CHAPTER FOUR
Aspen
We arrive at the facility fifteen minutes till eight and are buzzed in at security. A black focal wall stands directly in front of us; the other walls are painted in a very light muted gray. Situated in the center of the reception area is a round platform, topped by a huge glass flame that’s lit up with a dim red light. The Blaze logo is on display. To the right, a screen taking up an entire wall is replaying highlight reels from previous seasons in high definition. Two black leather couches face each other. An unoccupied, neatly organized glass reception desk sits on the left. White floors, with very tiny sporadic sparkled flecks of red, black, and silver, tying everything together to give a high-end aesthetic.
A woman who appears to be in her mid-twenties, maybe even around my age, rounds the corner. Her auburn hair is in a tight, high ponytail. Light freckles decorate her alabaster skin, and a pair of kind brown eyes sit behind chic red glasses. A form-fitting pair of black slacks complements her curvy figure, and her black polo shirt with a red Blaze logo sits snug across her chest.
She smiles kindly at us in greeting, “Hello. I’m Hannah Jenkins.”
“Hi, Hannah, I’m Aspen Taylor, and this . . .” I place my hand on top of my son’s head. “. . . is Tucker, my son.”
She strolls over to shake my hand. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you both. Are you ready for the grand tour?”
“Absolutely!” Tucker exclaims as he bounces on the balls of his feet in excitement. “I really hope I get to meet Carter Graham today; he’s my favorite.” He turns his attention to me, “Mom, you have to see him. His brawls are epic.”
“Oh. You’re a hockey fan?” She chuckles and looks at me.
“Yes, Ma’am.” Tucker nods emphatically as I say, “Not really,” at the same time while shaking my head.
Tucker recovers, “Actually, I watch hockey; Mom doesn’t.” His brows furrow. “Well, I guess she will now,” he shrugs.
“Oh, she will.” Hannah giggles. “We have a team meeting today, so all the guys will be here,” Hannah says to Tucker as we walk along the expansive hallway leading to the executive offices.
She turns to me and waves a hand toward the entry of an office, “You can just set your purse down in here if you want.”
Taking her up on the offer, I walk into the stranger’s office, tossing my purse onto the office chair before rejoining her in the hallway.
“Be prepared to have your mind blown. This place is unbelievable,” she says, smiling at me in excitement.
Hannah continues to lead us down the hallway.Floor-to-ceiling, metal action-shot portraits of players line the walls. We come to a stop and enter a game room that overlooks the ice rink; it has a glass window taking up the entire expanse of the wall. There are six gaming chairs, each with their own individual screens. An enormous, black leather sectional couch faces a cluster of small screens that form into one massive screen. Four different types of gaming consoles sit on a shelf to the right side of the screens. Arcade games line a wall behind the couch and are stationed right next to a beverage and snack bar. An air hockey table resides on the far side of the room with a pool table next to it. She wasn’t wrong; I’m already mind blown.
“Whooooaaaa,” Tucker says with his eyes wide. “This is sick!”
“This is where the kids your age hang out while their parents are working,” she says to Tucker, then she directs her attention to me and gives me a wink. I’ve expressed my concern to her over bringing him with me, but this puts my mind at ease.
With a chuckle, Hannah adds, “You can also find a man-child or two in here from time to time.”
“Mom, can I stay here?”
“That’s fine. Just don’t run around.” I look to Hannah.
Hannah sets up the big screen for Tucker and shows him how to switch to different gaming consoles and games. With him situated, we continue our tour. She first takes me to the ice, then we take a path through another hallway to a corridor housing several offices. A man walks out of a door and locks it behind him. Hannah turns to introduce us.
“Coach, this is Aspen Taylor. Aspen, this is the head coach, Luke Jenkins.”
“Aspen. It’s so nice to meet you.” He shakes my hand.
“You too, Coach Jenkins.” As I say his name, it registers that their last names are the same.
“You can call me Luke . . .”
“Jenkins?” My brows furrow, and I look between them.
“Yep. He’s my dad,” Hannah says, chuckling nervously and clasping her hands together.
Now that she’s mentioned it, I see the resemblance. Luke Jenkins doesn’t look old enough to be a head coach of a pro hockey team, though his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. He has brown hair with an auburn tint and brown eyes that are the same as hers, but this guy doesn’t look like a father of a woman in her twenties. He’s built, like muscles so big that maybe even those muscles have muscles. Aren’t coaches supposed to be old and have potbellies or something?
My fingers twist together, my nerves getting the best of me. Even though I feel like an idiot with what I’m about to tell him, I might as well let him know the truth. He’s going to figure it out eventually. “You know, I’ll be honest with you, Coach. I’m extremely nervous and out of my depth here. I don’t know anything about hockey.”
