Clash And Crash

Britt

A trip to a hockey game can spiral into a whirlwind of existential questions. As Britt confronts the horrors of a dancing sledgehammer mascot and navigates the curious customs of local sports fandom, she finds herself unexpectedly enmeshed in my charm and quirks. Decked out in a jersey that's more statement than style, Britt wrestles with her fleeting stay and the unnerving ease of fitting into Holden's life. Let's see how our city girl copes with the unfolding absurdities—from terrifying mascots to team merch that's a little too on the nose. Will she embrace the spirit of the game, or will the scent of concession stand hot dogs send her running back to metropolitan comforts? Stay tuned as Britt discovers that sometimes, the heart's home isn't on a map, but where you make your stand.

Playlist: "Games People Play" by The Alan Parsons Project

"What in the name of Jimmy Choo is that?" I point an accusing finger at the figure that will, one hundred percent, haunt my nightmares for years to come. In fact, if my friend swore on a stack of bibles it was created by Stephen King, I would totally believe her.

"That?" Tierney tips her chin toward the seven-foot, dancing sledgehammer. "That's Slammy."

"That doesn't actually answer the question, babe." I eye up the hammer again. If it was just a hammer, it would be one thing, but whoever designed the costume felt the inexplicable need to anthropomorphize it. Him. He's definitely half-man, half-hammer. Hamman? Mammer? I don't know what to call him, but he's terrifying. If someone writes a romance novel where a woman has over the top sex with a mammer, I'm going to lose my shit. I almost wonder what kind of dildo they'd make for that one.

And how on earth that would fit.

His goggle-eyed face is cartoonish, almost cute, but it's situated on top of an oddly-proportioned body. I understand that the costume has to fit a person inside of it, but I'm not entirely clear how. The long arms have exaggerated biceps but normal-sized hands, and his long, square torso ends in stumpy legs. He skates around the ice, wearing an oversized jersey and swinging a small, inflatable sledgehammer. It's a lot to take in.

"If he's a mammer, shouldn't he be wearing pants? Like SpongeBob?" I ask. "How do hammans reproduce, anyway? And is the smaller hammer also supposed to be alive, too? I have so many questions."

"You're overthinking it." Tierney drops her stuff on the seat and loops her arms through mine. "Come on, let's grab you some merch. You're sticking out even more than usual."

I let her steer me away from the existential dilemma still dancing on the ice. There aren't many people in the stands yet, and I wonder if this is it. I know the team has had some financial issues in the past, and while I trust that Tierney has made improvements in the last year, I don't know how big the crowds are likely to get.

I know this is a touchy subject, though, so I settle for the lower-hanging fruit. "Why do I need merch? You don't have something to lend me? I'm only going to be here—"

"For a little while, uh huh." Tierney doesn't sound convinced. "Gotcha, but don't you think it would be kind of weird for you to wear Declyn's number?"

"I guess," I grumble.

"Besides, I'm paying, so it shouldn't be an issue."

Can't argue with that. Or rather, I could, but it sounds like effort, so I don't. Besides, I won't be here that long. Who cares what I wear or don't wear?

She steers me into what looks like an office near the concession stand. I recognize the woman sitting at the desk, because… well, it's a small-ass town. Pru Thistle, who I suppose is the team's CFO if we're getting fancy with it, looks up from the battered paperback in her hands and smiles in recognition. "Ready for the game?"

"We will be." Tierney pats my shoulder. "Britt needs some gear."

I hold up a hand. "Temporary gear. I'm only going to be here—"

Pru cuts me off. "For a little while. Right. So I've heard."

My arm droops. "Why do I feel like no one believes me?"

Pru slips a bookmark into her paperback and sets it aside. "Hey, you tell yourself whatever you need to in order to survive, Miss Britt."

Taking sass from Tierney is one thing, but this is a bridge too far. "I have a place in Minneapolis. I have a job in Minneapolis. Pretty sure I'll be going back to Minneapolis."

