Play On

by Heather C. Myers

  “Probably should Facebook those two,” she murmured under her breath.

  Her eyes looked over at the clock – only another minute had passed. When was the professor going to get here? Weren’t they always early?

  The class slowly started to fill up which meant the room was a lot less quiet. There were two guys behind Madison, probably friends. A couple of girls sat in the front row with the required book out on the desk. A couple sat just off to the side, holding hands with each other under the desk. Madison wasn’t sure why, but even subtle public displays of affection made her want to vomit.

  “…Brown’s murder,” one of the boys from behind Madison said in a low voice. “That’s the only reason Hanson has the team.”

  “She’s pretty hot,” the other one said.

  “Yeah, but good looks can’t run a hockey team which was obviously proved last night. I mean, pull Thorpe, play Thorpe. Make up your mind already.”

  “Dude, what happened to Ken anyways?”

  “Don’t know. I heard he was strangled or something. Main suspect is apparently his son. Can you believe how fucked up that family is? I hope the Gulls can still play. If only the freakin’ first and second lines would skate faster and shoot more. I think our defense is okay, but we still gotta watch the turnovers. That rookie, Michael Thompson, I can’t wait to see how he’s going to play in D.”

  “Do you think the whole murder thing is going to affect the play?”

  “Dude, duh. The team is now in the hands of an inexperienced blonde chick. If she can’t figure her shit out, we’ll be totally screwed. Hopefully her grandfather left her, like, an instruction manual so she doesn’t fuck us over to bad. But if he was murdered, then probably not.”

  “Are you going to the games when the season starts?”

  “Oh hell yeah. My dad got us season opening tickets in section 223, five rows up from the glass. So stoked!”

  Madison felt her body slide downwards as her hair fell over her shoulder so it could blanket her face. She didn’t have to have a mirror to know her cheeks were as red as apples and hoped that maybe her hair would help hide that. Were these two guys seriously talking about hockey? And not just hockey, but the Gulls? She thought people out West, especially in Southern California, barely paid any attention to hockey. And why should they? They have the Dodgers, the Angels, and the Lakers to be excited about. The weather was constantly sunny. A storm watch was broadcasted when it sprinkled so exposure to hockey seemed to be familial. That was why she actually considered working as a Gulls Girl. Because it wasn’t likely that people here actually went to hockey games. But now, knowing these two guys knew what they were talking about, Madison realized there must be more like them. Which meant that there was a good chance that she could be recognized as a Gulls Girl. And really, she didn’t want to deal with that. Even though this was college and people had matured didn’t mean she wouldn’t get harassed about it, whether it was due to the tight outfits or wanting tickets to the games.

  Madison didn’t even know if she got tickets.

  She really didn’t need people to know she was a Gulls Girl. Nobody would take her seriously. And she worked too hard to not be taken seriously.

  Well, perhaps these guys wouldn’t even notice her. It wasn’t likely that she would know anybody in this class due to the size and the fact that it’s a lecture class, and on top of that, even they did see her, she highly doubted they would recognize her. Tons of girls on the team and at UCI had long, dark brown hair. There was no way they would even notice her. Maybe the revealing outfits were an added bonus; if guys stared at her chest, stomach, and-or ass, they weren’t staring at her shirt.

  Okay, she could relax now.

  Two minutes before class was technically supposed to start, someone took a seat right next to Madison. Not just a seat away from her, like it was polite to do in class or at the movies, but directly next to her despite the fact that the lecture hall was still one-fourth empty. She tensed, sitting up straighter than she normally would have. Her biggest pet peeve was someone getting too close to her on a physical level, and even though she knew she probably should have expected this given that it was a full lecture class, she still wasn’t happy, given that there was a space for this guy to sit without being directly adjacent to her.

