7 - Haven
HAVEN
I left as early as I could.
Not because I had somewhere important to be, because I didn’t. I left because the house felt smaller in the mornings. Too cramped, too private, in a place where I knew for damn sure I wasn’t wanted.
Yet.
I reminded myself of that bit of optimism, as I grabbed my coat and keys. Steeling myself against the biting wind, I stepped outside before anyone else had stirred.
If I wasn’t fully awake yet, the air outside did the job. It was cold, clean, biting. Sharper than air had any right to be, unless it was trying to slice at your exposed neck and wrists, as you huddled deeper into your coat for protection.
I slipped into my car, grateful to be out of the wind, for a few seconds I enjoyed the silence. Hands on the steering wheel, I took a long, deep breath.
There were no voices, no noise, no laughter. No Sir-Cleans-a-Lot, trying to take out my ankles.
I allowed myself a smile, started the car, and headed into town.
The ride was quiet, and uneventful. By the time my car’s heater kicked in, making me at least semi-warm, I was already rolling through the small group of tiny shops and scattered restaurants that a place this far outside of Buffalo would consider ‘urban.’ I parked easily, pulled my coat tighter around me, and braced for another battle with the late-November weather.
Inside, the grocery store was pretty much what I expected.
It was small. Local. Unchanged for decades, with dust-caked rows of fluorescent lights humming along the full length of every aisle.
They were just bright enough to see, just dim enough to cast everything in the strange glow of a pale, yellowish light.
I grabbed a cart and headed down the first aisle. Almost immediately I noticed it; a subtle shift, a change in the environment around me. Conversations dipped lower as I passed people. An abnormal number of eyes shifted my way, only to dart away the moment I caught them looking.
I filled my cart with the staples. Milk. Eggs. Bread. A bunch of cereal, oatmeal, and two jars of peanut butter. I wanted some actual food in the kitchen. Things that were legitimately mine, and wouldn’t constitute a collection of dirty stares when I actually ate something.
Still daydreaming, I was turning into the next aisle when I bumped into him. He was tall and lanky, with broad-shoulders and big hands. I should’ve known by the physique alone.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
His face didn’t click into place until it was too late.
“Oh… hey.”
He was a Reaver, alright. Not one of the ones from the house, but close enough.
“Maxwell.”
He said it without warmth, but without hostility. Almost as an afterthought.
“Yeah,” I acknowledged. “And you’re Boone.”
“Tyler,” he corrected me. “Tyler Boone.”
“Right. Sorry.”
He was a bench player, as well as a veteran. A guy who’d missed his pro window, because his prime days were behind him. But he was still going hard. Playing the cards he still had.
We stood there in the aisle, our carts angled awkwardly between us. Neither of us knowing what to do or say.
“You sure picked a hell of a time to show up,” he said finally.
There wasn’t any edge to his voice. As far as he was concerned, he was stating fact.
“I’m getting that impression,” I told him.
His mouth curled a little at the edges. Maybe even letting on that he appreciated the honesty.
“Yeah,” said Tyler. “You should.”
“And why’s that?”
The hands gripping his cart went a little tighter. For the next few seconds he looked me over, as if trying to decide how much to say.
“Trees wasn’t just the coach,” he said.
Trees. The name landed immediately.
Coach Trees.
“Alright,” I answered.
“He was…” his voice trailed off, as he sought out the right words. “He just let us play. He trusted us. He didn’t try to micromanage every shift.”
For once, I didn’t interrupt. I just listened.
“He also didn’t try to turn us into something we weren’t,” Tyler went on. “And he fought for us, too. With management. Against ownership. He didn’t always win, but he didn’t roll over, either. And had our best interests at heart.”
He glanced down at his feet, and then up at me again.
“That worked for us.”
I wanted to tell him that it didn’t work for him, because they weren’t winning games. That comfort in playing, and in coaching, didn’t always lend to you giving your best effort.
But this early into my tenure wasn’t the time.
And the produce aisle, trapped between carrots and cabbage, definitely wasn’t the place.
“I can see why,” I replied simply.
“Then suddenly he’s gone,” Tyler continued. “Just like that. No warning. No explanation.”
He looked at me pointedly.
“And then I show up.”
He didn’t say anything, at first. He only held my gaze.
“The timing’s bad,” he eventually shrugged. “Don’t you think?”
“You think I had something to do with it?”
He pondered the question for a long moment.
“I think,” he said slowly, “the team doesn’t know what the hell happened.”
He lifted his hand from his own cart, just enough to point at me.
“And you’re the easiest answer.”
The words struck me like a blow. I’d already suspected, of course. But to hear it from a player’s mouth. To actually know why the others were treating me the way they were…
It was almost sort of a relief.
“Look, we’re not wrong about everything,” he said quietly. “We just… don’t play like a team when it matters.”
I nodded. “Working on that.”
Still looking down his nose at me, he almost nodded back.
“Figured.”
A new silence settled in, making things even more uncomfortable. I seized the opportunity, and slid my cart to one side for him.
“I should probably get out of your way,” I told him.
“Yeah.”
“Have a good—”
“Maxwell?”
He was already stepping away when he dropped my name. He also dropped his voice, almost to the point of a whisper.
“They’ll get over it,” he advised me, his eyes darting around for witnesses. “Eventually.”
With that he was gone, leaving me all alone with carrots and cauliflower. A merry little song played, and the automatic misters came on. They sprayed the produce until it glistened, and the string beans looked like they were crying.
I got a few more things I needed, then headed to checkout. The cashier rang me up without looking up, at first.
Then she did, and her expression shifted.
“Oh,” she said quietly. “You’re with the Reavers.”
She said the words while looking downward. Once again, it wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” I told her. “I am.”
She froze for a moment, then nodded as she continued scanning.
“Shame what happened to Coach Trees.”
There was no accusation. No edge. Just some quiet disappointment, with a side order of judgment.
“Yeah,” I told her, not knowing what to say. “It is a shame.”
I paid quickly and loaded the car. All of a sudden, I didn’t feel the cold anymore. I was too numb. Too blown away by the idea that I wouldn’t even be able to escape persecution by leaving the house. Not in a hockey town this small, this dedicated to their team.
If the Reavers were going to blame me for the firing of their last coach, so be it. It really wasn’t up to me to convince them otherwise.
But I’d be damned if I wasn’t going back to a house full of people who hated me without mac and cheese.