3. Moose
Chapter three
Moose
A s I climbed out of my car in the parking lot, the Lumberjacks' arena loomed large ahead of me, its sleek architecture revealing nothing about my potential fate inside. It was interview time, sink or swim. I tugged at my tie, wondering if the Windsor knot was too formal. Maybe I should have gone with a half-Windsor? Or ditched the tie altogether? Too late to change course now.
My dress shoes clacked against the polished stone floors as I walked to one of the back offices, tucked neatly into the yawning space beneath the stands. Lumberjack logos and banners constantly reminded me of the building's athletic performances, but I was there for a different kind of presentation.
I settled into a sleek, modern, leather-upholstered chair in the waiting area with my briefcase balanced precariously on my knees. The sounds spoke of quietly efficient work behind the scenes: the soft whir of a distant photocopier, muted tones of a phone conversation, and occasional gentle laughter.
A large, framed poster of the Lumberjacks' starting lineup dominated one wall of the room, and the players' determined faces stared down at me. They were all familiar, particularly that of my best friend, Quinn, and I wondered whether Finn would show up on a new version of the poster soon.
I drummed an edgy, erratic rhythm on my briefcase with my fingers to calm my nerves. Alerted by the noise, the receptionist looked up and smiled politely. I did my best to force my hands to still. Bouncing knees were quieter.
A glass case nearby housed some team memorabilia, but it was mostly empty, a testament to the Lumberjacks' status as an expansion team in their first year. While my gaze lingered on a few game pucks and a signed stick, I dreamed about contributing to the team's legacy, not on the ice but behind the scenes.
With my eyes closed, I could see it: "Milo Moretti, Head of Green Initiatives and Community Outreach." Of course, the nameplate on my desk would be recycled wood. I could put a small plant next to my computer. It would be an aloe, snake plant, or something else that cleaned the air. That touch of nature would continuously remind me of why I was there.
In the daydream, I strode purposefully through the behind-the-scenes corridors, nodding to players and staff alike. I'd be the guy everyone came to with their ideas, good and bad. After making that decision, I'd take the lead on turning a vague concept into a fully-fledged community program.
I saw myself presenting my latest eco-friendly merchandise line to my superiors, watching their eyes light up as I unveiled jerseys made from ocean plastic and biodegradable foam fingers. "Brilliant, Moretti!" they'd exclaim. "You've done it again!"
And then, there was Finn. He'd pop his head into my office, lighting up the room with that megawatt smile. "Hey, Moose," he'd say, "got a minute?" And I always would, for him.
A soft clearing of the throat brought me back to the present. The receptionist looked at me expectantly and spoke softly. "Mr. Moretti? Ms. Rivera will see you now."
I stood, smoothing my tie, and took a long, deep breath. It was my opportunity to turn that daydream into reality. As I followed the receptionist down a hallway, I felt a spark of excitement and hoped it wasn't just static electricity. I was ready to give it my all.
After all, according to those Chinese philosophers, every great journey began with a single step. In my case, it might be a stumble. But hey, I was ready for that, too.
My pulse raced as the assistant stopped near a door. What was that statistic about compost and team building again? Oh, right, a well-composted team grows 30% faster than—no, wait, that's not right.
The interview room was smaller than I expected. It was intimate, with only two chairs, a small table, and a ficus tree in one corner that had seen better days. A woman with sharp eyes and a sharper blazer sat in one of the chairs, her smile professional but warm.
"Milo Moretti," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Samantha Rivera, Assistant General Manager. Please, have a seat."
I shook her hand, praying mine wasn't as clammy as it felt. "Thank you for having me, Ms. Rivera. I'm excited to be here."
"So, Mr. Moretti, let's dive right in," she began. "Tell me why you think you'd be a good fit for our sports marketing team."
Fortunately, my voice shook only slightly as I began. "I believe in building strong foundations as a key to future success. In composting, for example, it's important to have an ideal balance of green and brown material when creating nutrient-rich soil. Hockey is similar in the need for a perfect balance of offensive strategy and defensive brawn when you're putting together a winning team."
I paused as Ms. Rivera raised her eyebrow. She clicked her pen, and I stared at it, poised mid-air over a blank notepad. Despite a slight twinge in my gut, I was already on a roll with my compost analogy, and I bulldozed forward.
"Let me explain; in a compost pile, the green material is like your star forwards on the team—full of nitrogen that breaks down quickly to give you a quick burst of energy. They score goals and make big plays. Still, you can't depend solely on a pile of green stuff, or you'll end up with a stinky, slimy mess."