  Madison felt him shuffle and pull out something from his backpack. She refused to turn her head completely in order to see what he was doing so she relaxed her body and tried to look at him from the corner of her eye. She couldn’t tell if he was tall or not due to the fact that he was slouching over his desk, but she knew he was lean. He had short, beige hair and pale skin with subtle freckles covering the majority of his face although a person would never have noticed unless they were in close proximity to him. His face was narrow with sharp features, and from her current position, she couldn’t tell what color his eyes were. Interestingly enough, she was going back and forth between blue or a light brown. Descending her eyes, Madison realized he was reading a book, and before she could stop herself, she leaned forward in order to see just what that book was.

  The Catcher in the Rye.

  “That’s my favorite book,” she blurted out.

  He cocked his head to the side in order to place his eyes on her – they were light brown, she decided, a shade darker than his hair – and smiled so his lips pushed up.

  Her heart skipped a beat thanks to that smile.

  “Oh yeah?” he asked in a deep, expressive voice. “I think this is the seventeenth time I’ve read this book. I should probably get a new one.” He gestured at the thoroughly broken spine of the book and then the curled corners.

  “My copy looks similar to yours,” she said and then shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. I kind of like how used it is. It shows how much I like it and how good it is.”

  “Holden Caulfield is my hero,” he continued. “Seriously. I wish I could go around calling people phonies and not caring.”

  Madison felt herself laughing and nodding her head. “Right?” she asked. “I’m Madison, by the way.”

  “Brady,” he said. “Is this your third year?”

  At that moment, the professor walked in – three minutes and eighteen seconds late – muttering apologies for his tardiness and preventing Madison for continuing the conversation she was having. She angled her body to the center of the class, suddenly wishing the professor had come later so she could learn more about this Brady guy. She had never met a member of the opposite sex, a good looking one at that, who also loved Catcher in the Rye. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that he chose to sit right next to her.

  Which just begged the question as to why he did that. Who sat directly next a stranger?

  “Okay, I’ve sent the sign-in sheet around,” the professor announced, interrupting Madison from doing what she did best – overanalyzing a simple statement. “Please initial next your student identification number so I can take roll and once I get the computer booted up with my PowerPoint, we can start.”

  “Yes,” Madison whispered, leaning in closer to her. He smelled like a subtle hint of masculine cleanliness. “To answer your question. I’m a junior.”

  God, did she really sound like the biggest idiot on the planet?

  “Yeah, me too,” Brady said with a smile. “I haven’t seen you around campus. Are you a psych major?”

  “Criminology,” she replied, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. It was only when her eyes happened to glance at the dark lock of hair that she realized what she was doing and immediately stopped. Madison prided herself in that she was not that girl. “You?”

  He nodded his head. “Yeah, I want to be a research psychologist with an emphasis in criminal trials,” he explained. “I guess a basic example of this is conducting a study to figure out if a defendant’s race influences whether or not they will be sentenced to death.”

  “That’s really interesting.” Her mind actually forced herself to shake her head at how lame that response sounded.
“I’m interested more in the why a criminal does what he does, but even more than that, why people and the media are fascinated with a particular criminal over another criminal, despite the exact same criteria a crime and criminal has.”

  “Criteria?”

  “Sorry.” Yes, she was blushing. Again. God, what had gotten into her? “I mean, when I say criteria, I mean the main factors that went into a crime. For instance, take a white male, mid-forties, snatching a white girl, age five to seven, molested her and then killed her. Do you know how many similar crimes there are that don’t get the same media attention or spark a public outcry like the one I just mentioned? I’m not going to stand on some soapbox and demand that there should be more equality in coverage and outrage and all that stuff. What I’m interested in is why people are more interested in crime A over crime B when, essentially, they’re the same.”

  He pushed his brows up. Was it her imagination or did Brady actually look impressed? Not that she cared or anything. She was an independent woman and didn’t need any sort of validation. Not even from a hot student who wanted to be a research psychologist with a focus in criminal trials and read The Catcher in the Rye as much as she did. Oh, and that he had really pretty eyes. And an adorable smile. And those freckles –

  Stop.