Pru nods, and her eyes unfocus slightly as she lets out a dreamy sigh. "For me, it was Chicago. I had an apartment. Family. Friends..."

"What happened?" I ask.

Her gaze sharpens at the question. "Sorrowville. It's like Hotel California. You can check in any time you like, but…" She trails off and gestures toward me with one hand.

I tap my hands together in the timeout T. "Oh, I'm leaving. Mark my words. I'm definitely leaving."

Tierney coughs and I swear to God she whispers, "Good D will make you rethink all your life choices."

I whip toward her. "Look, just because the two of you got sucked into the… the Sorrowville Triangle doesn't mean it's inevitable!"

"You say this, but you've already been gifted a key to a certain man's domicile." Tierney is the very picture of smug self-satisfaction.

Pru hums. "Domicile? Sounds serious. Which one?"

"Holden's," my traitorous former best friend replies. Seriously, she's fired. I'll be taking applications for my new best friend post haste.

"Re-ally." Pru sucks her teeth. "She's got her hands full, then."

"Trust me," Tierney says with another sly glance my way. "So does he."

"I'm right here," I remind them. This doesn't even slow them down.

"He's never given anyone a key before," Pru muses. She drums her fingers on the table in thought. "He doesn't usually even have girls over to his house at all. Interesting. Very, very interesting."

I hunch my shoulders. "I bet he has. On both fronts. I bet you just didn't know."

"In Sorrowville?" Pru and Tierney exchange a look, then burst out laughing. That's it. Tierney isn't just fired, she's blackballed from the best friend industry. I'm done with her… just as soon as I meet another person I like half as much.

Pru lifts her hands in defeat, although it's obvious that I lost this round. "Well, let's get you hooked up… while you're here."

"I thought we were going to the merch store?" I ask, relieved by the change of subject.

"You're in it." Pru bends down to pull a box out from under her desk. "Besides, I have exactly what you need." She checks the labels as she flicks through the shirts until she finds one she likes, then tosses it to me. "Perfect."

I shake out the black-and-silver jersey. I expect it to say Travers but Holden's name is nowhere to be found. Instead, it's just a number and the word Express.

"Wow." I shake my head in wonder at both the innovation and the turnaround time. "Already? How?"

Tierney snickers. "It's a small town."

"And we have a screenprinter with a lot of time on her hands," Pru adds. "Where's the mystery?"

As funny as this is, I shake my head. "I can't. No way can I do this. We're light. Breezy. And this feels… serious."

"Wearing a jersey with a snarky nickname is too serious for you?" Tierney, who really should know me better by now, sounds incredulous."

"A nickname I came up with," I remind her. "Right before we… uh…" Shit, I didn't mean to bring this up in front of Pru.

"Right before he delivered his package," Pru deadpans. I lift the jersey to my face and bite back a scream. I should never have flirted with him in public. I should have made everyone in the bar sign an NDA.

Pru relents. "Fine. Then how about this one?" She holds up another shirt, with Flare printed on the back.

I clutch my Express jersey to my chest. "Shep is his best friend, isn't he? Nope. I'm not even touching that. I know better than to try to cross that minefield. What else you got?"

Pru emits a long-suffering sigh, but she doesn't fool me. She's having the time of her life. "Foster one, two, or three?"

"Foster?" I repeat, trying to place the name. "Are they cousins or something?"

"Bennett, Boone, and Brogan," Tierney reminds me. "The brothers."

I stumble back a pace. "Dear God. Beth's boys? We have an understanding. And yet, I don't think she'd understand if I wore one of those." I stare down at the rumpled shirt in my hands. Curse Pru and her reverse psychology. There's no way I can wear anyone else's number, and I know for a fact that Tierney won't let me leave here empty-handed. "Express it is."

Pru and Tierney grin and high-five.

