Chapter 25
ALEX
“Can I go with you to deliver all of the stuff in Rebel?” I ask Beckett.
I am staring down at one of the items we picked up in New Orleans.
We have a new stove in the back of his truck. Twenty pounds of potatoes. Miscellaneous items from a pharmacy. Two dozen beignets. A bunch of two-by-fours and some metal bracket thingies that I would never have been able to identify on my own. And a kitten.
I am holding the little orange fluff ball in both hands as it sleeps on our way back to Rebel.
He would honestly fit in only one of my hands, but I have both cupped around him because I’m afraid of dropping him.
Beckett looks over. “Sure. You really want to?”
“I’m fascinated by what you do.”
He laughs. “I pick shit up and drop it off. I’m really just filling a gap.”
“Well, I’ve never done anything like that.” I look over. “Or…anything.”
He grins. “Except be awesome at hockey.”
I shrug. “But, end of day, does that help anyone?”
“Come on. Sure. You make people happy. You give money away. You’re a role model.”
I think about that. There’s that happy thing again. “But you know the people in Rebel really well,” I say. “Picking stuff up for them like this that kind of gives you a glimpse into their life, right?”
“For sure.”
“Are they thrilled to have a big-shot hockey player show up at their house on a random Tuesday?” I ask, trying to imagine delivering a bag of acetaminophen, foot cream, and mascara to someone in Portland.
He laughs. “They’re thrilled to get the things they need without having to wait for the post office to bring it.” He looks at the kitten. “Or go without the things the post office won’t bring.”
“But having a hockey player as a delivery man is pretty wild.”
He shakes his head. “Not really.”
“None of these people follow hockey? None of them came to the scrimmage last night?”
“Oh, they were almost all there,” he says. “Except for Miss Betty. She likes baseball. And she tells me that all the time.”
I chuckle, but quiet quickly when the kitten stirs. “Did the others not enjoy it?” I’m surprised to feel a stab of disappointment.
“Oh no, they had a great time. They all came and told me afterward. But today I am Beckett, the guy who helps them out with deliveries and stuff.” He looks over.
“The hockey thing’s only part of it. It’s really interesting.
They like it. They’re supportive. But it’s only part of what I do and how they know me.
When I show up today, they’ll ask me about the roads, if I’ve caught up with Only Murders In the Building—I have not, by the way, and Cam will be disappointed—, if I have been taking my vitamin C, and if I want any leftovers from last night.
By the way, the answer to that is always yes when Kate asks, and no when Tom and Nancy ask. ”
I laugh as I think about all of that. This is all a very foreign concept to me. I wonder what it would feel like to have people interested in me beyond hockey. I suppose the way it does when people at the coffee shop want personal facts about me, but times ten, or fifty, or one hundred.
“By the way, if you want to keep helping me out with deliveries, I can use you. Either to come along with me like this for the big stuff, or I can send you out on your own. I have enough business and could expand.”
I look down at the kitten. I can think of a lot worse ways to spend my time. “I have been a little bored. I’m still trying to figure out a good routine. But yeah, I’ll think about that.”
It would easily be the best way to get to know the people in Rebel. But should I mention to Beckett that I’m only here temporarily? I don’t want him or the people in Rebel to get too dependent on me.
His phone buzzes in the holder he has attached to his dashboard. It’s a message from Sutton. He frowns, and pushes the button to have it read out loud.
“Dad’s calling for tickets. You guys are huge. Sam The Sportsman.”
Beckett and I look at one another.
“Sam The Sportsman?” he says. “The podcast? What does that mean? Do you think the podcast mentioned us?”
I pull my phone out and go to my podcast app. I start to scroll to find the latest podcast episode of Sam’s show. I listen to him a lot and have been a guest a couple of times.
“Does your dad come to a lot of games?” I ask. My parents haven’t been to one of my games in person in years. My grandfather used to come a lot before he died, though. I miss having him there.
“Uh. No.”
Something in Beckett’s tone makes me look over. “Are you and your dad close?”
“Not really. This is probably his way of reaching out.” He looks at me again. “We’re not like estranged. We talk and stuff. But there’s tension.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that. You’re from here, right? Is he still in Rebel?”
“Well, we grew up here. Sutton and I. We lived here till we were eighteen. We moved the summer after we graduated.”
“You mean, your whole family moved?”
“Yeah. To Minnesota?”
“Because you were going to college?”
“No.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and I notice how his grip tightens on the wheel.
“I mean, yes, Sutton and I went to college in Minnesota, but that’s not why our parents moved there.” He pauses. “Our mom ended up getting pregnant when we were fourteen.”
