Chapter 3
HUDSON
This isn’t one of those instances when one of my teammates or buddies plays a practical joke on me, nor do I expect the ceramic hockey garden gnome to talk back after I asked it what it’s doing here.
However, this is a flash from the past with a lot of memories and miles. Fortunately, none of which had me back in Nebraska except during occasional away games.
Until now.
I thought I’d left small-town life behind. Locals call this tiny oasis in the middle of a Nebraska cornfield Hockey Town. I call it Been There, Done That. I would’ve been happier had the Nebraska Knights remained in Omaha. At least I can get a good steak there.
Cobbiton boasts a bakery, a bookstore, and every quaint little shop in between. I’m not about that, having spent the last five years living in Boston, Miami, and Houston. I prefer life where the action is.
However, despite my bravado, I shouldn’t be surprised that I was traded again. Numbers don’t lie and mine aren’t too shiny these days.
Why one of the top teams picked me, I’ll never know. They must pay their other players a boatload and got me for a bargain.
Cobbiton’s claim to fame now is the Ice Palace Arena, an athletic complex that should be a hockey player’s dream.
Not mine.
I did everything I could to get out of here and forget about the past. Not that it was overly awful. Just boring. There was nothing for me here then. Nothing for me here now other than regrouping, improving, and getting back in the game full steam.
With the last plastic tub unpacked from Houston, a sad pair of tattered cardboard boxes sits in the garage of my new house.
My agent must’ve had them brought over. Little do they know that if that gnome could talk, it would tell wild stories that would probably get me kicked out of the league, never mind a bank lender questioning why I’m suitable for home ownership. It was a steep climb, yet here I am.
I’ll never forget when I signed for the purchase of my first house. Technically, it was a condo, but it was all mine. A little oasis where doors didn’t slam, people didn’t argue, and there was peace and quiet all of the time.
Well, until Hunter came to stay with me.
Some pro hockey players burn through their money and others invest wisely. I’m in the second category and collect real estate like I used to accumulate trophies. I’m guessing there are a few in these boxes.
I should just toss them directly into the garbage, along with the tumult my mother introduced to my early years.
I rarely think about it anymore, but being back in Cobbiton makes me feel like I’m wearing an itchy sweater.
In case any of my brother’s belongings are in there, I take a deep breath and set aside the gnome.
“I’ll deal with you later.”
And who, I suspect, dropped him off.
I tear into the first box, finding a few old books, drawings, and papers from grade school, an inexplicable plastic bag filled with corks, and my first pair of ice skates. On the very bottom, I pull out my high school yearbook.
I thought my mother paid three hundred bucks a month for a storage unit to hold this trash from the past, which I never understood.
Then again, she can afford that now. Me too, I suppose.
However, I’ll never not look at the menu price of a meal before I order.
Yes, even steak. Old habits and all that.
But maybe I was wrong. Could Leah Smith have held onto these boxes?
The yearbook cover is still glossy and embossed with Clarkson and our graduating year. When I part the pages, I see the expected comments like, Love ya lots, Never change, So glad we became friends, Good luck, and other empty remarks.
I flip to the back. On the last page for signatures, I find the note from my secret adversary. To this day, I’ve never figured out who it is. It’s like the opposite of a secret admirer, wishing me nothing except for ill will and poor tidings.
This note—what’s become the first of many, but interestingly, is the only time they’ve ever used paper and not email—reads:
Dear Hudson,
Can you believe we’ve reached the end of a terrible four years?
I hope the next four are as awful for you as you’ve made mine.
You can count yourself lucky if every morning you wake up in a soggy, wet mess to the scent of sour milk and with the sun blazing blindingly into your eyes while you question your life’s choices.
This journey has taught me so much. Not to trust people and definitely avoid libraries of all kinds.
The same goes for gymnasiums, locker rooms, labs, the cafeteria, and basically the entire school.
Friendly smiles are for suckers. Lollipops are for lunatics.
And I was crazy for ever considering you a decent human.