Ms. Rivera's other eyebrow rose. I was on a roll, gesturing enthusiastically as I completed my argument.
"Your brown materials, the defensemen and goalie, stop the smelly process. They're carbon-rich and break down slowly, providing rich structure to the team… uh, I mean pile. No, I was talking about players. Yes, that's it. They prevent goals instead of scoring them."
Leaning forward, I completed my statement. "So, just like a hockey team needing a good coach to balance the players, a compost pile needs someone skilled at maintaining the right ratio. Too much green, and we have all flash and no substance. Too much brown, and it's all a dud. But… and this is the key—if you get it right, it's the perfect environment for success."
I finished with a flourish provided by my right hand and felt rather pleased with myself. The silence that greeted my presentation was deafening.
I watched Ms. Rivera blink once and then twice. She hadn't written anything down. Perhaps I'd lost her in the finer details of my argument. Her mouth twitched, and I gripped the arm of my chair.
"Mr. Moretti," her voice was careful and controlled, "that is undoubtedly the most… unique opening to an interview I've ever experienced."
My face flushed. "Too much?"
"Oh, no," she replied, and I watched her face quiver as she fought off a smile. "Please, continue. I'm fascinated to hear how you might relate power plays to worm bins."
Her eyes sparkled with amusement, and I realized she wasn't mocking me. She was genuinely intrigued by my off-the-wall approach.
"What I mean is," I continued, scrambling to recover, "marketing is about finding that perfect balance too. You want to appeal to die-hard fans while also attracting new ones. It's like... like threading a needle!"
I'd found a better analogy, and in my enthusiasm, I reached for my briefcase to pull out my portfolio. The clasp, apparently as excited as I was, decided to give up the ghost at that precise moment. What happened next felt like it happened in slow motion.
The briefcase yawned open like a fabric-hungry monster, expelling its contents across Ms. Rivera's immaculate desk. A cascade of knitting needles clattered onto the polished wood, sounding like miniature wind chimes. Balls of yarn in every color of the rainbow made a break for freedom, rolling across the desk and plopping onto the floor.
A skein of Lumberjacks-red yarn unspooled as it rolled into a corner. Another ball, a vivid purple, made a valiant escape attempt, rolling straight toward Ms. Rivera.
Without missing a beat, she caught it just before it could leap off the edge of her desk. She held it up, examining the soft wool with a mix of surprise and curiosity.
"Merino?" Her tone was impressively calm, given the chaos that had just erupted in her office.
I nodded, my face burning hotter than a furnace. "Uh, yes. Good eye. It's, um, excellent for warm socks."
Ms. Rivera glanced from the yarn in her hand to the needles scattered across her desk, then to me, still frozen in my chair, hand outstretched from my failed briefcase grab.
For a moment, silence reigned. Then, surprising even myself, I grinned and said, "Well, I guess you could say I'm pretty good at spinning a yarn."
The tension broke. Ms. Rivera's laugh caught us both off guard, starting as a snort and building into a full-bodied chuckle. As I scrambled to collect my runaway craft supplies, she asked, "You knit?"
"I do," I admitted, stuffing the traitorous red yarn back into my case. "It's a great way to de-stress, usually. Plus, I make a mean pair of mittens for Christmas gifts."
I paused my clean-up efforts and held up a half-finished project—a beanie in Lumberjack colors. "I was thinking of donating a set of these to the local children's hospital. You know, to spread a little team spirit to the kids who can't make it to the games."
Ms. Rivera's gaze softened as she looked from the beanie to me. "That's... a wonderful idea, Mr. Moretti."
She stood up and walked around her desk to help me pick up a few stray balls of yarn that had rolled to the far corners of her office. She eagerly helped me, and I detected no negativity.
When she returned to her chair, she asked a question half related to the interview and half pure human curiosity. "We've been looking for ways to expand our merchandise line and appeal to a broader demographic. Tell me more about this knitting idea of yours."
The earth may have tilted oddly on its axis, but a tremendously embarrassing experience turned into a great opportunity just like that. I launched into a pitch about community knitting circles and player-designed patterns, silently thanking my briefcase for its perfectly timed rebellion. Sometimes, a little chaos is what you need to knit together the perfect opportunity.
