5. Moose
Chapter five
Moose
M y stuffed closet threatened to become a textile tsunami, burying me in a mountain of button-downs and sweaters. I inhaled the scent of cedar hangers mixed with detergent while I rifled back and forth for what felt like the three hundredth time.
"Hey, Moose, buddy, still there?" Quinn was on the phone with me. "Picked anything for today yet? Or are you still planning to cosplay as a deer in headlights?"
I growled and sat back on the foot of my bed. "What the hell was I thinking when I decided to do this, Q? I'll show up looking like a color-blind scarecrow. Why on earth would they trust that guy to market their team?"
"Drama queen much?" Quinn laughed. "Come on, big guy, I'll help out. Give me some of the options we've got to work with."
I stood again and surveyed the disaster zone that used to be my closet. "Umm, I've got that navy blazer I wore to the interview. Now, when I look at it, I think it screams 7th grade confirmation."
"Umm, okay, let's move along. What else?"
"There's the green plaid button-down you say plays well with my eye color."
"That might work… and pants?"
I rummaged through the right-hand side of my closet. "Do you suggest khakis or dark jeans? Not much else to choose from."
"Jeans," Quinn said decisively. "The goal here is professional while still approachable. In other words, you want it all to say, 'Hey, I may work in an office, but I still know what the inside of a locker room smells like.'"
"You know, that's weirdly specific." I tugged on the jeans while the phone lay in the middle of my bed.
"I know how to get to the point—one of my many talents."
I started to button the shirt. "So, answer this question. Why am I taking clothing advice from a guy who owns a pair of Crocs?"
"Hey!" Quinn suddenly spoke louder. "Those are the shoes Axel had me buy for gardening. They protect my precious athletic feet from all those critters living in the dirt."
"Keep telling yourself that." I laughed as I buttoned up the shirt. "I sense you might have a little fetish going on. Anyway, accessories? Watch? Tie?"
"Ditch the tie, but watch yes. You don't want to look like an accountant. Trust me."
I looked at myself in the mirror on the back of my bedroom door as I slipped the watch onto my wrist. "Should I, um, do something with my hair?"
There was nothing but silence on the other end of the call.
"Quinn?"
He wheezed softly, and I knew he was trying not to laugh. "I'm sorry, I was imagining you trying to tease all 1/4 inch of that buzzcut into some kind of man bun."
"You know what? Sometimes I hate you," I growled, running my fingers across the top of my head.
"Come on, big guy, you know you love me." He was right, but I couldn't give him the satisfaction. "Now, it's time to breathe deep. You've got this. You know these guys, and you have a heart the size of Manitoba. They love you, too."
"Now you're sweet. Do you want something?" We both laughed. "Honestly, I appreciate it. I owe you one."
"And don't forget it. Next time we're out, you'll buy the first round. And the second."
"Deal." While I listened, I straightened my collar. "Wish me luck… please?"
"Man, you don't need luck. You've got the skills. You're Moose Moretti. Go get 'em."
When I ended the call, I took one last look at myself in the mirror. The guy staring back at me appeared almost confident. I could go with that.
***
With Coach Fraser's permission, I gathered the players in the after-game press room at the arena. So many of them looked different in street clothes. Everyone was silent as they expectantly stared forward. I spotted Sergei's usual stoic gaze, Finn's bright-eyed focus, and a slight encouraging nod from Quinn.
"Gentlemen, I brought you all here to describe what we've planned for the next two weeks as part of the team's holiday charity drive." While they continued to stare, a few picked at threads on their shirts. "The schedule is packed with events while you're in town. That means children's hospital visits, after-school clubs, and food bank volunteering. I trust you'll all bring your A-game like you do on the ice. The Portland kids deserve our best."
Blaise's hand shot up. "Please tell me we don't have to wear the mascot costume. Larry, the mascot guy, had me try it, and damn, after just a couple of months, it's ripe."
A few chuckles spread through the room. I did my best to remain serious, remembering one time in high school when I filled in for a sick mascot. "No costumes. Don't worry. I just want to see your jerseys and your bright, shining personalities."
"Thank the fuck for that," Axel mumbled while Quinn elbowed him in the side.
"Moving on. I'll split you into small groups. Sergei, I want you to lead the hospital team. Your unique brand of humor is a hit with the kids."
"Thank fuck for that," Axel muttered, earning a sharp elbow from Quinn.
A smile nearly broke through his stoic gaze. "I'll tell them the joke about the bear and fish. It's very funny, and they love it."
"That's a good thing." I moved on, not wanting to think too hard about what kind of vodka-infused jokes Sergei might toss out for unsuspecting kids. "Quinn, I've got you down for after-school duty. Do you think you can handle a crowd of adrenaline-soaked pre-teens?"
"I've got a few tricks up my sleeve." He smirked. "I'm gonna blow 'em away with holiday-themed science experiments."
