Chapter 8 The Hockey Playing Pyromaniac
THE HOCKEY PLAYING PYROMANIAC
Alex
The smell of smoke singes my nostrils as I dab my eyes with a tissue.
“I didn’t realize bread could be so…flammable,” I say as I watch Coach Hannigan return the now-empty fire extinguisher to its place on the back wall of the kitchen.
Thankfully, there’s a whole row of the red metal canisters lined up, so we should be good if I manage to set anything else on fire today.
“It wasn’t the bread that started the fire, Goat. It was the wax paper you laid on the baking sheets. Next time, you’ll remember to use parchment paper instead.” Elliot wipes at a small burn mark near the bottom of his t-shirt, and I cringe.
“I set you on fire,” I whine, not for the first time since the oven went up in flames a few minutes ago.
My flight or fight mode malfunctioned at the sight of all that orange and yellow, and I neither fought nor fled.
I froze, watching like a deer in headlights as Elliot morphed into action hero mode, pulling the flaming pan of ashy rolls and extinguishing them with a large kitchen towel, while my coach got to work on spraying the oven with the foamy extinguisher spray thing.
Thankfully, the whole affair was over and done within a matter of seconds, before the fire alarms even had a chance to go on.
Everyone and everything is safe, except for the first batch of rolls.
Oh, and of course, my dignity.
Elliot plops down on the floor next to me, throwing an arm around my shoulder. I nuzzle my face into the crook of his arm, shielding myself from the eyes of fifty other athletes and their families who all want to catch a glimpse of the hockey playing pyromaniac.
“You didn’t set me on fire. A teeny, tiny bit of fire caught on to my t-shirt and gave it some much needed character.
Now it's not just a Redwoods practice tee, it's an Alex Holmes original. In fact, we should both sign this baby. I can sell it online and probably make a fortune. We can donate the money to a local food bank.”
“Or to the city’s volunteer fire department,” I mumble against Elliot’s shoulder.
I can’t help but notice how warm he is—not “I’m sweaty because I’m in a working kitchen” warm, but teddy bear warm.
Like he’s something soft and cuddly that I want to pull close and fall asleep with.
And he smells good, too. Like a manly soap named something like “Arctic Hurricane” or “Atomic Evergreen Blast”.
He smells a little bit like fire, too, but I’m pretty sure that’s my fault and not the product of any colognes or laundry detergents.
“Yeah, Goat. We can donate to the fire department. Whatever makes you happy,” Elliot chuckles, and despite the humiliation coursing through me, I manage a small smile.
“Hey, so no offense, but we’re kicking you two off rolls duty. My six-year-old could do a better job manning this station. She’s never set anything on fire.”
I look up to see that I’m being chastised by a woman I only typically see in my cardio-fueled nightmares—Kira McKenna, fitness instructor and owner of Spin Sync, a global fitness brand that anyone who is anyone uses to workout.
My coach back in Boston used to force us to take her high-intensity interval training running classes on the treadmill as a punishment for losing or fucking around too much during practice.
With her arms crossed over her chest and a look on her face that says “I’m both mad and disappointed”, Kira is just as scary in real life as she is on the other side of a treadmill screen.
“Holy shit, you’re Kira McKenna. I mean shoot, not shit. I mean…Kira…Mrs. Mc…ma’am. You’ve made me puke so many times. I mean, not you! Not your face! Your face is great. Very symmetrical. But you’re kind of evil—”
She holds up a hand between us, cutting off my increasingly inappropriate, incoherent blathering.
“Boy, stop talking. Those rolls you just set on fire were made with my ten-year-old sourdough starter. That pisses me right off, and now I’m about two seconds away from making you drop and do burpees until you pass out.”
“Kira, don’t be mean,” The Redwoods team owner, James, appears next to her, holding out a hand to help Elliot off the ground. “Baker, goalie—sorry, I don’t remember your name—I hope you’re good with kids. You’re on lobby duty.”
“Because you obviously can’t be trusted around food.
Or ovens. Or hot things. Or knives. I don’t trust you with the children either, but my kid will keep an eye on you,” Kira adds, rubbing salt right into my wound.
Between the fire, the scary blonde cardio lady, the billionaire, and the lingering warmth from Elliot’s arm around my shoulder, my head is a mess.
