Page 5

CHAPTER 5

DIXON

T he call ends, and I toss my phone onto the passenger seat, watching it bounce like it’s got some nerve. I slam my body against the back of the driver’s seat, feeling a surge of frustration mixed with a hint of anxiety as it releases into my body. This has to be the longest day I’ve had to trudge through in awhile.

I’m already not a fan of Mondays, but today’s Monday takes the cake for all the Mondays in the history of crappy Mondays. Ever.

I could sit here, in the driveway of my home, and shake my head back and forth all day, or cover my ears and chant, “nah, nah, nah I can’t hear you” but it won’t work. It won’t change anything. Ben’s voice echoes in my head.

We need to sub Elle in as your temporary coach.

I didn’t think I’d heard him correctly the first time. I’d asked him to repeat himself and when he said that name again, I could feel my blood pressure spike. I even tried to argue the point.

“Mitch said there’s another coach who’s filling in for him. Can’t he come early?”

“Sorry, Dixon, we asked and he’s not free for four more weeks.” I can hear the disappointment in Ben’s voice. He sounds like I feel.

It can’t be a coincidence that I was actually worried that this could be a possibility, could it? The moment I saw Mitch hauling butt off the ice to answer that phone call, I had an inkling this is how things would pan out. It’s like I’m a fortune teller, only there’s no fortune.

Even sitting here now, my chest tightens, and not in the way I usually feel before a big play. This is worse. Like a fist gripping my ribs and squeezing over and over, as if daring me to beg for mercy. The air in the car feels thick, and my hand tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles white, my jaw clenched because of all the people in the world, it had to be her.

It’s like she’s a hurricane: Hurricane Elle blowing in mixed with a surprise tornado and a dash of turbulent waters. She’s blown into my life once before and whether she’ll admit it or not, she left chaos behind. I don’t need to look at my reflection in the rearview mirror to know my expression will be laced with disbelief folded in with irritation. The heat that’s risen to my cheeks and flames my anxiety around this whole situation tells me that much.

The windshield wipers move in sync; they beat back the drizzle, giving me a clear view of the empty street ahead, but my thoughts are anything but clear. No, they are foggy at best. Why her? Out of all the coaches I could work with, why the one person who knows how to get under my skin faster than anyone else?

Of course Ben’s reasoning makes sense, at least on paper it does. Elle’s already working with defense, she’s got the credentials, the strategy, the mind for the game. She’s everything I need to make this work for the time being. A proverbial Band-Aid for an unexpected situation.

But she’s also Elle. And that’s the part that’s going to make this a nightmare.

I shift in the seat, adjusting the rearview mirror out of habit more than necessity, and let out a sharp breath. I’ve worked too hard to let my personal life or my past screw this up. But for the love of hockey and ultimate coincidences why?

Elle will be your temporary coach. The words repeat in my head like a bad song on a loop. It’s like being Rick-rolled. I mean, gotta tip your hat to Rick Astley for letting us know he’s never gonna give us up, but that song. What an earworm. Amiright?

I open the door and jump out, the warm light shining through the living room windows of my home beckons. Am I ever ready to put this day behind me. Gravel crunches under my feet as I make my way to the front door and let myself in.

My house is nothing fancy, but it’s comfortable. When I made the move from being a “renting roommate” who lived with Ollie, to becoming an “adulting homeowner” last year, I got lucky when I found this place. It’s a low-slung ranch with a wraparound porch, tucked far enough out of town to feel private, which I like. It’s the kind of place where you can hear the crickets at night and watch the sunrise with a cup of coffee, in your underwear if you really want to, and I do. A lot. Inside, there was nothing that needed to be updated. It’s all wood tones with the scent of cedar and a lingering aroma of whatever Nan’s cooked, or had delivered, last usually hanging in the air.

As I strip my coat off at the door, the scent of cinnamon and sugar hits my senses. “Are you baking?”

“I had a craving for some muffins,” Nan calls out from the kitchen.