“No need to feel nervous,” he reassures me. “We have a great team and staff willing to help you with whatever you need.” He winks at his daughter.
“I’m going to take her to meet Dr. Winslet; I know he’s been waiting.”
“It was nice meeting you, and I’m looking forward to the team meeting this afternoon.” I shake his hand again.
“You too, Miss Taylor. I’m glad you’re finally here,” he says, taking my hand in his and shaking it again.
On our way to the team doctor’s office, we pass floor-to-ceiling windows that allow a complete view of the incredibly large weight room. Hannah leads us inside. Televisions are strategically placed on every wall. A sound system is mounted to the ceiling. As we travel the length of the weight room, my vision snags on what looks to be four hot tubs.
“The two in the back are hot tubs, and the two in the front are the cold tubs,” she informs me.
We exit the weight room and enter into. . . well, I don’t know exactly what this room is. If the red file cabinets tightly pressed together were anything to go by, I would guess it’s a file room, but the location doesn’t make sense. Hannah crosses the room and comes to a stop in front of a keypad mounted next to a door, where she types in a series of numbers and special characters.
“Voilà!” She says, as shelves begin to electronically shift and glide along the tracks on the floor.
As they widen, we are given access to rows upon rows of hockey equipment. Um, what now? My mouth is literally hanging open.
“Pick up your jaw, Aspen.” She laughs, “I warned you that you would be mind blown.
These storage units contain custom, individualized hockey equipment for each player. See the bin numbers?” I nod. “When they need something, they type in their code, press pound, then type in the bin number containing what they need and press star. When they’re ready to exit, they type their code into the keypad and press the pound button. The units then move back together and lock.”
Hannah opens the door next to the keypad, and we stroll into the adjoining locker room. In the center of the room, attached to the ceiling, hangs a large Blaze logo. Hockey uniforms are clean and hung in stalls. Designated places inside and outside the stalls hold equipment.
Something catches my attention, and I stop in front of the nearest stall, brushing my bottom lip with my thumb as I study the open cubicle. My eyes trail up to a gold nameplate above. Lukov C. My eyes travel back to what originally caught my attention. I point. “Are those air vents in the stalls?”
“After the uniforms are washed, they’re hung to dry in each of the players stalls. Every stall has a heat source drying vent. That’s not all.” She tilts her head to the stall. “Go smell his jersey.”
I point to said jersey with raised brows. “You . . . you want me to stick my nose in a stranger’s uniform? That’s just . . . weird,” I release a nervous laugh.
“Oh, just do it,” she goads.
I stand statue-still in my place, refusing to budge.
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “I’ll go first to demonstrate Lukov's cootie-free status.”She giggles.
I like Hannah. You know when you meet someone, and you can just feel the positive vibes radiating off them? I could tell she was a genuinely good person the moment I met her. The more I’m around her, the more relaxed I become in this unfamiliar territory. She’s not only sweet; she also seems real.
She saunters over, sticks her nose to the jersey, and inhales deeply with much exaggeration. Her eyes are still closed when she leans back, as if she’s savoring the scent. Her eyes pop open expectantly. “See? Now it’s your turn.” She chuckles, holding out her hand toward the red jersey.
I glance at her nervously. Craning my neck. I check to make sure no one is going to sneak up on us and accuse me of being a creep. She lets out a snort.
“No one is coming; just do it,” she whispers as she rolls her eyes.
Steeling myself, I tilt my head from side to side, cracking my neck as I build up courage and succumb to her playful peer pressure. I lean in, place my nose to the jersey, and take a small whiff. The scent is intoxicating, and my eyes roll into the back of my head. I inhale the scent once more and realize she wasn’t exaggerating anything—the smell is just so damn good; you can’t help but take it in deeply.
“Nice, huh?” She raises one brow.
I lean back and point to the jersey. “What is that? It smells like cologne. That could honestly be an aphrodisiac.”
She giggles, “That fresh, woodsy scent comes from an all-natural, hypoallergenic solution that is placed within the air filtration system of the heat vents.”
“Wow.” Both of my eyebrows raise in surprise.
“I know, right? Technology is insane. Before we started using that solution, the guys were always complaining about their jerseys holding a sour smell. So, the system was installed, and all new uniforms were bought.” She beams.
I guess that’s why this locker room doesn’t smell like soured socks.
“This is just . . .” I shake my head, “. . . insane.”
We exit out of the locker room and begin to trek down the hallway, I’m assuming toward the team doctor’s office.
“So much has changed over the years.” She smiles and looks around as if she’s taking in how the facility has transformed. “When I was a little girl, I would run up and down these halls while my dad was at practice. That was long before my dad even considered retiring or becoming a coach.”