I should’ve known better. But thanks for the lessons. For showing me what it is to have a twisted sense of humor. Now I know what to watch out for. You made this period of my life truly unforgettable and regrettable.
I can’t wait to see what the future has in store for you and I hope it’s all as miserable as a wet cat in a bathtub.
Sincerely,
Your Secret Adversary
P.S. And if you must know, yes, this is a hate note and not a love note. I’m not your admirer. Not even a little bit.
I discovered it after graduation on the night before I took flight to sunnier pastures. Can’t say it bothered me much then, but something about the hostility makes my skin feel slippery.
I eye the gnome. “You know who this is from, don’t you?”
Yeah, let’s not mention that I’m talking to a twelve-inch lawn ornament. If anyone asks, I’m coping just fine with being back in Cobbiton. It’s not like the way we struggled when I was a kid has any bearing on my life now.
Sitting down on the stairs, with my thumb, I fan the pages of the yearbook and land on the page with R last names. Next to the color photo of me wearing my patent half-smile, my twin brother wears the other half.
Through some act of yearbook committee bribery, in the photo with Hunter is his so-called best friend, Leah—it reminds me of a photo booth pic with the two of them smooshed together.
I roll my eyes. I say so-called because the way he treated her and talked behind her back made me wonder why she stuck around, but also explained why Hunter was mostly a loner except for the guys in his band.
My finger slips to the page with the S last names and I find Leah Smith with her dark hair hanging around her face and with eyes like a cat.
“Did she break into my house earlier?” I give Howie the side eye.
The yearbook clatters onto the stairs as I startle at a knock on the door.
First, the gnome, and now an unwelcome visitor.
That’s why I like city life. Everyone left me alone.
Not that I’m a lone wolf. Not by a long stretch.
However, I’m the master of my domain. My house is where I don’t have to be “on.” When I’m out, I flip the switch and activate the charm and persona people associate with “Rebound Robo.” The name has nothing to do with my dating life, but rather my role as goalie—or at least, it used to.
From the door, someone calls, “Special delivery.”
Hopefully, this isn’t the same kind that came for one of the Knights’ defensemen last season in the form of a baby on his stoop—if the rumors are true. One garden gnome is enough, thank you very much.
Laughter peels from outside. This has to be the guys.
Before I get up, the door flies open, and a brigade of hockey players in casual dress parade inside.
The first one carries a stack of pizza boxes.
The next has an assortment of cold beverages.
The third has a candle with a Candlegram logo and is labeled “Locker Room Scented.” He shoves it in my hands.
“Congrats on the new place,” says a guy with a mustache—James Reddford.
“Uh, thanks?” I reply.
“Just so you know, this wasn’t my idea. That would be Beau—the other goalie.”
Someone mutters, “The last guy got a dog of the day in a pooping pose tear-off calendar.”
I wrinkle my nose. Should I consider myself lucky?
Mikey Cruz wipes his feet and looks me up and down while twisting a permanent marker in his fingers. “Hudson Robo …” He gives up on pronouncing my last name. Maybe that’s what the marker is for. “The last time we were in the same room, I was scoring on you against the Rangers.”
I recognize the guys from games when we were on opposing teams.
“What’s with people just coming into my house?” I murmur, feeling very much like Bilbo from The Hobbit when the dwarves intrude for dinner.
Hayden Savage, left winger, says, “You should lock your doors.”
“No one does in Cobbiton.” Redd shrugs. He’s Hayden’s counterpart, playing right forward.
“Locks only keep honest people out.” Beaumont Hammer, the other goalie, grunts.
“Or future wives,” Hayden says, elbowing Jack Bouchelle, the Knights’ newest center. Like me, he was recently traded—he came from the Carolina Storm rather than Texas.
Jack smirks. “It was a surprise to find Goldilocks in my hotel room bed when I got in from my flight. But it worked out rather nicely.”
I grumble, not at all pleased about the burglar this morning. Though, to be fair, if it was Leah, it was more of a returning than a thieving operation. Well, sort of. Rightfully, Howie isn’t mine.