  Her face crimsoned even more when she realized that her brain had gone on quite a tangent. Madison felt like a silly middle school girl who had a crush on the quiet, smart guy. Except now, he seemed to notice her. He had chosen to sit next to her, after all, when he could have chosen to sit practically anywhere.

  “Wow,” he murmured. “I’ve never heard someone describe it like that. That would be incredibly interesting to explore.” He paused, setting his book down and crossing his arms over his chest. “So are you from around here?”

  A groan from the professor caused the conversation to halt once again. “Sorry guys, just hang on a couple more minutes,” he said, his eyes glued to the screen as his fingers typed furiously on the keyboard. “I promise I’m not doing this on purpose, though I do hope your thirst for social psychology is anticipating.”

  When Madison was certain the professor wasn’t going to say anything else, she tilted her head toward Brady, and said, “No, actually. South Haven. A small town in Michigan.”

  “Really?” He sounded surprised. “Why come out to California?”

  “Would it sound cliché if I said the weather?” The question was rhetorical and Madison was glad that Brady understood that. “Actually, I love the beach. It’s just… calming. Inspiring. I hate cities. I hate New York. I just loved how relaxed and unpretentious the people from here are. I came here a long time ago, actually, with my family when I was ten. My dad took us to Disneyland. It was one of the best moments of my life. I never forgot it. So here I am.” Again, the redness burned her cheeks. “Sorry. I’m babbling.”

  “Please. Don’t apologize.” He managed to lock eyes with her, despite her embarrassment. “You seem to lead an interesting life, Madison. I’d love to hear more about it.”

  Her heart leapt. As much as she hated to admit it. But she bit down on her bottom lip in order to keep her thoughts and her ramblings to herself.

  “Oh,” she said in a soft, shy voice. Yes, shy. Madison Montgomery was never shy, not even around the opposite sex. Until now, apparently. “Actually, I’d love to know more about you.” Oh God, how lame. How lame! “Are you from around here?”

  “Yup,” he said. “Born and raised in Irvine. Probably the most boring story ever told. Nothing much to say. But I like it.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m hoping to travel, you know, around the world so I can say I’ve lived. But I’d still like to settle back down here. In Orange County. I’m saving up. Working at the movie theatre. You know the AMC at the District?”

  “Eh…” Madison shrugged her shoulders. “I mean, I’ve heard of the District. It’s like a mall, right? But not as big. But I’ve heard of it.”

  “It’s about twenty minutes from here,” Brady said. “Ten if you drive like me. I also work as a security guard for my neighborhood. It’s the lamest job.”

  Madison laughed. “Do you get to wear a uniform?” she asked.

  Now it was Brady that blushed, and yes, he looked absolutely adorable. His freckles looked more prominent on his pale skin. “Kind of,” he said and then quickly changed the subject. “Anyways, do you work?”

  Oh God. The ultimate question.

  “All right, while we’re waiting for this to load, I just want you all to know,” the professor interrupted once again, “these PowerPoint notes are on Blackboard so you can print them out if you want.” Then, under his breath, “come on, come on, come on…”

  While he spoke, Madison tried to think as quickly as she possibly could. She didn’t want to lie. She didn’t like lying. But she didn’t want this guy – who was so cute and so smart – to suddenly drop her because of her job. It wasn’t like a career or anything, but again, she was worried about being taken seriously. And she was sure that if Brady found out what she did to make money, he would think she was some ditzy bimbo who used her body to her advantage instead of working her ass off like he did with his two jobs. So what should she say?

  “So?” he asked when the professor had finished addressing the class. “Work?”

  “Oh, right, yes I do,” she said. “I work at Sea Side Ice Palace. In Newport.”

  “Oh, I love that place. I used to go as a kid.” His face suddenly darkened and his eyes looked concerned. No wonder she suspected they were blue; there were flecks of the color in his light brown eyes. “Did you hear what happened to Ken Brown, the owner of the Gulls? I’m sure you know all about it. I’m not much of a hockey fan – I love basketball and the Lakers – but God, how depressing. You never would expect that in Newport Beach, of all places.”