"Just please don't blow anything up," I requested, thinking about the Mentos and Diet Coke incident in college.
"Umm, can't make any promises there."
I turned my attention to Finn for the next project. My stomach fluttered when our eyes met. "Finn, I'd like you to lead the food bank initiative. Your speed will be useful while you pack all those donation boxes."
That million-dollar smile made me all warm and fuzzy inside. "Got it, Moose. Holiday spirit boxes done lickety-split."
"Any questions?" I meant it as a formality, but I braced myself in case someone spoke up.
Axel had to fill the silence. "Yeah, I've got one. Is all this touchy-feely crap necessary? Some of us have hockey games to play."
The room was suddenly silent. An itch of irritation developed on the palm of my right hand, and I scratched. I had to think fast because I wouldn't let Axel sabotage my chance to prove myself.
I met his gaze with a steady one of my own. "Look, I get it. You're here to play hockey, the game you've loved since you first slapped on a pair of skates. That's what got you here, but now that you are here, being a Lumberjack is about more than just what happens on the ice. It's about being part of the community that supports you and pays your salary. Those kids out there look up to you, and you've got the chance to make their holidays better. Who knows? Maybe spreading some joy will add a little extra oomph to help block those shots."
I worried that I'd picked a fight with Axel, but, to my surprise, he smiled. "Okay, yeah, point made. I'm in, but I won't be wearing any damn reindeer antlers."
***
Later in the week, I leaned against the nurse's station in the children's ward, clipboard in hand, and watched the players interact with the kids. The nurses provided treats, and the festive aromas of peppermint and gingerbread nearly covered the usual antiseptic smell.
Sergei caught my eye. He knelt beside a little boy in a wheelchair, his massive frame looking even larger than usual. He spoke with his usual thick, Russian accent. "In Vladivostok, we have a saying: 'The quieter you go, the further you'll get.' I think it's like sneaking up on a bear." He leaned in close and spoke so softly I could barely make out the words. "But between you and me, sometimes I think it's better to make noise and scare the bear away."
The boy giggled. "Did you ever see a real bear?"
"Once, on a camping trip in the Siberian forest. It was bigger than me."
"No way!"
"Yes, way." Sergei nodded. "Fortunately, I had a secret weapon. I'd brought along my babushka's borscht. One sniff and the bear ran away."
They both laughed, and I smiled, too. Seeing Sergei getting along so well with the kids warmed my heart.
When I visited the food bank, it was humming with activity. I walked up and down the aisles, greeting both players and volunteers. Then, I heard an unmistakably familiar laugh followed by an imitation of a carnival barker.
"Ladies and gentlemen, come one, come all. Step right up and watch the amazing Finn-tastic defy the laws of physics!"
I rounded the end of one aisle and gasped. Finn was balancing a tower of canned vegetables in one hand, and he spread his other arm out wide. A small crowd gathered and watched with more than a hint of concern on their faces.
"Finn!" I called out and did my best to sound serious and stern, but I wasn't entirely succeeding. "What are you doing?"
He grinned at me. "Moose! You're just in time to see my grand finale. Watch!"
Before I could do anything to stop him, he began to spin around with the tower of cans rotating with him. It was a bizarre scene, almost like a grocery store ballet. The volunteers gasped, and some reached out to be ready for falling cans.
They didn't need to worry. Finn had everything under control. He completed three full turns before setting his sky-high stack of vegetables safely on a table.
Everyone burst into applause, and he took a bow. "Thank you, thank you. Have you tried the canned peas?"
For a split second, as the applause died down, I caught a flicker of something in Finn's eyes—a need for approval, perhaps? It vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual cocky grin.
I tried to fight off a smile, but it didn't work. "Hey, how about giving a little more attention to packing boxes?"
"You got it, Boss." Finn playfully saluted and then turned to the volunteers. "Anyone want to see how many boxes I can carry at once?"
I knew I'd lost the battle even before they responded with a chorus of "I do!"
For almost an hour, Finn treated packing boxes of non-perishable food like an Olympic sport. Tearing up and down the aisles, he filled boxes at breakneck speed, avoiding any mistakes and challenging others to beat his time. The group's productivity soared.
"Hey, Moose!" he called out as he bounced past me. "Think you can beat my record? It's twenty boxes in five minutes."
I raised an eyebrow. "Are you challenging me?"
"Why do you ask? Does it make you nervous?"
"Oh, man, you are so on." I rolled up my sleeves and gave a moose-ish grunt.
The following five minutes were complete chaos as Finn and I raced around the food bank, filling our boxes. The volunteers cheered us on like the crowd at a hockey game. They provided helpful hints, pointing out missed items and partially empty boxes. By the end, I could barely catch my breath.
"Time!" Finn called, appointing himself both timekeeper and judge. "Final count… Novak: 22 boxes, and Moretti: 21."
Finn threw his fists in the air and spun in an impromptu victory dance. "The student has conquered the master."
