Is this where my bags will be? There are several carousels. How do people know where to go? Then I spot the woman who sat across the aisle from me. She’s standing near the carousel next to the one that just started up. I decide to keep an eye on her even as I press back against the wall to allow people to pass, tugging their wheeled bags and carts loaded with suitcases.
I can’t believe this is how people travel regularly.
Yes, of course, I realize that I lead a very privileged life.
I also realize that I am not prepared for the disorder of normal life and that this move to small-town Louisiana is going to be a tough adaptation.
At least I’ll still have hockey. That will be the one constant that I can lean on. And, fortunately, it’s absolutelynotprofessional-level hockey. The team my sister bought is an FPHL team. It’s barely a step above a beer league. I’ll be in small-town-Louisiana hockey shape within two weeks.
My phone dings with another text, and I glance down to see the unknown number has upgraded to all caps along with the multitude of punctuation marks.
ARE YOU HERE???????
I sneak a peek around the corner at the three old men who are still waiting for me.
The one on the far left has short white hair. His beard is also white and hangs to the middle of his chest. He’s lean and muscular, but he’s only about five-eight or five-nine. He’s got the sleeves of the jersey pushed up, and I can see tattoos on both forearms. His skin is tanned as if he spends all of his timeoutdoors. He’s also wearing jeans and scuffed black boots. That guy wrestles alligators, I’d bet money on it.
The man right next to him, the one wearing the bowler hat, is a couple of inches taller and clean-shaven. He’s got small, round glasses on, and he’s wearing fitted black pants and black dress shoes. He’s also got a cane in one hand, but he’s got it propped like it’s an accessory more than an actual walking aid. I’d even use the word ‘dapper’ to describe him, despite the jersey.
