She wasn’t prepared for this.
She didn’t know what to do.
So she cried and cried, thankful that maybe her staff was too intimidated to come in and interrupt her, to ask her a question about something. She just wanted to be alone.
It wasn’t long before Katella called her younger sister and calmed her down. Seraphina didn’t feel comfortable enough to share her worries with anybody else except for Katella, and her sister was always there, rationally explaining that Seraphina could do this. Sometimes she would give her encouraging quotes, other times she would let her younger sister talk, mostly in circles. It always worked though, and by the time Seraphina hung up, her confidence was pieced back together. Tattered and not fully formed, but much better compared right after Alan’s video.
Seraphina finished her pasta even though it was cold and then resumed her work. But now, it was harder to concentrate, and before Seraphina realized it, she was fast asleep.
No one would blame her. She’d been dealing with a lot.
Actually, scratch that – everyone would blame her. She couldn’t drink a cup of coffee without being criticized about the type of coffee she was drinking, how she was holding her cup, anything they could get her on.
How could these people hate her without even knowing her?
It was the vibration of her cell phone that woke her up. When she saw that it was Katella calling and seeing that it was just after five thirty on her computer screen, Seraphina shot up, threw away her trash from lunch, and dashed out of her office and down towards the rink. She slid in her seat a minute and eight seconds into the game, just in time to see Alec Schumacher and a Shark get into a fistfight.
“You have a knack for appearing at just the right minute, don’t you?” Katella murmured, her lips curled up into a smirk. Her forest green eyes sparkled as she took in the brawl, but Seraphina noticed a sheen of worry encasing that delighted sparkle as well. It was as though Katella couldn’t decide whether she was excited for the fight or upset because she knew someone would end up hurt.
“It’s not even two minutes into the first period,” Seraphina complained. “What happened?”
“Considering the Shark is the one taking the penalty,” Katella said, “I’m guessing that the Shark was mouthing to Alec off so Alec mouthed off back, but you know Alec; the guy has a knack for saying the exact wrong thing at the exact wrong time in order to piss his opposition off. Besides Gordon Stash, I think Alec is the Gull with the most penalty minutes.”
It was at that point in their conversation that Kyle Underwood scored the goal during the power play, and both sisters stopped talking, jumped up, and cheered.
When the stadium quieted and Henry Wayne made quick changes before the ref dropped the puck at the centerline, the crowd sat down. Seraphina turned towards her sister. “Which one is Gordon Stash again?” Seraphina gently gnawed on her bottom lip. She knew she should know who Gordon Stash was; she had heard his name before. But for the life of her, she could not remember his face or what he was known for.
“The fans love him,” Katella replied. “He’s a fourth-line center and he’s known for two things.” She started counting the reasons on her long fingers. “That black handlebar moustache he sports throughout the entire season and his fighting. He doesn’t ever start fights unless provoked or if one of his teammates is provoked, but, I mean look at the guy.” She gestured at a man on the ice. “His presence on the ice is intimidating. He really doesn’t have to fight to scare the other team.”
Seraphina looked at this Gordon Stash, taking a mental picture of him in order to remember who he was. In terms of size, the man was colossal. He had the broadest shoulders Seraphina had ever seen on any living human being and he had to be at least six foot six at the very least. His wild curly black hair was hidden underneath his helmet, and from her sitting position, she couldn’t make out the color of his eyes. The moustache that he apparently was so well-known for rested just above his top lip like a sun-bathing caterpillar might and it only added to his intimidating presence. Seraphina was absolutely certain that if she threw on Stash’s jersey, it would probably reach her calves.
And just like that, the man known for his fighting got into a scrap with another Shark. Even though she had been watching him, she couldn’t figure out what had caused the fight. Probably some words or something. But soon enough, both opponents tossed their gloves were on the ice, and Gordon extended that long arm in order to grab the Shark’s jersey before getting a couple of punches on him. The whistle was blown and this fight was broken up much quicker than Alec’s. Seraphina guessed it had something to do with Stash’s size, even though the match seemed relatively even.
But it was Stash who was sent to the penalty box, which meant the Sharks now had a good opportunity to score on their power play.
More defensemen than forwards now littered the ice, with Kyle Underwood being the only offensive player killing the penalty.
Michael Thompson managed to stop a potential goal by dropping his body and sliding in front of the shot. The puck ricocheted off Thompson’s chest pad. Kyle moved to clear it, but he didn’t reach the puck fast enough. A Shark forward managed to get it around Kyle and passed it to his right wing who, because of Kyle’s offensive tactic, was left open. The right wing had enough time to settle the puck the down and shot it into the net.
Sam Miller, filling in for Brandon Thorpe, appeared as though he didn’t even realize he had been shot on, let alone scored on.
Seraphina knew that Brandon Thorpe, had he been on the ice, would have made that save. He just saw things no one could possibly see, making saves that should otherwise be goals. And she could tell by the distraught look on Miller’s face that he knew this as well.
“Don’t let it get to you, kid,” Seraphina murmured under her breath. Miller was probably no more than eighteen or nineteen. He needed to keep his confidence up, needed to brush this off.
