Danielle
“The hell is Andrew Fisher doing here?” a customer asks, spotting Andrew from the door. He’s got a bit of an accent and is wearing his sunglasses indoors, when it’s not bright in the store to begin with, and it’s cloudy outside despite the warm weather.
Andrew turns, soft smile on his face, expecting someone else, only to be met with an irate customer in board shorts and a cut-off American flag t-shirt, ready to settle a score .
Andrew backs up another step, away from the man in front of him as he speaks in a low, angry, tone of voice, trapping Andrew in a corner between the wall and a shelf. Andrew looks like a caged animal.
“Is everything okay, over here?” she cuts in.
Andrew’s eyes fly to her, a mix of relief and fear as they land on her face. He releases a shuddering breath, slipping out from where the guy has him cornered .
“Are you okay?” she asks. Andrew just swallows, doubling over, hands on his knees, as his breath comes quicker and shallower.
That’s a no.
She rests a hand on his back, putting pressure on him so that he knows she’s got it handled. He looks up at her, eyes red and glassy, and then he stands to his full height and disappears around a shelf.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she says, turning to the customer and folding her arms over her chest.
“For what?” the guy asks. He’s an overly-confident jock-type, with dried mustard on his chin.
Danielle fights to keep her tone even and professional, but she’s about to boil over in rage. “I cannot allow customers to heckle my employees.”
“That dick is an employee?” the customer asks, eyes sparkling with glee, “the NHL really did kick his ass to the curb, didn’t they?”
“No, it was “fans” like you!” she says, using air quotes around ‘fans’. “And I use that term loosely. You realize that he’s a person, right? ”
“He’s not a person, he’s a player,” the guy says, folding his arms over his chest, “and he screwed up. Bad.”
“And he’s been hearing it for over a month!” Danielle says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You don’t have the right to come into a place of business and harass him.”
“Listen, lady,” the guy says, taking a step towards her, “he missed the shot, not me. He’ll be lucky if he can even make it in Calgary after a mess like that.”
“Calgary made the playoffs this year, dumbass,” she shoots back, realizing that she was being really unprofessional, but sick of his attitude. “That player you just berated is a human, even though you idolize him in a way that’s completely toxic and uncalled for!”
Even though she should be afraid of this guy in front of her, she’s not. She knows she can handle it, though he’s slightly larger and definitely weighs more than her. He opens his mouth to reply, but she’s faster.
“The shot might have gone wide,” she says, cutting across him. “But that’s nothing compared to how you’re running your mouth. Now please, leave. Or I’ll call the police. ”
She holds her phone up, the LPPD number already typed on the screen, so that he can see she’s not kidding.
Apparently, he doesn’t want to be arrested because the customer leaves without much of a fight after that, and Danielle heads towards the back of the store to find Andy.
“I told you this was going to happen,” Cara says, stepping around the counter to try to block Danielle.
“Not now,” Danielle says, pushing past her to the back room. She closes the door behind her, starting her search for her hockey playing employee. He’s hidden in the stock room somewhere, behind the many piles of boxes. She’s guessing the furthest point away from the door.
“Andy?” she asks, peering around a stack of boxes. He’s sitting on the floor, legs pulled to his chest, on a phone call and trying to breathe.
As soon as he sees Danielle, he hangs up the phone and takes a breath.
“Sorry,” he says, running a hand over his face.
“Don’t apologize,” Danielle says, sitting across from him on the floor. He shifts so he’s cross-legged and their knees brush .
“I needed a minute,” he says.
“If you need a minute, you need a minute,” she replies, “it’s not a big deal.”
“I had to call my therapist,” he says. “It’s been a while since I had to deal with something like that, and I have her on speed dial, just in case.”
She stays quiet.
“I panicked,” he continues, “and my grounding strategy wasn’t working. And I left Roscoe at JT’s today.”
He runs a frustrated hand over his face again and tugs at the roots of his hair, tilting his head back against the wall.
“I thought I was getting better,” he says, and his voice is so sad she nearly reaches for him. “Like therapy was fixing me.”
“You’re not in need of repair,” she says, tucking her knees under her. “What did he say to you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I’d have to start at the beginning,” he says, half a laugh escaping him as he closes his eyes. “I thought I’d have at least two more weeks before I have to spill everything, and it’s going to take a while.”