I stop walking. “Wait. Your dad played professional hockey before he was a coach?”
“Yep, he played hockey for The Blaze most of his career. When I was nine, my mom passed away. My dad sat down with Mr. West and told him he was going to hang up his skates because there was no way he was leaving me for someone else to take care of.”
I smile. “Sounds like you were blessed with a great dad.”
“The best.” She beams. “So, Mr. West made a deal with my dad to finish out the last two years of his contract. He allowed me to practically live here during the off season. During the season, Mr. West hired the best nannies to travel with me to my dad’s away games. It took some adjusting to a new norm, but it wasn’t long before I was thriving—despite my mom’s passing.”
“How did you do that and go to school?”
“I was homeschooled.” We stop in another corridor next to the restrooms. “Do you need to go?” She points in the direction of the ladies room. I shake my head. We continue on our way. “When my dad’s contract ended, Mr. West asked him to stay on as one of the assistant coaches. My dad worked his way up to head coach.”
I turn my head toward her, giving her my attention as we carry on our stroll around the facility. She stops every so often to show me something new. I realize we’ve almost come full circle. Hannah looks around with nostalgia. “This facility has pretty much been my home away from home.” Her smile is so wide and bright as she recounts her time growing up in this place alongside her dad.
A pang spears right through my heart at her words. She continues speaking—not realizing the impact she’s making on my battered soul.
“Watching this place transform from what it was when I was a little girl to what it is today . . .” she shakes her head. “Well, it’s a feeling I can’t even describe. About three years ago, Mr. West upgraded our dining room and kitchen. So, we now have an onsite chef and nutritionist year-round. A lot of the players come around during the off season. The meals are completely free, so whenever you or Tucker are hungry, just pop in there, tell Emilio, and he will fix you right up. It’s just upstairs on the other side of the conference room. Oh, I almost forgot!” She stops in her tracks and gives one little bounce on the balls of her feet as she turns to me.
She points toward the second floor. “There’s a door in the dining room that leads out onto a covered patio with a spectacular view if you ever want to eat outside. In the winter, we just roll down the wind blockers and turn on the heaters; it stays surprisingly warm. It’s one of my favorite places to have lunch.”
Hannah continues walking, and I follow. She points to a door as we pass by, “That is our workshop. Mr. Markovic takes most of the summer off, but come September, he’ll be here from sunup to sundown. He does all of our skate repairs.”
We make it to the team doc’s office. Dr. August Winslet is etched on a gold nameplate next to the door.
“Dr. Winslet?” Hannah peeks her head into his doorway. “I have Aspen Taylor here to meet you.”
“Ah. I’ve been waiting for you.” He comes through the door and shakes my hand.
Dr. Winslet is older, maybe in his early sixties, and has a mild English accent. He’s dressed casually today, but I guess with it being the off season, he has no reason to wear the white coat I see hanging up through the open doorway.
“I figured you might be a little overwhelmed. Here’s an extra tablet that we use in physiotherapy. You’ll find information on each player,” he says, tapping on the little device, causing the screen to light up. He pulls up one of the players. “This tablet stores their name, picture, stats, and injuries. I’ll need that back before preseason training starts, but this information should help you learn more about who the players are and what we’re working with.”
“Oh, my goodness. This is so helpful. Thank you so much!” I take the tablet in one hand and shake his hand with the other.
Hannah looks between the two of us with an excited smile. “Ready to go to your office?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I state nervously. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Dr. Winslet.” I shake his hand again.
“The feeling is mutual.”
Hannah continues upstairs to give me the rest of the tour before leading me to my office, where I find a mess of stacked papers on my desk. My eyes widen in response.
“Yeah, sorry about that. We didn’t really know what to do with everything, so we didn’t clear it out. I’ll give you time to organize everything to your liking, and then we can talk more.” Hannah gives me a sympathetic smile and turns to leave.
“Hey, Hannah?” She turns back around. “Thank you . . . for everything.”
Hannah nods her head and walks out the door.
Sorting through the mess, I categorize what I think needs to take priority. I clean and box up someone else’s old memories left behind. Time flies, and by noon I’m starving, so I decide to leave the tablet as an after-lunch project. I trek down the never-ending hallway towards the game room, but when I get there, it’s empty. Looking around in a panic, I catch movement through the glass and make my way over to peer down at the ice. Tucker is on the ice, skating with a hockey player. Damn it. What the hell is he doing? Releasing a huff, I make my way down to the rink. I make it halfway down the stairs when my eyes widen, and my face drains of color. I quickly recover, putting on a mask of indifference.