Chapter 5 The Question Game
The Question Game
“Can I sit in your lap next, Cap?” Sánchez snickered. A bunch of the guys were standing next to the abomination to take pictures with it. A life-size picture of Taylor sitting in Pancek’s lap was about to overshadow his first career hat trick.
The team was never going to let him live it down. Douglas catcalled Pancek as he walked over to the picture and laughed. “I’m going to kill my wife.”
For as long as they were together, Gretchen had insisted upon sending out a Christmas card to everyone and anyone. Everyone on the team and in management got one. Taylor didn’t know she would include the Santa photo.
He had been living with the Panceks since the end of June.
After originally saying no to Pancek’s offer, he and his wife invited Taylor over for dinner again leaving him under the impression that it was another team bonding thing.
But then he got there and was instantly greeted by Pancek’s two young kids.
Marina was thirteen and the spitting image of her father.
They had the same brown hair and blue eyes.
Marina also had his nose. Caleb was six and favored his mother.
He and Gretchen both had messy ginger hair and green eyes.
Marina did have her mother’s freckles, though.
Gretchen turned the corner and beamed up at him.
“Taylor, sweetie, come on in.” She reached up to hug him and kiss him on his cheek, which was kind of awkward considering she was like five feet tall, and Taylor was a whole foot and a half taller.
Pancek was kind of a short guy too. His official record had him at five foot eleven, which was short compared to Taylor and some of the other guys on the team.
But the guy was an absolute unit. Strong, swift, and agile. Like a pitbull.
“Am I the first one here?” Taylor had asked.
“No, sorry. We kind of lied to get you here. The kids kept asking when you would be back and my husband has a hard time saying no to them.”
Taylor had to hand it to her; the woman was pretty freaking smart. Gretchen worked as a plastic surgeon at Seattle General. Apparently, she’d even operated on a few of the guys on the team after getting face injuries.
She was the one who finally convinced him to move in. Taylor packed his bags and moved in the next day.
“What did you ask Santa to bring you?” Fletcher Armstrong asked. Taylor narrowed his eyes at him and answered with a grunt.
Fletcher Armstrong was the last person he’d expect to be traded onto the team.
His family were die-hard Manatees fans because his dad and grandfather were both team captains when they were in the NHL.
Fletcher had come from a long line of NHL players, spanning multiple generations.
The Armstrongs were one of the most notable names, even to people who weren’t huge hockey fans.
Three weeks ago, when the kid showed up for practice, Taylor knew he was in for a rough time.
And then he stepped out onto the ice and immediately won over the hearts of the entire team and management.
Taylor was the only exception. They had crossed paths a few times growing up.
Somehow, they were almost always paired exclusively with one another for interviews during conference championships.
The golden boy and the up-and-coming hockey star.
Taylor didn’t mind at first. The kid was easy to get along with and just had a way with people that Taylor would never fully understand.
They were both a product of their upbringing and it showed both on the ice and off.
Taylor had always spoken his mind. He valued candidness, and he was always very candid about how some players were harder workers than others.
He was always really witty in his interviews and made for an entertaining interviewee.
Fletcher, on the other hand, had always sounded superficial in his interviews.
In the dozens of interviews Taylor had seen, he observed the way the kid would always pause before answering a question.
His tell was a slight nod before flashing a charming smile.
Fletcher was admittedly very charming and charismatic.
But his whole persona was a facade that had been carefully curated to align with the rest of the Armstrong family. They were practically NHL royalty.
It seemed like Taylor was the only person who could see him for who he really was—a daddy’s boy who had been handed a golden hockey stick and a free ride to the NHL.
He had fully made up his mind about Fletcher during a hockey camp where he had cried his way into being made a team captain.
It was the first one Taylor had gotten to go to.
Most of his inheritance from his dad had been spent on hockey.
Flights to nationals, better gear, nicer skates.
Four years after his dad died, he had been invited to go to a hockey camp in San Jose that had been run by all the southern NHL teams. Taylor was a freshman and had somehow managed to earn himself a spot on the top team in his club league.