By the end of the interview, Ms. Rivera was scribbling furiously on her notepad, and I'd relaxed into the conversation. "Well, Mr. Moretti," she concluded, "you've certainly given us a lot to think about. We'll be in touch soon."
As I left the office, I smiled from ear to ear. Whether I got the job or not, I'd taken the bull by the horns and followed my instinct. The interview was over, and I didn't bomb. In fact, I dared to think it went well.
While I walked down the hallway, my adrenaline began to ebb. A familiar whisper of doubt crept into the back of my mind. What if Ms. Rivera was only being polite? What if my composting analogy was as utterly ridiculous and off-base as it now sounded in my head?
The corridor ahead of me looked like it went on forever, and for a moment, the walls felt like they were closing in. My breath caught in my throat. I loosened my tie, desperate for a breath of fresh air.
Get it together, Moose. You're fine. Everything's fine.
With my heart pounding, I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. The cool surface against my back calmed me. In the distance, I could hear the sounds of the rink—the scrape of skates and the thwack of pucks against sticks. Slowly, the tightness in my chest eased.
I didn't need to hyperventilate. I was fine. So what if I'd made a fool of myself? It wouldn't be the first time, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. I straightened up and adjusted my tie. It was time to put on the Moose show again. After all, wasn't that what I did best?
I gravitated toward the rink. Practice was in full swing, players darting this way and that across the ice. As I scanned the group, I spotted Finn in the middle of it all. He was in the process of stealing a puck from Axel.
I couldn't stop watching. Finn moved with power and grace that mesmerized me. I stepped up close to the boards.
Quinn waved, and then Finn spotted me and skated over, his cheeks rosy from exertion.
As he approached, I became acutely aware of my appearance—the suit that had felt so professional in the interview now seemed stiff and out of place. I resisted the urge to loosen my tie to appear more casual. Instead, I squared my shoulders and smiled. Act confident, Moose. Fake it 'til you make it.
As Finn skated to a stop, he removed his helmet, revealing his dark brown curls damp from sweat. "Hey, Moose! Fancy seeing you here. Was it the interview? How'd it go?"
I leaned against the boards, trying to appear like I took it all in stride. "You know," I shrugged, "I only tripped over my words about a dozen times and spilled my entire collection of knitting kit on her desk. Pretty good, I suppose, all things considered."
Finn laughed. "Knitting kit? You didn't strike me as the crafty type."
"A man of mystery," I grinned, suddenly feeling a little more comfortable. "I should show you my crochet hook collection. Only my stash of obscure biology facts is more extensive."
"I do appreciate a man of many talents." Finn's eyes twinkled. "Any chance you could knit me something lucky to carry around? I could use all the help I can get."
I grinned. "For you? I certainly could. How about a tiny, knitted hockey stick? Maybe I could even assemble a little Finn Novak doll, complete with your curls." I imagined spending hours perfecting those little yarn curls, trying to capture how they fell across his forehead. Wait, is that weird? Too much? Fortunately, Finn was smiling.
He chuckled and reached up to run his fingers through the curls. "That would be great to see. You know… you clean up nice, Moose. The suit… it's great on you."
"Suits me?"
"Suits you." We both laughed.
I tugged at my lapel. "It's not a standard outfit for watching a hockey game." My size already made me stand out, and I knew the suit drew even more attention.
"There's nothing wrong with making a memorable splash." I watched as he gazed at me a little longer than necessary. "It's a good look. With glasses, you'd make a perfect Clark Kent."
"Does that make you Lois Lane?" The words were out before I could stop them. I froze, mortified, but Finn just laughed.
"I suppose that might depend." He batted his eyes. "Will I get rescued a lot by Clark's alter ego?"
Before I could devise a clever response, Coach Fraser blew his whistle, calling the players back to practice. Finn looked over his shoulder and then back at me.
"I gotta go, but hey, thanks for stopping by. I appreciate it. Always great to see a friendly face."
"Even one that's attached to a walking fashion faux pas?" I joked, tugging at the hem of my jacket.
"Especially that one. They'd be dumb not to give you the job. I'm looking forward to seeing more of you around here."
As he skated away, my heart did a little dance in my chest. The smell of ice and sweat, the sound of sticks slapping pucks, and the lingering warmth of Finn's smile all blended together, creating a moment I knew I'd remember for a long time.
I left the arena with a spring in my step and my mind buzzing with possibilities for my future. I was staring at a new job, new connections, and maybe… something more. Whatever came next, I was ready for it. Bring it on, Portland. Moose Moretti is here to play.