"Again, I'm right here." I make a big show of grumbling as I pull the jersey over my head. Tierney pays while I shimmy into the oversized shirt, which is not my usual style and is, without a doubt, a terrible color on me. At least Holden will like it. God, he'll probably like it too much. I've already got his key, and now I'm wearing his jersey. At this rate, he's going to get ideas.

I am not staying. Not. Not. Not.

There's already a line forming outside the office, with other people in search of Slammer merch. A few people point and whisper to each other as I pass. I genuinely don't know if they're gossiping about me, or about the new nickname for Holden. I tell myself that it doesn't matter until I hear a woman's voice behind me say, "That's so funny. I've got to get one."

Sure, cool, some other lady will also be wearing my nickname for Holden. Okay. No big deal. I don't feel any kind of way about that. It's not like the name's mine.

It's not like the man's mine.

"Are you hungry?" Tierney's voice pulls me out of my silent spiral.

"Oh, for sure." I shake off all my weird, inconvenient emotions. I'm just upset about the whole Montgomery thing… that must be it. Holden's nice, but there's no dick in the world good enough to make me throw away everything I've worked for and move to the boondocks. Pru and Tierney seem happy enough, but I need more than this. I need nice restaurants and interesting little boutiques and work that will challenge me. I need a damn airport.

Tierney says something else that I don't catch, but I assume she's asking me what I want to eat, so I blurt the first thing that comes to mind. "I would kill for a lobster roll."

"Do you smell any seafood around here?" Tierney laughs.

Now that she mentions it, I do smell something. My stomach rumbles at the savory, buttery aroma wafting from the small concession stand just down the hall from Pru's office-slash-team-store.

"No, and I'm not sure I'd trust any seafood that made it this far inland," I admit. "What are my options?"

Tierney grins. "How do you want your hot dog?"

Hot dogs again? I stifle a groan. "I mean… I've only had it on a stick. Is that an option?"

She clucks her tongue. "No, you'll be having it in a bun."

"And someone else will be cooking it this time, I assume?" I pretend to swoon. "Truly, the height of luxury."

Cooking is perhaps a strong word for what's happening to those processed meat tubes. I stare in horror at the hot rollers spinning under a heat lamp in a box with an open back. It's as bad as eating hot dogs from a gas station, and I would never. In fact, gas station dogs might be better. When was that thing last cleaned?

"They look… greasy," I rasp.

The young man running the concession stand shrugs one shoulder. "Just more seasoning. Do you want mustard, ketchup, onions, relish…? I even have some kraut."

I clutch my stomach involuntarily and bite back a groan.

"No sauerkraut," Tierney says, all business. "We'll both have mustard. And I'll take a bag of the Flamin' Hot Cheetos."

"I don't feel good about this," I whisper.

"You'll feel better with a drink," Tierney says. "What do you want? Pick fast. We have to go down rinkside."

What I want is some real food. During the game, I'm absolutely placing an order for a grocery delivery. But that won't arrive for ages, and Tierney and Hot Dog Guy are both staring at me, so I accept my fate for the time being. "Can I get a Diet Coke?" I ask, after scanning my limited options on the soda dispenser.

The kid nods.

"In a cup?" I add, just in case.

Hot Dog Guy gives me the strangest look. "Lady, were you planning on me dispensing it into your mouth? Of course, it'll be in a cup."

I give him a flick of my wrist. "I don't even know anymore. Don't want to assume anything."

He turns to Tierney, who just smiles, and it strikes me that she belongs here now. I feel like I've wandered into an old rerun of The Twilight Zone, but Tierney has already come to accept this as her new normal. People have accepted her here, and despite the greasy hot dogs and the churning rumor mill and the fact that privacy doesn't exist here, she seems… relaxed, confident, even happy. For a fraction of a second, I'm jealous. I don't remember the last time I belonged anywhere.

Hot Dog Guy takes pity on me and fills a paper cup with soda. He sets it on the counter between us, then presents me with a straw. "This is on the house," he assures me.

I bow as I take it from him. "Bless you. You're an angel."