8 - Haven
HAVEN
I stayed out the whole day. That was one of the advantages to being a loner, much less one on a rare day off.
I walked the town for a bit. Got lunch. Saw a two-dollar movie.
I ended up drinking more coffee than I probably should have, all while procrastinating the analytical work that awaited me back in my icebox at the top of the house.
By the time I got back it was well after dark. The house was too quiet. I knew it the second I stepped inside. And this wasn’t the peaceful kind of quiet you longed for at the end of a hard day, either.
No, this was a strange, wrong quiet. The kind that creeped you out more than just a little.
“Hello?”
There was no answer as I slipped off my coat. For once there were no footsteps overhead. No low hum of constant movement, or distant voices. Looking back through the window, I saw that every car was gone. It was something I should’ve noticed when I pulled up, but somehow didn’t.
And I usually noticed everything.
Carrying my groceries, I moved into the kitchen. I searched for signs of life, for anything at all. I figured there should something, at least. Maybe even a note.
But there was no note. No message.
Nothing.
And somehow, that bothered me even more.
Arms folded, I leaned back against the counter and allowed myself to pout a little. Then I opened the fridge and cabinets, and set to work putting my groceries away.
It was slow going, but I somehow managed. The packed fridge was full of small opportunities where I could combine things to create new space. I made my own space, somehow. I organized a little corner I could call my own.
When I finally stepped back to admire my handiwork, I felt somewhat better. I had a foothold in the kitchen now. It was small, and narrow, and tucked into one questionably clean corner. But still, it was a place all my own.
Satisfied, I went about cooking the one thing I knew better than anything else: instant ramen.
I boiled some water, ripped open a flavor packet, and went about working my magic.
I added more spices, a sprinkle of chili oil, and a few leaves of baby spinach that curled instantly.
By the time I’d chopped some green onions and cracked a pair of eggs into it, the house was filled with the delicious aroma of cheap, but wonderful comfort food.
I sat down with a bowl, just as Sir-Cleans-a-Lot fired up his motor with a ferocious electronic whir. He swept back and forth across the kitchen a few times, before bumping into the leg of my chair.
He paused there, pressed lightly against the wood like he was studying it, or maybe daring it to move. Eventually he rotated into the chair directly across from me, bumped into that, and stopped again.
Extending my leg, I pushed the chair back an inch. The little robot rolled happily forward, slipping neatly through the gap I’d just created.
“You’re welcome,” I mumbled around a mouthful of noodles.
The front door opened, and I heard a single set of footsteps moving through the house. I turned in that direction, still paused with the next forkful of ramen halfway to my mouth.
Sebastian stepped into the kitchen, his cheeks still red with the cold. His eyes darted first to the Roomba, then to me.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
He nodded once, then moved to the fridge, rubbing his hands together the whole time.
“You didn’t go out with the others?” I asked.
He opened the door, pulled out a water bottle, and twisted the cap off.
“Got asked,” he said, tilting it back. “Late.”
Soo… afterthought.
I nodded, slowly.
“Where’d they go?”
“McCarthy’s,” he said. “Bar in town.”
“I saw it earlier this afternoon,” I nodded. “It was packed then.”
“It’s wall to wall people right now, I’m sure,” he agreed.
“Wouldn’t know,” I shrugged as I twirled my fork. “They didn’t invite me.”
It came out more bitter than I intended. Not that I cared.
“Yeah,” the goalie acknowledged. He paused for a moment. “They should’ve, though.”
The sentiment felt sincere. I was still processing it when Sebastian crossed to the stove, sniffing. He took one look into the still-steaming pot and nodded, appreciatively.
“You made that?” he pointed.
“Yeah.”
“It smells… good.”
I let out a short laugh. “As opposed to bad?”
“No, I mean—”
“Don’t worry,” I let him off the hook. “I’ll take it.”
He grabbed a bowl, hesitated, and looked at me.
“Mind?”
I gestured grandly at the stove.
“Help yourself.”
Sebastian loaded his bowl, grabbed a fork and a spoon, and sat down directly across from me. For a minute or two we ate in silence, enjoying our dinner. And for once, the silence wasn’t awkward.
“What’s this crunch?” he asked.
“Crushed peanuts.”
“Nice.”
We ate some more, and I began to enjoy the quiet that stretched between us. The two of us were here alone because we were both new to the team. Not exactly on the same footing, but close enough to feel kinship.
“You were asking about the goalie,” he said eventually.
I looked up. “I was?”
“Upstairs. Yesterday.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I wasn’t about to stop him. I went back to eating.
“His name was Carter Sutherland,” he went on. “Been here a few years. Didn’t make a lot of noise, but you didn’t worry when he was in net.”
“That good?”
“Good enough,” Sebastian slurped his soup. “He was solid. Not flashy. Just… consistent.”
This was all good info. I filed it away.
“Then what happened?”
He shrugged slightly.
“That’s the thing,” he said. “No one really knows.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“No one?”
“Not officially,” he explained. “One day he’s here, next day he’s traded. That’s when I came in.”
“And the guys didn’t question it?”
“They did,” he said. “Didn’t get answers. There was no clear explanation. I think everyone was in shock.”
“Coach Trees, too?”
“Him especially,” Sebastian nodded.
I set my fork down for a minute, and settled back in my chair. My dinner guest kept eating ravenously, however.
“Don’t you think that’s weird?” I asked.
He met my gaze.
“Everything about this team is weird.”
I nodded, slowly. It wasn’t something I could argue.
“Anyway, the team struggled even more after that,” Sebastian went on. “There was a lot of tension. A couple of rough weeks went by, and Coach Trees was let go.”
“Why?”
“Performance inconsistency,” he said, repeating the words with the same tone they were obviously given to him. “Something else about ‘organizational direction’. The usual bullshit.”
I nodded, like I understood. I didn’t.
“That’s when coach Mercer was brought in,” he said. “Good guy. Tough. Likable enough. But… he’s no Trees.”
He hesitated for a moment.
“And that’s when we also got… well…”
“Me.”
Sebastian shrugged again, and went back to eating his soup. I watched him for a second, then dropped my gaze to my own bowl.
So that was it. Not the whole story, not even close. But enough to understand the shape of it. Enough to see where I fit… or didn’t.
Sutherland gone. Trees gone. Mercer brought in.
And me — right behind it.
I let out a slow breath, twirling what was left of my noodles instead of eating them. Tyler said it earlier, like it was the simplest explanation in the world:
The timing sucked.
They didn’t trust me because they didn’t know. And it was easier not to.
I pushed my chair back and stood, gathering my bowl and heading for the sink. The water ran hot and steady as I rinsed it all off.
For now, at least, they could keep their assumptions. I’d keep the results. Results had always been good to me. They were the one thing no one could argue with.
Down on the floor, Sir Cleans-a-Lot had trapped himself between two chairs. He was rotating left and right, slapping them with his little cardboard sword as if he might defeat them. His struggle was futile, though. He wouldn’t escape until someone cleared a path for him, and let him do his thing.
“You and me both,” I murmured, turning the sink off.
“What’s that?”
Behind me, Sebastian was finishing up. I shook my head at him.
“Nothing. Have a good night.”
With that, I headed for the stairs. I had data to crunch. Spreadsheets to compile. Conclusions to draw, based upon mountains of sculptable data.
And up in my room, the cold awaited.