I make my way down the hallway and walk into the kitchen, which was clean when I left this morning. Nan stands at the counter, her silver hair twisted into a knot on top of her head. She’s wearing a kaftan tucked into a pair of leggings and has slung one of my old belts on her hips. When I look closer, I realize she’s also tucked a delicate crown around her tresses, somehow threading it through her hair so it will stay in place, tiny faux diamonds peeking out like summer fireflies.

But the kitchen. Somehow this woman has managed to drop a bomb or three in here. I can’t even see a countertop. There’s baking pans, sugar, and discarded spoons used for mixing, a total menagerie of baking utensils scattered all over. However, Nan, all five feet three of her, is oblivious. She turns and grins my way as she holds out a tray of the most delicious and sugary muffins I’ve ever seen.

“Here.” She grabs one from the middle of the tray and tosses it my way. “Try one.”

I have not been and never will be one who needs to be talked into enjoying one of Nan’s treats. I shove a bite in my mouth and my taste buds immediately react with what could be described as thunderous applause, if taste buds had hands. “These are good!”

“I’ve used that recipe since I was a teenager,” she says, clapping her hands together. “Still holds up. You know, Anita said I shouldn’t be cooking anymore, much less be anywhere near a kitchen.” Nan rolls her eyes as she pops a piece of muffin in her mouth. “She’s wrong. Dead wrong.”

When Nan says her name, I’m suddenly aware that Anita’s nowhere to be found. “Where is Anita?”

“She had to leave for her overnight client,” Nan says matter of factly.

“But she knows not to leave you here, alone, unless I’m on my way home.” Narrowing my eyes, I draw the words out slowly and deliberately, already knowing what’s transpired here. I know my Nan, and she’s tricky. “And I know I did not touch base with her since we spoke this morning.”

“Weeeellllll, she thought you were on your way,” Nan says, her eyes not meeting mine.

I swallow a silent scream. “Is that because you made her think I was?”

“I may have told her you were on your way home, when you, in fact, were not,” Nan admits with a chortle. I can tell she’s proud of herself when she thrust her chin in the air.

“Wow,” I say as I run my hand through my hair. “You’ve been busy today. You’ve had the cops here not once, but twice, managed to force your carer into giving her notice, and now you’re telling little lies to get your way?” I shake my head, both surprised and kind of in awe of my grandmother.

“It’s good to keep the old noggin active,” Nan says, tapping her forehead.

Thinking about what Anita had relayed about Nan earlier today, I double-check to make sure the oven is off and also check the stovetop as well, just to be safe. When I look back at Nan, her eyes are mere slits as she watches.

“Are you making sure I’m not going cuckoo, too? There’s already one person hanging around here who doesn’t trust me. Et tu, Brute?”

Sighing, I take another muffin from the tray, relying on sustenance to keep me sane. “I’m making sure that our resident half-naked showwoman isn’t leaving anything on, by accident, for a fire to start.”

“I’d prefer the term ‘neighborhood entertainer’ since I did make the guy who lives across the street laugh today.” Nan sets the tray on the counter and plops herself down at the kitchen table. She looks at me with faux amazement as she dabs at her brow with a tissue. “It’s exhausting being me.”

I bite my lips to keep from cracking up. “Was it exhausting when you put on your bathing suit for your solo performance in the front yard?”

“I was bored,” she says with a shrug. “And, anyway, that was the matinee, Dixon. Tonight’s the real show.”

Even with her treating me to a dramatic wink, I’m going to feign ignorance around that last comment. “Were you bored when you stood in front of Anita in your bra and underwear and threatened to leave?”

“I was testing her.” Nan throws herself into the back of her chair like a petulant child. “News flash: she failed.”

This woman. How do I love her? Let me try to remember the ways. “Failed how?”

“Anita is not fun nor is she playful. Anita thinks I’m in the early stages of dementia, and”—she wags a finger at me—“I’m thinking you do, too.”

“Nan.” I pull out a chair and sit with her, grabbing my third muffin at the same time, but who’s counting? I know I’ll work it off later. “I’m worried about you. You’re forgetting some things, simple ones, and when you slip up and don’t do something like lock the front door or turn off a burner, I’m going to worry.”

“Why?” she asks, her voice genuinely laced with confusion.

“Because you live with me now. What happens if I’m away and you forget to turn off a burner on the stove? You could start a fire.”