And like I always do when my head is a mess, I start to ramble.
Again.
“I love kids! In a totally appropriate way, of course. And my name, it’s Alex.
You can call me goalie if you want to though.
But if you want to know my name, it’s Alex Holmes.
Alex Kozlov Holmes. But don’t let the Russian name fool you, I have a healthy respect for capitalism.
I mean, capitalism isn’t the best system in the world.
It’s kind of why we’re here, giving back to people who can’t afford to live while a bunch of hundred thousand dollar cars collect dust in the parking lot.
That’s pretty stupid, allowing a handful of billionaires to hoard all the wealth.
I mean, not that I think you’re a stupid billionaire, Mr. James. Adler. Mr. Adler, sir. It’s just that—”
A hand is smacked right over my mouth, cutting me off as I dig myself further and further into this hole with no hopes of ever getting out.
Just like his shoulder, Elliot’s hand is warm, soft, and even though it definitely smells like fire and not manly soap, it's still too tempting not to breathe him in.
“What does lobby duty entail?” He asks, and I couldn’t be more grateful for him at this moment. Even if having his soft, warm, huge hand on my face is making my cheeks flush.
“C’mon, let me hook you up with my wife and kids. They’re setting up game stations all around for our younger guests,” James says, patting a hand on my shoulder and leading Elliot and me out of the kitchen.
“And by the way Holmes, you’re right,” he says as we cross the lobby filled with festive decor. “Capitalism sucks and the system is rigged, and that’s why I’m a proud member of the Former Billionaires Club. I gave away too much money, and I have no regrets.”
James winks, and the fear I felt for the man a minute ago is gone, overtaken by a massive amount of respect.
My parents aren’t billionaires, but they are well off, and they wouldn’t give enough money to charity to knock them down a tax bracket, let alone knock a few zeros off the end of their bank balance.
I’m sure the dude still has more money than any person could need in three lifetimes, but still. Respect.
It turns out that “lobby duty” is ten times more fun than handing out rolls could ever be.
The kids that turn up at the recreation center throughout the day are some of the coolest little people.
Elliot and I spend the morning bopping around to different activity stations, helping little ones make turkeys out of candy corn and sandwich cookies (I totally ate more than I used fore art), string together friendship bracelets, and cover pine cones in red and orange glitter.
My pilgrim hat is a big hit amongst the youths, and by ten a.m., I’ve already helped three tweens create their own buckle hats out of cardboard and construction paper.
The sun finally peeks out of the fog around noon, giving a warm reprieve to the otherwise blustery day, so naturally, we’ve gathered up a bunch of rugrats and started a flag football game out on the lawn.
Though “we” is a generous word to use. Elliot set up the field, explained the rules, and helped the kids pick captains and form teams. I was in charge of finding enough scarves and extra large dinner napkins to be used as flags, and trying not to get my feelings hurt when I was the reluctant last round draft pick to the blue team.
I gotta give the kids credit where it’s due, because as it turns out, I suck at flag football. I can block a puck coming at me at one hundred miles per hour while in a full split and half bent backwards, but I cannot score a touchdown against these pipsqueaks to save my life.
So I pretended not to have my feelings hurt when I was benched after my last botched play, and I’ve been watching the game from the sidelines with the tikes whose hands aren’t big enough to catch a ball yet.
The blue team subbed me out for Luke Cannon, one of the Redwoods coaches, and I watch from the sidelines as he sends the ball soaring down the field into the waiting, outstretched hands of a pint-sized blonde with pigtails and hot pink overalls.
She catches it with ease, stepping back and gracefully stumbling past the light post that designates the end zone.
Elliot is right there to congratulate her, cheering and high-fiving the girl as she spikes the football.
He has been the star of the show with all the kids today.
He’s got that kind of charisma that little people flock to, and he’s so good at talking to them, too.
Watching him hang out with an endless stream of kids all day, treating each one like they are the most important person in the world and giving them his undivided attention has been a wonder.
It’s like I’m watching these kids experience exactly how I felt when we met at the club the other night. Like Elliot really, truly sees them.
The more I get to know Elliot Baker, the faster I find myself getting sucked into his magnetic pull, and the less I seem to care about the confused thoughts pattering around in my head.