  “All right, simmer down,” the professor said. He looked up from the computer and gestured at his class in order to emphasize his words. “I’m Professor Cassens, and this –“ he clicked his pointer at the overhead projector where an introduction slide with his name, the course, and the ticket number splashed across the bright orange background flashed on the giant screen “- is social psychology.”

  Well, no more discussion. At least for now. Which might be a good thing. Madison really didn’t want to talk about Ken Brown’s murder. People, even those who weren’t hockey fans, were doing enough of that anyways.

  13. She had a half an hour before the game started. It was the second preseason game but Seraphina doubted there were more people at any of the previous preseasons before this one. More protestors lined up in front of Sea Side – security would ask them to leave ten minutes before the puck dropped - while more tickets were sold to people – To boo Thorpe? To see if she would play him tonight? She didn’t know, and really, it didn’t matter – and on top of all of that, the press was like a small gang, waiting to pounce on her and get her official statement.

  Seraphina knew she would have to make one soon. She was surprised that she able to have avoided them such a long time, but she knew that a sneaky journalist would eventually corner her and she’d be pressured to tell them something, anything about her grandfather’s murder, the fact that Thorpe is still attached to the team despite a lack of contract and the fact that he was a suspect in the murder of Ken, or maybe her acquiring a team she had no idea how to run. But now, thanks to a particular article in today’s paper, she knew everyone would want to know what she thought about her uncle, Alan Brown, being the police’s prime suspect in her grandfather’s murder.

  To be honest, Seraphina wouldn’t have even known such a thing if Katella hadn’t called her from work, ordering Seraphina to pick up The Orange County Register. There, splattered on the front page, was a picture of Alan himself underneath the headline Son Responsible? She had read the article at least four times in the safety of her grandfather’s – her – office, still not quite believing it. She hadn’t left the room since she had gotten there at just afte
r nine in the morning except to ask one of the interns to pick her up a sandwich at Panera. The plan was for her to go through some paperwork that involved learning more about her players, their stats (and what those stats meant) in relation to their salaries, and any comments or observations on their attitudes. There were actually a stack of unopened folders on her desk, but before she could get any actual work done, her eyes always drifted to the paper and she was forced to read the article again, as if she was reminding herself that it was real. She was kind of upset that Detective Christopher Williams hadn’t called her or Katella and told either of them personally that he, along with the force, suspected her uncle, that she had to find out from a newspaper, but she couldn’t muster up the energy to get mad and call him to ask about it. She had other things she needed to worry about.

  Like the fact that Alan might have killed Papa.

  Despite the front page article and colored photo, the article itself was vague with actual information about why the police chose Alan, but Christopher Williams was quoted saying they had enough evidence to suspect him. What that evidence was, the journalist could only speculate, but apparently anonymous sources said that Alan was known for his unpredictable temper. A couple of witnesses said they saw Papa and Alan fighting a lot about the team. An ex-girlfriend of his claimed that he hit her when he was drunk. But nothing about why the cops actually believed Alan could have done it. Killed his father. Wasn’t that hearsay or something? Surely there was something else.

  Seraphina didn’t exactly know what to believe. Alan never lost control of his temper when he was around Seraphina. At least, she didn’t remember him doing so. He would get terse with her and he yelled at her, but she never felt threatened by him. Maybe Katella experienced something different with him. She would ask her older sister later during the game.

  But to kill Papa? Sure, Alan was greedy but Seraphina wasn’t sure if that greed could propel Alan to actually kill. But maybe. If these stories held a grain of truth. Was she being naïve in believing that this man, this man who had used her in the past in order to get on his father’s good side, wasn’t so greedy to murder? She wasn’t sure. But she liked to have faith in people no matter what, even though it burned her in the past.