Chapter 7 Strangers
Chapter seven
Strangers
Marigold Belmore
I wish I could say I hadn’t missed coming to hockey games.
The entire experience is associated with Jameson in my memory, so even if I went to a game he didn’t play in, everything would remind me of him.
Bundling up in an oversized sweatshirt, sitting near the glass, drinking a hot cocoa with extra marshmallows. All of it is intertwined with him.
The hot cocoa burns my tongue a little as I take a sip, and I wince. Concession-stand hot cocoa is just powder and boiling water, emphasis on the boiling part.
“You said this was the best hot cocoa you’ve ever had,” Jasmine says from next to me, her nose scrunched up. “Is it the only hot chocolate you’ve ever had?”
I laugh a little. “I guess nostalgia colors my taste buds.”
Jasmine nods emphatically. Her boyfriend, Shepherd, chuckles from the other side of her.
“I like it. Reminds me of football games when I was a kid,” he comments.
“Then you can have mine,” Jasmine says, passing it off to him so he’s got one in each hand. Shepherd shrugs and takes another sip.
A loud smack has me turning my head toward the ice. Nash grins at me from behind the glass.
“Fancy seeing you here, Red.”
I roll my eyes and hold up my notebook. “I’m here for the paper.”
He gestures toward the camera hanging from my neck with his hockey stick. I borrowed it from the newsroom stock to take photos tonight.
“Keep that lens trained on me. I’m the only one worth watching out here.”
As he’s talking, another one of the guys skating by must overhear him because they smack him on the back of his helmet as they pass. I snort. Jasmine and Shepherd laugh beside me.
“Is that so?”
Before he can answer, my attention is stolen by the feel of Jameson’s eyes on me. I glance away to find him skating toward Nash. He stops next to him. In his hockey uniform, Jameson looks even larger than usual. He’s taller than Nash, and broader too.
“Is he bothering you?” Jameson’s gravelly tone makes my stomach swoop. A natural reaction. It has nothing to do with him. Just his voice. I’ve got a thing for deep voices is all.
“No more than he bothers everyone he talks to, I’m sure,” I reply, making Nash’s mouth drop open in mock offense.
“I thought we were friends, Red,” Nash laments.
“Who told you that?” I ask, smiling.
Jameson wears a bemused smirk. Nash opens his mouth—probably to say something utterly ridiculous—when a whistle blows.
“Warm-ups are over,” Jameson says and tips his head toward the tunnel.
“You didn’t even say hi or thank her for coming.” Nash gestures to me. “No wonder she doesn’t like you.”
I stiffen. Jasmine knows about my issues with Jameson, and I’m sure she told Shepherd some of the details before bringing him tonight, but it’s not something I want yelled in a crowd. My contempt is more of the quiet sort. The kind you whisper to friends and write pages about in your journal.
“You’re an idiot,” Jameson growls, grabbing his friend by the back of his jersey and pulling him as he skates away.
“Well, those two are an interesting pair,” Jasmine comments after they’re across the ice.
“They’re something all right,” I mutter.
I frown as I see them arguing. Jameson tries to skate back toward the tunnel, but Nash keeps blocking him.
Eventually, a player with a C on his chest indicating he’s captain skates up to break up whatever it is they’re doing.
I’m not sure if it can be considered fighting.
I’ve seen Jameson fight before; there’s usually a lot more blood involved.
The captain listens for a second, then holds up his hands in surrender and heads into the tunnel, leaving Jameson fuming. Suddenly, Jameson turns back and speeds toward me, spraying ice as he comes to a stop.
“It’s good—I mean, I’m glad you’re here,” he grits out. I almost don’t hear him over the chatter of the crowd.
My brow furrows. “I’m here for the article—you know that.”
He shrugs.
“Doesn’t change what I said.”
Then he skates away again, making sure to smack Nash on the helmet as he passes by. I grip my notebook, digging my fingernails into the leather.
“You okay?” Jasmine asks, putting an arm around me.
No, and I don’t think I’ll ever be.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I mumble, and lean against her shoulder.
I bounce a little on the sidewalk outside of the arena, trying to stay warm.
The game wasn’t all that exciting, as the Thrashers dominated in a way that made for a boring watch.
But there was a great shot made by one of the guys that I thought was worth sticking around to ask about.
I’m regretting my decision, though, with how cold and windy it is tonight.
The door where the players exit opens, and the first person to appear is Jameson. I’m not surprised yet still not prepared. He was always the type to leave games as fast as he could. The only exception to that rule was when he won the championship in high school.
“Oh, hey,” he says when he sees me. “Came to interview Conrad?” he asks.
“Is he number twenty-two?” I ask, and he nods. “Then yeah.”
“I figured you might after that shot. He’s a good guy. He’ll answer whatever you ask.”
“That’s good,” I say quietly.
“Next time, I can ask the guys to meet you in the lobby, so you don’t have to stand in the cold,” he offers.
I study him. His hair is wet from the showers, and there’s a darkness under his eyes that makes me wonder if his sleep schedule is as poor as mine.
He’s got his hands tucked into the pocket of his hoodie, with his shoulders hunched up a little to brace against the winter wind.
The way he’s standing reminds me of when we used to wait for the doors to open to our favorite café in high school.
It gives me this sense of déjà vu. A sort of odd limbo state where he’s everything I’ve ever known and yet a total stranger to me now.
I feel like I’ve just gotten off a roller coaster where I was stuck upside down too long, and now I have to reorient myself to gravity.
“That’s not necessary. I don’t want to inconvenience them,” I reply after a beat of silence.
“They won’t mind. Most of them already like you.”
My brow furrows. “They do?”
I’d talked to a few of them over the phone to ask questions for the article, but I didn’t think I’d said anything that would endear them toward me.
Jameson’s mouth tips up on one side. The familiar sight makes my heart ache.
“You’ve never been great at seeing how amazing you are.”
His words pierce me. I swallow the emotion clogging my throat.
“Why? Why do you say stuff like that after—” I shake my head. “You can’t pretend nothing happened, Jameson.”
Pain mars his expression.
“That’s not my intention. I’ve wanted to talk to you since the day you found out about the internship. Actually, before that—”
My mind flashes back to that night, making my heart speed up in my chest. The feeling turns my stomach.
I hold up a hand. “We said we wouldn’t talk about it. You promised.”
He clenches his jaw and looks to the side. I watch him take a deep breath, his chest rising with the inhale.
“You’ve broken promises. Why can’t I?”
Tears sting my eyes as I think of pinky promises on playgrounds. Best friends forever was a lot simpler back then. The door opens and a few of the players exit, laughing together.
I lower my voice. “That’s different and you know it.”
His dark gaze pierces mine.
“Is it?”