The penalty ended abruptly, and play resumed. Seraphina kept glancing at the scoreboard as though it might change without her knowing. But it was still one to one.
There was four minutes and fifty-seven seconds left in the first period when another fight broke out. But this time, it escalated so much and so quickly that no one knew for sure what had caused the fight and who had started it. However, it was obvious that it must have been between a Gull and a Shark, and their teammates deemed it serious enough to go out and defend their respective player. Though the linesmen and even the refs immediately skated over in order to break up the fight, it took some time before the brawl stopped and even longer to see who was responsible. It was deemed that Chad Westwicke, the Gulls’ defenseman, and a forward named Tory Russell from the Sharks, were credited with starting the fight, and both were sent to their own penalty box for a five-minute major. Because their penalties canceled each other out, neither team had to kill a penalty.
Neither team scored by the end of the period.
By that time, Seraphina was furious. They were throwing away a game because of stupid reasons.
Jumping up from her seat, the young woman decided to have another talk with her team because this was getting to be ridiculous. The fighting, the injuries. She followed the tired players into the locker room. Henry Wayne, seeing her, nodded, as though to tell her the floor was hers. Once the room quieted, Seraphina began to speak.
“What the hell is going on out there?” she asked them. Even though the question itself was rhetorical, she looked at her players as though she wanted some sort of explanation. “We can’t afford to have players coming into the regular season injured from stupid fights they had in the preseason. These games amount to nothing; they’re just practice. They provide an opportunity for Coach Wayne, Coach Stable, and I to assess just who gets to stay on the team and who doesn’t. There are thirty-two of you. I only need twenty-four of you. The only thing I’m assessing now is that you’re letting the Sharks get to you.”
She paused, allowing herself a moment
to take in a deep breath and release it through her lips.
“I know we’re all upset about what happened to Ken,” she said in a quieter tone, “and what happened to Thorpe. I’ve said before and I’ll say it again: I don’t think Thorpe killed my grandfather, and until the police come to me, proving Thorpe’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, I will continue to support him and I will continue to have a spot for him on this team. But it better be a damn good team he comes back to. Yes, some fans will turn against Thorpe, against the Gulls for our united stance behind him while others will stay loyal. Other teams are going to give us shit for anything they can – our mascot is a seagull, for crying out loud – but we don’t play for anyone but ourselves. We’re the Seagulls, goddamn it. Go out there and play like one.”
Seraphina clenched her jaw. That was all she really had to say. But there were a couple of things she needed to discuss with the head coach. In a whisper, she asked Henry if she could speak with him. After motioning for the assistant coach Clark Stable to take over the powwow, he led Seraphina to a secluded part of the locker room.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Sera,” he began, his grey eyes twinkling in amusement, “when you’re pissed, you make excellent speeches.”
“Oh.” She waved the compliment away, feeling her face to red. She wasn’t even sure she gave them, if she had any right to. But as the owner of the team, she felt that if she was pissed off, she had a right to let her players know about it. Especially since she probably wasn’t the only spectator who felt that way. “Actually, I need to ask you a question. Did my grandfather ever mention possibly trading Thorpe to you?”
Though Seraphina had her own idea about the answer to this question, she thought she should cover all bases, just in case. Henry wasn’t only the head coach of the Gulls, but he was Papa’s close confidant as well.
“No,” Henry said, shaking his head. “I heard the rumors though, but nothing from Ken directly. Which, to me, meant Ken wasn’t as certain about trading Thorpe as the press was making him out to be. If he planned on trading Thorpe at all.”
“That’s what I figured,” Seraphina murmured. “What about selling the team?”
It was his response to this question that Seraphina was most interested in.
“That’s the funny thing,” Henry replied. “He mentioned that someone approached him about selling the team, but that he wasn’t going to do it. And that’s all he said about it.”
“Was the person who approached him Alan?” She pushed her brows up. “Did he tell you?”
“He didn’t tell me,” Henry said, shaking his head. “But it sounded more like… The way Ken spoke, I don’t think it was someone close to him. Maybe an acquaintance or something, but not family.”
Seraphina began chewing on her bottom lip, offering a quiet thank you before she headed out of the locker room. There it was again, that feeling that something was starting to register, pieces were slowly starting to fall into place. But nothing was clicking. Not yet, anyways.
22. “So where are these hats going, anyways?” Madison asked Amanda as they rolled in about two carts of various hats that had been tossed onto the ice after Kyle Underwood’s third goal of the period, or, in hockey language, after Kyle Underwood’s hat trick. The game had just ended and it was Amanda and Madison’s night to collect the hats and sort them out after the game.
“One of three options,” Amanda said, wheeling them to the laundry room that was right between the men and women’s locker room. “The player who makes the hat trick keeps all of them, throws all of them away, or donates all of them. Ken always let the player choose what he wanted to do with him, but it’s always been tradition that the player keep three hats – symbolizing each goal he scored – and donating the rest to charity. Which is why we’re here, in the laundry room. The staff down here is going to clean them so they’re, you know, wearable, and donate them to a charity Underwood chooses. He picked out the three he wants to keep and I’ve already tagged those so when they come out of the wash, they’ll be delivered to his locker.”