“But I didn’t,” she says, bright blue eyes snapping my way. “And I’m not in the throes of dementia as you all would like me to be. So I’m forgetful,” she snaps, shaking her head as she lets out a giant sigh. “I’ve had a life, you know. I toured with the Grateful Dead, spent time on the road with The Stones.” She jumps out of her seat, twirling in a circle with her arms flung out to the side. “I’ve seen things.”

This again. “I know you followed these bands. I think saying you toured with them is a little dicey.”

“I was a muse, Dixon,” she explains, looking at me like I should know better.

“You are a-musing,” I retort. “I’ll give you that much.”

Nan grabs a wet rag out of the sink and chucks it at my head, but luckily a loud knock on the front door pulls my attention. Casting a quick glance at the clock on the wall reminds me that Campbell is due right about now.

“Come in,” I call out loudly, much to Nan’s chagrin.

“Sheesh, do you need to scream?” she teases as she pokes me in the side with one of her tiny little fingers, trying to get me to jump. It works, only with an outcome I’m sure that is not intended.

My hand jerks upward in surprise, sending the muffin flying out of my grasp. Time seems to slow as the carb-loaded comet soars through the air, arcing perfectly toward the doorway just as Campbell steps into the kitchen.

“Hey, guys?—”

Thunk.

The muffin smacks him square in the chest, leaving a powdery burst of crumbs and blueberry shrapnel on his very nice, very clean white hoodie. Campbell freezes mid-step, his eyes slowly lowering to the now-squished pastry clinging to him like it’s auditioning for a Broadway tragedy.

“I just bought this sweatshirt today,” he deadpans, plucking the muffin off and holding it up for inspection like it’s evidence in a crime scene.

Nan gasps, clutching her pearls—or at least pretending to, since she’s not wearing any. “Dixon! What on earth is wrong with you?” she scolds, even though I’m pretty sure she’s snorting as she tries to hold back a laugh. “You’ve got to work on your reflexes,” she quips, clearly enjoying herself now.

Campbell wipes crumbs off his shirt, cracking a grin as he slings an arm around Nan. “How’s my best lady doing today?”

“She’s living up to her reputation,” I mumble, but not low enough so that Nan won’t hear.

“The only rep I have is for being able to do a beer bong laced with a shot of tequila in less than ten seconds,” she quips, causing Campbell to stop in his tracks.

His eyes find mine. “Not sure what to do with that information, really.”

“You’re not alone.” I hold up my hands in faux surrender. “She didn’t come with a handbook, so I’m figuring this out as we go.”

“You need to understand that I am fine . As in f-i-n-e fine. I’m not losing it,” she begins, only to look down at the outfit she’s wearing and giggle. “Despite appearances, I’m just living my life, at least what’s left of it anyway.”

“Well, you living your life has put us in a bad place,” I say, standing up and starting to clear some of the mess. “Because you’re so playful, as you like to put it, Anita has given her notice?—”

“She needed to move on. We were not connecting.” Nan crosses her eyes before she looks at Campbell and grins, interrupting me. “You know what they say? ‘Don’t let the door hit ya, where the good Lord split ya.’”

My jaw is starting to hurt from the clenching of my teeth, judging from the expression on Campbell’s face he’s trying his hardest not to break as well. Believe me, I want to crack up, I do. She’s funny. But, I’m also stressed. “She’s gone on Monday. I’ve got one week to find someone who can help us.”

Nan looks around the room, like she’s trying to find a lost wallet. She suddenly pats the table with the flat of her palm and shouts.

“Ah ha,” she says, wagging a finger in the air. “I know what to do. You can tie me to a tree out back. Like an old dog.”

I look at Campbell, who is now beet red from his lame attempt to not die of laughter in front of us. I can’t blame him, I feel like I should charge admission for this show. Something tells me I could.

“Nan, you’re a delight,” I manage to say through a forced smile. “A regular pile of sugar and sweetness.”

“Please,” Campbell snorts, causing both our heads to turn his way.

“What?” Nan challenges. “You don’t think I’m a delight?”

“No,” Campbell responds, pointing my way. “I think you’re lovely and an angel sent from the heavens.”