"Defeated by one box. How will my pride ever recover?"
He slung one arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. It was the perfect reward for participating in his impromptu race. "You're a good sport about this."
"Always up for a little fun."
Our eyes met, and the food bank melted into the background for a split second. It was just Finn and me. He stared at me like I was the best man on earth.
Suddenly, a door opened, and I heard Quinn's voice. "Hey lovebirds! Just stopped by to see how you're doing here."
Finn and I suddenly jumped apart, and I blushed slightly. "All good here. Finn has everything under control."
***
The rest of the week flew by in a whirlwind of charity events and PR meetings. Each night, I collapsed into bed, exhausted but satisfied, my thoughts inevitably drifting to Finn's infectious laugh or the way his eyes lit up when he talked about hockey. Before I knew it, the next home game day had arrived.
When I stepped into the press box that night, the unfamiliar vantage point made my stomach lurch. Way up high, just beneath the rafters, I suddenly understood how someone could get vertigo.
As I looked down toward the rink, I couldn't stop watching #89, Finn Novak, dart back and forth between the larger players. He was poetry in motion. Everyone marveled at his speed and agility, as well as his anticipation of the puck's next location.
Then, I saw him—Donovan Michaels, one of the league's most notorious enforcers. Quinn told me stories about him, and apparently, he once tangled with Axel in a legendary brawl on the ice. Now, he had Finn in his sights.
I leaned forward and gripped the edge of the press table while I watched Michaels shadow Finn, throwing the occasional elbow. His mouth moved, so I knew he was saying something. A shake of Finn's head told me it was unnecessary trash.
"Come on, ref," I growled. "Keep your eyes open. Watch him."
"First time up here?"
The voice startled me. I turned my head to find Sam Rivera, Assistant GM of the Portland Lumberjacks, sliding into the seat beside me. She glanced at me before turning her attention to the ice.
"Is it that obvious?" I did my best to relax my white-knuckled grip on the table.
She shrugged. "Just something about your look. You keep looking from one side to the other, and I heard you're the new guy in marketing. Michaels down there is a piece of work, isn't he?"
I nodded and wondered whether she could sense the worry on my mind. "Finn's tough, but I've heard Michaels plays dirty. He's ended the seasons of some top players."
"True," Sam agreed, "but Novak is smarter than he looks. He's pretty, but he has a good head on his shoulders. He won't let Michaels bait him."
I grinned at her assessment of Finn. Suddenly, Michaels caught Finn with a nasty cross-check that sent him down to the ice. The crowd roared and stomped their feet, but the refs didn't blow their whistles.
Finn climbed back to his feet, and before we could count to three, he retaliated, catching Michaels with a high stick that sent the thug sprawling. It was blatant, and the refs blew their whistles.
"Damn," I mumbled as I watched Finn skate to the penalty box. He whipped off his helmet, and his frustration was readily apparent.
I pressed a hand to the glass. My overwhelming urge to protect him and ward off the Donovan Michaels of the world told me I'd moved beyond any simple infatuation.
Sam's calm voice cut through my thoughts. "You can't shield them when they're on the ice, Moose. They're on their own, but you can soothe the aches later."
I grunted. "Damn, I think my skull is transparent. You see right into my thoughts. Anyway, do you… I mean, what do you do when there's a goon like that…"
She smiled. "You learn to focus on what you can control. Build them up when you can, and trust that you've done a great job at that. Every one of those players is probably a lot more resilient than either of us knows."
I nodded and let go of the table. Sam was right. Finn was tough. Michaels surely wasn't the first on-ice thug he'd faced.
As the game came to a close, I made an internal promise. I couldn't fight Finn's on-ice battles for him, but I could be there for him when the game was over. Whatever he needed— someone to listen, lean on, or just vent with about jerks like Michaels. I could be that guy.
When the final buzzer sounded, we'd won. I stood and applauded. Sam clapped alongside me.
"Not bad for your first time, Moose. You didn't break anything, and you didn't try to jump through the glass. That's a win."
As I left the press room, a sudden wave of exhaustion washed over me. I'd been "on" the entire time I sat by Sam. The constant pressure to prove myself and to make everything perfect overwhelmed me. I ducked into a nearby empty office and leaned against the wall, closing my eyes.
My hands trembled slightly as I ran them over my buzzed hair. I fought against a familiar chorus in my head: "You're not good enough. You're going to mess this up. They'll see through you eventually."
I took a deep breath, working hard to push the thoughts away. "Come on, Moose," I muttered to myself. "Get it together."
I opened my eyes and left the office. Catching sight of my reflection in a nearby window, I didn't recognize the man staring back for a moment. He looked... scared. Vulnerable. I quickly averted my gaze.
Straightening my shirt, I plastered on a smile. I had to congratulate Finn. "Show time," I whispered, stepping back into the hallway, ready to face the world again.