I smile, sort of.
“Two things to tell you,” Coach Chooch, as we call him, says as he steps into the elevator with me and hits the floor two up from mine. As the door slides closed, he leans forward again and hits floor three, which is where our banquet rooms are, the ones reserved for team meetings and team meals. “One, I talked to Coach and he’s starting you tomorrow.”
“What?”
“I explained to him, as a former netminder myself, that no one has more to prove than a goalie facing his old teammates.” Coach Chooch leans back against the elevator wall, and I almost pull him into a hug. I am dying to play tomorrow night. “Number two, you didn’t pick up your secret Santa gift, and there’s a tired PR intern who has been tasked with hunting you down so she can do the segment where you open it and guess who bought it.”
I sigh, suddenly twice as exhausted as I was. “Right. Fuck.”
“She’s an intern, Garrison. It’s her first road trip with the team. Don’t break her spirit.” The doors open on three, and he gives me the tiniest shove because this is where they set up a small Charlie Brown-esque Christmas tree and told us to put our gifts under it.
I make my way to the room, and the intern is there, looking young and timid and slightly frazzled. But her eyes light up when she sees me. “Oh, thank God! Kendra wants the videos up before the game tomorrow, and you were the only person left.”
“Hey. Sorry. I had a family thing.”
“Yeah. Fine. Just glad you’re here now.” She points to the tree in the corner of the room. There’s exactly one thing left under it. A squat, small box wrapped in glittery Grinch wrapping paper. “I’m filming you while you walk over and then stand right next to the tree, open it, and tell the camera who you think bought it.”
The Quake does a version of Secret Santa, too. The gifts are usually inside jokes or really ugly ties that they are daring you to wear to game nights or stuff like that. There is the occasional decent gift, but it’s rare, so I’m not expecting much as I fumble with the paper while I unwrap the gift. “Are most guys guessing right?”
“Nope. Only four have guessed right,” she tells me.
I crumple the paper and look at the box. It’s brown leather. It’s not a box at all… It’s a hard case. For glasses. I tense for a second. If this is some cheap joke about needing glasses to see the puck, I swear I will… I push it open. “Oh wow…”
Inside are a pair of sunglasses. Not just any sunglasses. Vintage nineteen fifties silver aviators—exactly like the pair that got crushed when I moved from Seattle to Los Angeles. I pull them out and smile as they glint in the light.
“So who do you think they’re from?” the intern prompts as I open the delicate arms and slide them onto my face. They fit perfectly, and looking through them, I realize there isn’t a single scratch on the lenses.
I look and the camera. “Thanks, Landon.”
The intern is beaming excitedly as she stops recording and puts down her phone. “Kendra is going to love this. Landon also guessed it was you who got him the sandwich recipe book.”
It was me. So we had each other’s names? I raise an eyebrow, and the intern looks sheepish. “Kendra curates who gets which name. She says it creates better content. And she’s right. You two both had such big smiles when you saw your gifts, and it helps with the whole bestie vibe you guys play up for the fans.”
I don’t correct her, but Landon and I definitely don’t play up our friendship for anyone. Mostly because it doesn’t exactly exist right now.
The next day, I want to attempt to sit next to him on the bus, but I can’t because he’s sitting with Tyson Michaels of all people. He isn’t in the banquet room for lunch, and since I’m starting, I do not want to fuck with my pre-game nap, so I don’t get a chance to talk to him alone until the bus ride to the rink.
There are three charter buses to take us to the arena on game day. An early bus, a middle bus, and a late bus for stragglers. I wait through the first two buses, my anxiety ratcheting up every time one pulls away and I’m not on it. I like to be on the first bus. Landon used to be too, but recently, he’s always gotten on the last.
And there he is. He looks rough in a wrinkled suit, with bags under his eyes and a wool beanie tugged over his hair. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen his hair brushed. He shows up at practices with it a mess, and for game days, he’s always got something covering it. I fall in step behind him, without a word, and climb the stairs onto the bus. He walks almost to the very back. There are only two other players on here, both sitting up at the front, both with headphones in and their eyes on their phones.
I slide into the seat beside him, and he scowls. “Thanks for the sunglasses. I really love them.”
His scowl slips. “Yeah. Well, I remembered your thing about them getting crushed. No big deal.”
It’s a big fucking deal. I’ve been looking for a new pair for over a year. They aren’t easy to find. But this is not the time to argue. “I feel bad only getting you a book now.”
He finally turns and looks at me. “Are you kidding? Thoughtful Sandos by Jon Hermosh is a culinary masterpiece. I spent all last night combing through it and deciding which one I’ll make first. I couldn’t love a gift more.”
My heart flutters for the first time in a long time… two months to be precise. Landon turns back to the window and sips his coffee. “Did you bail on dinner with Tate and them last night because of me?”
“Yep.”
Whoa. Okay… guess he’s experimenting with brutal honesty. “So you’re still angry with me?”
“Yep.”
The bus doors close, and a second later, the driver puts it into gear. I try to find the middle ground in my thoughts and feelings. Something that isn’t going to make this tension thicker. “Moving out made sense, Landon.”