I shake my head as Nan preens.

“But,” he continues, tilting his chin in my direction, “I’m also beginning to see why Dixon is who he is. It all makes sense now.”

I grab a tea towel and toss it his way, Campbell ducking as it flies past him.

Nan hops up and walks over to where I’m standing at the sink, starting to wash dishes, and takes the dishrag from my hand.

“I can clean up my own mess,” she says. “I know that contrary to popular belief you think I can’t do anything anymore, but I can. I may not be able to operate heavy machinery, but I can bake, clean, and also determine when it’s a good time to go outside in my underwear and when it’s not, thank you very much.”

Across the room, Campbell clears his throat. “I am more than positive that I do not want to know what that’s about.”

While I can appreciate Campbell’s confusion, I keep my attention on Nan. “I know you aren’t as bad as Anita and the others are making it out to be, but you still need to calm down and be nicer to the people who are here to help us. They’re caregivers. It’s not an easy job already and having a client like you, who thinks they’re funny all the time, makes it harder.”

Nan stops washing dishes and stands stock still. Her shoulders square and she tilts her chin, angling herself to give me some side-eye like she’s been challenged to a duel. “Who said I’m not funny?”

The question hangs in the air for half a second before Campbell finally lets loose the laugh he’s been choking on since he walked in. It bursts out of him, big and bold, like a thunderclap, echoing off the kitchen walls. It’s the kind of laugh that leaves your ribs sore, the kind you can’t fake even if you tried.

While he practically doubles over, I throw my hands in the air in exasperation.

“I give up.”

“Good,” Campbell says, looking at me pointedly as he dangles his keys in the air. “I need to eat. Why don’t you loan me a clean hoodie and come with?”

* * *

The Beavertail Diner looks like something out of a postcard, the kind you pick up at a truck stop because it reminds you of home. It’s tucked into an old brick building with peeling paint that somehow makes it look cooler instead of run-down. A neon sign in the shape of a maple leaf buzzes brightly above the door, and the smell—God, the smell—hits me the second I step out of Campbell’s truck. Fried dough, bacon, coffee, and some kind of magic that makes your stomach growl before you even make it inside. And the poutine, don’t even get me started.

The owners, Gerry and Karen, know what they’re doing, no doubt about it. The diner’s their baby, their shrine to good food and hockey, in that order. Canadian ex-pats to the core, they never miss a chance to remind you that the Toronto Maple Leafs are “due for a comeback” or that “Canada’s the real home of hockey, eh?” I give them grief for it, but honestly, it’s half the charm.

Inside, it’s a mix of retro diner and hockey museum. Red vinyl booths line the walls, the kind that squeak when you slide into them. There’s a jukebox in the corner, probably older than I am, but somehow it’s always playing something decent. The walls are covered with hockey memorabilia—signed jerseys, old black-and-white photos of players I can’t even name, and one too many posters of the Toronto Maple Leafs—but they’ve also made sure to give a nod to where they are now. The touch I like best is their one wall that is solely dedicated to the Renegades players, past and present.

Then there’s the food. You don’t come to The Beavertail for anything fancy; you come here for Karen’s stacked pancakes, Gerry’s smoked meat sandwiches, and, of course, the sugar beavertails. Those things are legendary around here, fried dough smothered in cinnamon sugar and whatever other toppings you can dream up. They’re the kind of treat you swear you’ll only have once a month, but you end up ordering every time you come because, well, life’s too short.

The place always feels alive and today is no different. Karen is at the counter, pouring coffee like it’s a sport, and Gerry’s in the kitchen, yelling something about gravy being an art form but he still takes a moment to flick us a wave as we walk past. Regulars crowd the tables, from old-timers swapping stories to kids smearing syrup on their faces because breakfast for dinner is the best thing ever. This place can be chaotic, but it works. It’s one of those eateries where you can sit down, order a plate of food that feels like a hug, and leave feeling a little better than when you came in.

Once we’re settled into a booth at the back, which is our usual, with orders placed, Campbell wastes no time as he puts me square in his sights.

“I’m glad you came with me, bro, ‘cause I wanted to finish the conversation we started earlier,” he says.