He went with a few of his teammates. For each age group, the player who showed the most potential by the end of the camp would receive a $5,000 scholarship.
Taylor needed that money. He figured the easiest way to turn heads would be to earn himself a nice C on his uniform.
One of his coaches had pulled him aside and told him he was going to be the team captain.
Taylor was ecstatic. He woke up the next morning expecting to see a fresh C on his jersey, but when he made his way into the locker room, he had seen a number 22 jersey with the C instead.
Taylor’s had an A. His coach apologized and told him it was a miscommunication with the other coaches.
Taylor didn’t let it bother him too much.
He still had a chance to blow them away on the ice without it.
He and Fletcher played really well together.
Fletcher was a center like his father and grandfather, while Taylor had fully embraced his unofficial enforcer defensive title.
Just as he was starting to tolerate the kid, Taylor had stepped off the ice and overheard a conversation the coaches were having.
It turns out Sean Armstrong caught wind of Taylor being made captain and had convinced them Fletcher was a better choice.
Taylor assumed Fletcher had complained to his dad about it.
Taylor had never really considered Fletcher to be a serious rival. Not like it was with Sánchez and their teams. But because they had played so well together on the ice, he and Fletcher had kind of been thrust into this weird pairing each time they’d cross paths.
And then Fletcher got traded to the Seaporters.
It was the biggest news the NHL had in years.
Seattle had poached an Armstrong. He knew it was a huge investment.
Pancek had told him beforehand that management had wanted him on the team.
They set up this huge, elaborate multi-team trade that made it almost impossible for the Manatees to turn it down.
Valuable players were shifted around like pieces to a game just so they could have Fletcher Armstrong in Seattle.
After their first practice together, Fletcher had tried asking Taylor a bunch of random questions. He wanted to know why Taylor chose to play hockey. What was the highest number of goals he’d score in a single game? Where was his favorite place to eat?
“Why do you even want to know, Armstrong?” He had asked, exasperatedly.
“I’m just doing my homework. I try to keep tabs on all the best players in the league.” Taylor got a little kick out of being considered one of the best players in the league. Especially coming from an Armstrong.
“Why does it matter? We’re on the same team now, Einstein.”
* * *
Fletcher kept bombarding him with questions after every practice for the next three weeks.
He would start by throwing out some easy questions to ease him into it before throwing Taylor a curve ball.
What kind of music did he listen to before games?
Was he much of a health nut or did he just have good genetics? What did his parents do for work?
“I meditate before games. I try to eat healthy, but I get the occasional sweet tooth.”
“And your parents?” He’d asked. Taylor had tried to evade the question.
“My grandad was in the Air Force. My mom works in a cafeteria.” Not a lie, by the way. The last time he spoke to his mom was last Christmas. She told him and his siblings that she had gotten a job in the kitchen.
“Oh,” Fletcher said. “And your dad…?”
“He’s dead. Car accident. Drunk driver. I was ten.
” Taylor didn’t know why he was even answering his never ending list of questions.
There was just something he liked about Fletcher.
He was easy to talk to, and he asked so many questions that Taylor assumed he would forget the answers to most of them.
Fletcher had followed him back out to the athletic parking lot but paused abruptly when Taylor had taken a seat at the bench outside. “You don’t have a car?” he asked. Taylor laughed.
“I do, but it’s in the shop right now being serviced. Pancek gave me a ride to practice this morning.”
“How are you getting back?” Fletcher sat down and joined Taylor on the bench.
“I don’t need you to wait with me,” he bit out. It came out a lot colder than he had intended. Fletcher had gotten used to his moodiness by now, so it didn’t faze him.
“You’ve gotta answer the question, man.” It had become some sort of a game to them.
Fletcher would ask and Taylor would answer.
That was pretty much the extent of their communication with one another.
Sometimes Taylor would purposefully answer a question vaguely, so Fletcher was forced to ask a follow-up.
Sometimes Fletcher would ask him a question that he knew would piss Taylor off, just to get a reaction out of him.
Taylor shrugged. “Pancek’s wife was supposed to pick me up since he’s staying late to meet with management.
I forgot the kids had dentist appointments at 11:30.