Sounds like Jack has a story there, but why are they here? I’ve played for three other teams and never has anyone shown up unannounced and barged into my home.
Redd claps his hand on my shoulder. “You ready for this?”
Just then, rowdy shouting comes from the foyer as numerous other guys appear, looking around, evaluating my space, and touching my stuff.
Hayden has already made himself at home in the kitchen and calls, “Dinner is served, kids.”
Grady Federer, on defense, says, “I got the wings.”
“Tell me you brought the sauce.” Mikey pounces on the takeout bag.
Liam Ellis, a legend and also on D, holds a massive Tupperware container. In a monotone, he says, “Jessica made cake and told me to tell you, and I quote, ‘Welcome to Cobbiton and the Knights. We’re thrilled to have you on the team and can’t wait for game night!’”
My brow furrows.
“She wants to know if you prefer The Settlers of Catan or El Dorado.” He shrugs. “She got really into hospitality. Fluffing the nest or whatever with board game night.”
Is that what this is?
While the Nebraska Knights make themselves comfortable and dish up—they also brought chili cornbread salad, an antipasto platter, lil smokies, seven-layer dip, Greek meatballs, and more—I stand in their midst slack-jawed.
I only know this because Pierre Arsenault claps me on the shoulder so hard my teeth rattle.
Vohn Brandt, the Knights’s assistant coach, known in the hockey world as being a dismal storm cloud, says, “You get used to it.”
“You do?” Liam asks, apparently another grump.
To be clear, I don’t fall into that category. Neither am I Mr. Sunshine. It’s just that I’m not a revolving door kind of guy. My house is my retreat to recharge. When I’m not here, I crank up the energy. Otherwise, I want my oasis to myself.
“At least we beat Mrs. Simmons to the punch,” Mikey says, giving the air an uppercut.
“She’d totally crush a cage fight,” Pierre says.
“Do you mean Marsha Simmons?” I ask, vaguely remembering the older woman inviting my brother and me over for Thanksgiving when Mom extended her stay in Vegas for a week, leaving us alone for the holiday.
Redd says, “What are you dopes talking about? Mrs. Simmons makes the best casseroles.”
“No, my ma does,” Mikey retorts around a bite of pizza.
Liam argues with him, contending that his mother is the queen of casseroles.
In reality, Mrs. Smith might take the cake. I was never able to spend holidays at their house, though I did get the leftovers Hunter would neglect in the fridge. I keep that to myself because there’s no sense in dredging up ancient history.
Pierre smirks. “Welcome to Hockey Town.”
There should be one of those little grammar proofreading carets in there with the word back.
Welcome back to Hockey Town, but this isn’t the same place I left.
At least, not that I remember. Then again, I wasn’t on the Knights.
Until a couple of years ago, they were based in Omaha.
I’d pinch the keys to the car my brother and I shared in order to sneak into games on charm or the hope that the rundown arena’s mechanical room exterior door didn’t always close entirely.
While the guys gather and talk like this is a regular Tuesday, an aluminum can is shoved into my hand. I take a sip of Dr. Pepper.
Jack winks at me.
How’d he know it’s my favorite? Was. I haven’t had one of these in a while. These days, I stick to naturally flavored electrolyte-boosted water.
From the hallway, someone wolf whistles. Worried that they invited a troupe of female dancers to this unplanned and unwanted shindig, I glance up at the same time Grady calls, “Heads up.”
Reminding me of the bungle with the burglar earlier, Howie, the hockey gnome, sails through the air. Mikey lunges, deftly catching it like a football.
My eyes must be wide in question, concern, consternation, or all of the above. I want my house back and for a certain NHL team coach not to walk in right now.
Mikey taps my elbow with his, holding the gnome aloft like the Heisman trophy. I’m more of a Stanley Cup guy, myself.
He says, “I was a varsity catcher before I found my way to the ice.”
I nod. Not that it goes far to explain why everyone is here.
Even more confusing is why Micah, a retired center, moves like a magician, making the gnome disappear as the door opens, and in walks head coach Tommy Badaszek.