“I have time. ”
He pats the spot on the ground next to him, and she shifts, tracing a finger up his forearm gently. He’s corded muscle and soft edges and she never knew that a man could be both but it makes him infinitely more attractive to her.
And this side of him that she gets to see, she doesn’t think she’ll ever get over him trusting her enough to show it to her.
He twists the bracelet he wears on his left wrist around with his right hand. It feels like, in this moment, his entire soul is on display to her, and she thinks that this is rare. That he’s giving her something tender and precious that she needs to take care of, and keep safe.
She leans her head on his shoulder and his palm slides against hers, letting their fingers slot together as he takes a steadying breath. Then he talks, and once he starts she doesn’t want him to stop.
“Long story short,” he concludes, “I came here to escape what you just saw, and until today I was able to. So, when he came in and I bolted, it’s because it’s been a while since I’ve had a panic attack.
But I should have known that this was coming, since more people have been in town for the holiday. ”
“How long have you been having panic attacks, in general?” she asks, sliding a hand up his back softly. He looks so vulnerable right now, and he’s done as much to soothe her.
“Since my freshman year of college,” he says, closing his eyes at her touch. She slips her hand up the back of his neck, pressing her thumb and index finger into the base of it gently. He sighs.
“Why did you start, do you think?” she asks, rubbing her thumb in circles. She slides her fingers through the ends of his hair gently.
“I was a student athlete on a full scholarship,” he says with a laugh, “at Boston University. One of, if not the, best hockey program in the country outside of Minnesota. I was trying to get drafted by the time I turned nineteen, and I was away from home for the first time in my whole life. That pressure is hard to understand from the outside, but it’s even worse when you’re in it. ”
“Is Minnesota where you’re from?” she asks, realizing now that she’d only ever known him to be from North Carolina .
“Just a hockey player from Minnesota,” he says, nodding, “like Big Time Rush before they got their shot.”
“The pop-culture references you come up with,” she says, laughing.
“Listen, you can’t tell me that Halfway There isn’t a banger,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips.
“I can’t, and I definitely won’t, even though I’m ride or die for ‘Til I Forget About You,” she says with a grin. “You’re just so weird.”
“I’ll take weird,” he replies, “it’s better than what that guy was calling me earlier.”
He pulls a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face, and she drops her hand into her lap. He reaches over and takes it between his, circling the back of it with his thumb.
He’s clingy and needs physical touch when he gets upset, got it.
She scoots closer, her side pressed up against his, and he shifts so his arm is around her shoulders and pulls her to him .
“Everyone in the country is looking at you,” he says with a sigh, “and comparing you to other players. JT and I were pitted against each other a lot because of our similar playing styles and stats.
“It was too much,” he shakes his head, “plus with my dad there was always the pressure to be the best. He never made it to the professional level, so he was living through me. If I played poorly during a game, I didn’t even want to call home.
It was never yelling or anger, it was just the disappointment that I didn’t want to hear. ”
“I’m sure he was proud of you, no matter what,” Danielle says, furrowing her brow.
“I know he was, in his own way,” Andrew says, “but when you’re under that strain it’s hard to hear a disappointing recap every time you lose a game, especially when they had put so much into making sure I was able to play the sport I loved at a high level.
I felt like I owed it to them to be the best, so I guess that’s where it all kind of started. ”
“Why hockey?” she asks. He shrugs .
“I grew up around it, kind of like JT,” he replies, “my dad played for a rec team after blowing his knee out in college and ending his shot at being drafted, my uncles all played through college for Herb Brooks because it was in their blood and they didn’t want to give it up.
My mom’s dad coached after missing his shot at the Olympics in the 60’s.
It wasn’t really an expectation that I played, but I was skating before I could walk, I think. ”
She fiddles with one of the beads on his bracelet with her free hand, and he smiles.
“And when I started playing, I knew that it was what I was meant for,” he says, “I loved it so much. It’s loud and exciting, and your team becomes your family. It teaches you sportsmanship and how to conduct yourself on and off the ice.”
He pauses, and she looks up at him. His eyes are full of concentration, and there’s passion etched at the edges. He takes a breath and continues,