Hence the waiting. I live with them, by the way.
If you didn’t already know.” Most of his teammates knew Taylor was living with them by now.
Fletcher was late to join the party, so he was unsure whether he knew.
“I see.” He and Fletcher sat on the bench together in comfortable silence for a few minutes.
It had been a clear sunny day, which was hard to come by living in the Pacific Northwest. He watched Fletcher out of the corner of his eye, but he eventually looked over to him when he heard Fletcher shiver.
“You don’t have to wait with me,” he told him again, starting to feel bad.
“This must be like living in Alaska or something compared to Florida.” It must’ve been like forty degrees out.
Great weather for someone who’s from the West Coast. But for a lifelong Floridian?
Without even thinking, Taylor reached down into his duffel and handed Fletcher a spare hoodie hoping it was a clean one.
“Thanks.” Fletcher pulled it on over his head.
They were about the same size, or maybe Fletcher was a size smaller.
Taylor was a little taller than him, but he had a lot more muscle mass.
“I don’t mind the cold,” he told him. “It’s nice.
I hate Florida winters because it rarely gets colder than fifty degrees.
” Fletcher rubbed his hands together, creating friction to warm them.
He claimed to like the cold but he definitely couldn’t handle it yet. That took time.
“So you like it here, then?”
Fletcher looked at him and nodded. “Anywhere that’s not near my dad is a good place to live.” He said it sarcastically, but Taylor knew it was kind of a loaded answer.
“What was it like having a parent in the NHL?” Taylor asked, curious.
Fletcher shrugged. “I mean it was fine, I guess. Hey, wait… Do you want me to give you a ride?”
Taylor chuckled. “Seriously?” They were hitting new territory. They had never spoken outside of practice before. Sometimes during games, but not usually. This was probably the first real conversation they’d had. Like, ever.
“Seriously, man. Grab your bag.” Fletcher bent down to pick up his own bag and reached into his pocket to retrieve his fob. Taylor picked up his own bag while typing out a text to send to Gretchen that he wouldn’t need a ride anymore.
He followed Fletcher to his car. A silver Chevy SUV. “You drive a mom car?”
Fletcher pressed the button on his fob to open the trunk. It popped open and Fletcher threw his bag in the back. He reached out for Taylor’s bag and carefully set it down on top of his.
“It’s a rental, you fucker. I haven’t had a chance to find a car yet. Too busy playing hockey.”
They got into the car and pulled out of the parking lot. Taylor reached over and turned the heat up to its hottest setting. “I could’ve done that,” Fletcher muttered to him. He handed Taylor his phone to punch in the address.
He felt kind of bad. Pancek lived about twenty minutes from the stadium so the kids would end up in a better school zone. He knew from Douglas that Fletcher lived in the apartment building nearby with a bunch of other teammates. Douglas was his across the hall neighbor.
“So, you hate your dad, then?” Taylor asked after a moment of silence, knowing the question was ridiculous. He just wanted to see how Fletcher would react.
The car automatically played music from Fletcher’s playlist. Brain Damage by Pink Floyd started playing, which was one of Taylor’s favorite songs.
He considered turning it up a little, but he secretly didn’t want their game of question and answer to end.
They had broken the unspoken rule of Fletcher being the question asker, Taylor realized.
His question made Fletcher smile wide. A real smile, not his fake golden boy one. “I mean I don’t hate him,” he said with a scoff. “But even I can admit the man is kind of an asshole.”
Taylor leaned his head back against the headrest and shook his head incredulously. “Kind of an asshole?” Taylor snorted. “Dude, I think you need to take away his social media privileges. Have you seen the kind of shit he posts about other players? About Pancek?”
They continued dogging on his dad until Fletcher stopped at a red light and decided he was hungry. “We’re stopping to eat,” he announced. “And according to everything you have told me in the past two weeks, you have a weak spot for Mediterranean food. Right?”
“You know, I’m starting to think you’re gathering intel on me to write a hit piece. That, or you’re just obsessed with me. Most girls are, you know. They might even have a fan club you could join.”
“Guess we’ll never know,” was all he said with a smirk.