“Oh, wow.” That had to be…interesting.
“Yeah, it was, obviously, a total surprise. But it was cool. We were all really close, Sutton and I loved having a little sister. Everything was good.”
Trepidation trickles down my spine at the way he says ‘was’.
“None of them live here now, though?” I ask.
He clears his throat “No. Mara died.”
Shock tightens my chest. I look over. “Damn. I’m really sorry.”
He nods, staring at the road in front of us. “She got cancer. When she was four. Brain cancer. We all ended up moving up to Minnesota so that she could go through treatments at Mayo Clinic.”
Oh, fuck. That’s horrible. I can’t imagine one of my sisters being sick like that. Astrid’s injury and her surgeries and rehab were bad enough. But at least we all knew she’d survive and get better. I clear my throat. “And you started playing hockey up there?”
He nods. “Yeah. I’d played here growing up, but Louisiana isn’t a hockey state like Minnesota.
I wasn’t on anyone’s radar. I walked on at a small college.
Sutton had always danced and skated, too, and she was able to do both more intensely.
We both had a couple of decent years. But our entire family’s life revolved around Mara and her treatments.
She was doing well, so things felt good. ”
I stay quiet when he pauses, letting him tell the story his way.
“But then the cancer came back in our sophomore year. She was dying. Sutton and I both dropped out. I quit the team. I had to be there for my family.”
So that’s how his career got derailed.
Scrapping for a position on a small school’s team was hard enough, but he’d gotten attention. People noticed him. He had promise. But suddenly quitting took away all those opportunities.
“I’m really sorry, Beck,” I say.
He nods. “Me too. She was so little. It was so bad at the end. Our family just…broke up. Our mom lost her mind. Our parents divorced. Our mom had an affair with Mara’s oncologist. His marriage ended. They ended up getting married. And had two more kids.”
I stare at him. “Fuck, man.”
He nods. “Yeah. She wanted another baby within months of Mara’s death, and my dad couldn’t handle that.
He moved to Texas. Mom stayed in Minneapolis.
And Sutton and I just needed a break. I’d already fucked up my hockey career by dropping out of college, so we decided to come back home.
At least to a place that felt like home.
A place where we knew a lot of people, and I guess the place that had been happy and normal.
” He takes a deep breath. “The FPHL team was here and I tried out, made it, and it felt like kismet.”
We’re quiet for the last few miles.
I have never experienced anything like what Beckett and Sutton have been through. My injury felt catastrophic, and it certainly turned my life upside down, but…it’s nothing compared to what their family went through.
We pull up at the kitten’s new home first.
He’s going to be a surprise for a nine-year-old’s birthday. He’ll be all moved in by the time she and her sister get home from school.
I suddenly really want to see her reaction. That is going to be awesome.
I want to stop by in six months and see how much he’s grown. Fuck, I want to deliver kittens all over town.
And Beckett is exactly right. As we make the rest of the deliveries, not one person comments on the scrimmage or says anything about hockey at all.
They thank us for our help, tell us a little about what they needed their deliveries for—April and Mark, for instance, have a huge family reunion coming up, and are going to make some incredible potato salad—and put in orders for other things next week.
When we’re finished, I’m tired. Not physically, but mentally. Or emotionally? I don’t interact with people like this on any kind of regular basis.
But I feel good.
“Thanks for asking me to help out today,” I tell Beckett when he drops me off at Perks and Rec.
“You bet. Thank you.”
“I think I’m in,” I tell him. “For doing more of this.” I won’t make any long-term promises, and I’ll be honest with him about my plans to go back to Portland, but why not help out while I’m here?
Why not get to know people? The idea of staying to myself, hanging out alone, just killing time feels cold and…
impossible. How am I going to keep myself from getting involved with these people? They’re too hard to resist.
He grins. “Awesome. We can go over a plan tomorrow at breakfast.”
“Sounds good. See you at practice.”
“You got it.”
I head into the coffee shop, realizing I’m starving.
“Hey, Alex!”
“Hi, Alex!”
“Alex!”
I’m met by a chorus of greetings. I stop and really take it in. That happened last night, too. I was distracted by my frustrations about the scrimmage and about finding Nora, but now it comes back to me.
“Hey, everybody,” I say, with a smile, as I start for the counter.
My gaze lands on the mason jars next to the register.
I stop and stare.
Warmth spreads through my chest.
Was it the scrimmage that made the difference? Nora? Working with Beckett today?
Does it matter?
No.
The sign asks, “What do you like better?” and the options are: Warm chocolate chip cookies or Alex Olsen.
The Alex Olsen jar is overflowing with dollar bills.