“Wow.” Madison blinked, leaning against her cart and crossing her arms over her chest. “How did the tradition start, anyways? Who, like, just throws hat onto the ice because a hockey player scores three points in one game?”
“It’s tradition!” Amanda exclaimed in a ‘duh’ tone. “How dare you not know this, Madison? And thank God you’ve admitted your ignorance to me. If you said this to even any amateur hockey fan, they would laugh in your face and then demand your resignation later as a Gulls Girl. Okay.” She finished pushing her cart to its intended spot and turned around, her brown eyes dark, serious. “The hat trick tradition started ninety years ago when a businessman handed out fedoras to players after a player scored thrice. Then, in the seventies, fans decided they wanted to get in on this so they started throwing hats into the rink to the point where the NHL actually amended its rule to say something like articles thrown on the ice won’t result in some kind of punishment for the home team for delay of game.” She smiled brilliantly. “And that’s the hat trick.”
Madison clapped a couple of couple times and returned the smile.
“I like that,” she said after the story sank in. “It’s cool.”
“Yeah, hockey has a bunch of traditions like this that other sports don’t,” Amanda said, nodding. “I’m going to head home, okay?”
“What about showering?” Madison asked. “Changing?”
Normally, the Gull Girls showered and changed back into their street clothes after every home game. They could leave their uniforms in their designated locker or put them in the laundry room if they needed to be washed.
“Actually…” Amanda let her voice trail off, looking away. The worry that had been etched in her brown irises before the game suddenly came back full force. “I called my older brother to meet me right after the game. As lame as it sounds, I’m just kind of… I just want to make sure that nothing happens to me, you know? So I’m going to sneak out the back, where I told him to wait, and he’s going to walk me to my car.”
“You know there are plenty of ushers or security guards here to walk you to your car, right?” Madison asked. “You didn’t have to call your brother here.”
“I wanted to,” Amanda said with a shrug. “I trust him. Plus, he’s taking me out for a late dinner, so it’s all good. Will you be okay? Stewart can walk you to your car too, if you need it.”
“I’ll be fine, thanks,” Madison said. “I’ll see you later.”
Madison followed Amanda out of the laundry room but headed over to the locker room rather than the back exit. Most of the Girls had already left, and by the time Madison had showered and was back in her street clothes, she was by herself. After grabbing her bag, she shut her locker and headed out of the room when she ran into, quite literally, Alec Schumacher.
“Oh,” he said, placing both his hands onto her shoulders in order to steady her. Because of his size, her small frame knocking into him didn’t even make him stumble. “Are you okay? Seriously, Madison, you need to pay attention to your surroundings.”
“What are you even doing here, waiting outside the ladies’ locker room?” she asked. She pushed her damp bangs across her face, hoping to get them out of her eyes. She succeeded, but they probably looked a bit disarrayed. “No offense, but you kind of look like a perv.”
As he chuckled, Madison noticed his dark blond hair now looked brown due to the fact that it was wet, the locks falling into his face in clumps rather than being pushed up into spikes. Which made it easier for Madison to notice a cut on his forehead. It didn’t look deep enough to warrant stitches, and even though it was cleaned, it started bleeding again. Why didn’t he put a bandage on that? He gestured with his arm, causing Madison to see that he, too, was wearing regular clothes; a white t-shirt that clung to his nicely toned torso, the sleeves showcasing extremely pleasant looking biceps. Loose, grey sweatpants and tennis shoes completed the look. He looked relaxed, normal, like som
eone one might run into at the gym. Except Alec Schumacher wasn’t normal. He didn’t look normal. Because he was breath-taking.
Not that Madison would ever admit that.
Out loud, anyways.
“Actually, you’re going to regret saying that because I’m here to walk you to your car,” he told her in a smooth voice. Before Madison could protest, the hockey player thrust a hand into her face – a hand that was so large, Madison was certain it was practically the size of her face – and added, “And I know what you’re going to say, but I don’t care. I’m walking you to your car, Montgomery, and that’s that.”
“It’s not that big of a deal,” she told him. “Really, I don’t know why everyone is making a big deal about this.”
“Because it is a big deal.” His gentle tone was serious, causing Madison to look at him with an inquiring gaze. “Listen, I know you’re unfamiliar with a lot of the hockey stuff, but the Sharks and The Gulls have nearly as big a rivalry as we do with the Los Angeles Centaurs. I don’t know if you noticed, but the Sharks were pretty scrappy tonight. Well, they’re always scrappy, but tonight more so than normal. They have a big fan base here even though they’re from Frisco and their fans can get pretty scrappy too. Plus, what with the whole Ken Brown and Brandon Thorpe thing – I mean, you must have heard the fans booing Thorpe before tonight, that’s just not normal. In fact, people actually love Thorpe. He’s one hell of a goalie. – and the tension… When I was on the bench, I saw a couple of people throwing food, shoving each other. It never gets that way. We have pretty classy fans.” He paused and gave her that smile that caused the butterflies in her stomach to start bumping into each other. “I just would feel a lot better if I made sure you got to your car safely. You’re a beautiful woman, all by yourself, and I would feel responsible if anything happened to you on my watch.”
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