“There’s not much more to say. Well, except for me to say sorry. I didn’t need to verbally regurgitate so much on you at once.” I rake my fingers through my hair as I slump in my seat. I had a feeling he may not let this go. “It’s just…weird, right? After all this time she shows up here?”

“I don’t think it’s weird, as much as a fluke.” He plays with the edge of his paper placemat. The Beavertail Diner has those old-timey ones with local business advertisements, a callback to the eighties and early nineties that should feel outdated but feels more nostalgic to me than anything.

“Fluke?”

“Hockey isn’t some giant universe. If you think about it, this is a small world when it comes to this sport.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Odds were that you’d cross paths again at some point, but yes, to have it happen like this is a surprise, I’m sure. I know if it was me, I’d be in shock and questioning my decisions.”

I ignore his attempt to coerce a laugh from me. “Shock,” I say slowly, as if trying the word out for size. “That could be what I’m feeling. Also, betrayal.”

“I get it.” He nods. “I’d be furious, but you have to know that you are not that article. The fact it came out meant that more conversations happened in locker rooms about mental health and how the game can affect its players. Look at how Ben cares about us as a team and goes to the lengths he does, right? Game nights once a month at his place are mandatory, we all do dinner together when we’re on the road, and we stick with a ‘no man is left behind’ motto because it’s true. We all rise when lifting each other, right?”

His words hit me like a slap and a bear hug all mixed up together. The rational part of me knows he’s right. One article doesn’t define who I am, and deep down, I hope that some good came out of it, but the rest of me is still wrapped in resentment. And it feels like a too-tight jersey I can’t get off. I want to believe him, to let this pep talk work its magic, but it’s hard to shake the feeling that I’ll always be “that guy” in the eyes of people who don’t really know me.

Still, there is a part of me that is small and quiet, but it’s there, and it wants to believe him. But I’ve been here before. Words like his, they’re like stitches: they help close the wound, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

“Yeah, you’re right.” I let out a breath, my shoulders relaxing some as I lean back against the booth. “It’s just hard to see it that way sometimes. Especially when the person who lit the match that started the fire is now in my space and coaching me.”

Campbell shrugs, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Have you ever tried changing how you’re looking at this, your perception? Maybe the fire needed to burn to clear some space. To bring in what you really need.” He gestures vaguely, like he’s trying to pull some poetic wisdom out of thin air. “I’m not trying to be all woo woo and burn some sage, but you get it, right?”

I close my eyes and shake my head, not for effect but more to get the visual of Campbell stuffing his six foot one frame into a shaman-like outfit, complete with headdress and flowing robe, outta there. “Not really, but thanks for trying.”

That earns a chuckle from him, and it’s enough to break some of the tension twisting in my chest. Campbell has a way of making heavy conversations feel just a little lighter.

I open my eyes just as Karen swoops by the table with two steaming plates of food, her smile as warm as the diner itself. “Here you go, boys. One smoked meat special and a double stack of pancakes with extra syrup—don’t ask me how you’re going to do on the ice with all that sugar, Dixon.”

“Fuel,” I reply with a smirk, grabbing my fork.

“More like an early grave,” she teases, shaking her head as she walks back toward the counter. “You need some vegetables.”

Campbell digs into his sandwich without hesitation, but I take a second to stare down at my plate. The smell of syrup and melted butter fills the air, but my appetite’s lagging behind.

“You know,” Campbell says between bites, “Elle being here might not be the worst thing.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You want to run that by me again?”

He shrugs, still chewing. “I’m just saying, if anyone knows how to push you, it’s going to be her. Maybe she’s not your favorite person right now, but perhaps she’s not your enemy either.”

“Feels like it,” I mutter, spearing a pancake with my fork.

“Only because you haven’t figured out how to deal with whatever’s still hanging between you two.” Campbell waves his sandwich at me like it’s a pointer stick. “You can’t keep carrying all that around, man. Let it out. Deal with it. Move on.”

I chew on his words as much as my food, the sweetness of the syrup doing nothing to mask the bitterness lingering in my chest. I glance out the diner window, the neon maple leaf casting a glow over the rain-slicked street.

Easier said than done.