1. New Job

CHAPTER 1

NEW JOB

FRANCINE

My phone ringing in the middle of the day shouldn't be nerve wracking, but when my phone rings next to me today, my hand shakes as I pick it up. The name on the screen reads USA Hockey. I've been waiting for this call. Or any call from any of the places that I've applied to or interviewed with. USA Hockey is at the top of my list of hopefuls, but I'd be happy if any organization gave me a call.

"Hello?" I try to keep my nerves out of my voice.

"Francine Henderson?" The voice on the other end of the call asks.

"This is she."

"Francine, this is Derek Moore with USA Hockey, how are you today?"

"Good thanks." I can't read anything from Derek. Not his tone. Not anything. I don't know if this is a good call or a bad call. If this is a job offer or a "thanks for applying, but…" kind of call. I know what I'm hoping for.

"Glad to hear it. Listen…"

Same thing I've heard from three other organizations. They don't need statisticians or data analysts. However, Derek did say something no one else has yet.

"I'm impressed with your resume. I'm going to hang onto it in case we have any openings anywhere in the organization."

The rest of the call is your usual awkward pleasantries as we both attempt to hang up. When I'm finally off the phone, I slip it into my pocket, refill my coffee at the self-serve coffee station, and head out of the bakery and make my way to the physical therapy clinic just outside of downtown Detroit. On the way there, the phone rings again and I answer, letting it connect to my car's bluetooth.

"Hello?"

"Francine?"

"Yes?"

"This is Margaret Andersson with the Detroit Union. I know this is incredibly last minute, but do you have any availability to meet with Steve Harris today?"

"I'm on my way to an appointment now, but I can be there after. Say…ten AM?"

Margaret pauses for a moment and I hear the faint flipping of paper pages. A hmm and the quick click of a pen. "We can do ten."

"Sounds good. I'll see you then."

"We don't need statisticians," Mr. Harris stares down his nose at me. Different theater, same song and dance. At this point I'm annoyed and frustrated and sore from physical therapy which doesn't help with my mood. Why call me down here for a meeting only to tell me that you don't need me? That there are no openings? It's a waste of my time and his. "But…"

But I'll keep your resume on file in case anything opens up.

But I'll pass your name along to a friend in another organization and see if they have any openings.

But thanks for trying. Make sure you grab a complimentary beer koozie on your way out the door.

"We do need an attendant for the home penalty box. You'd keep track of penalties and timing, so there's still some stats involved I suppose."

Penalty box attendant.

It's something. I suppose.

" Technically the position is a league position as an off-ice official, but it's assigned to our arena. If you accept the job you'll start when the team comes home tomorrow afternoon. I know this isn't what you applied for but it's something."

It is something.

It's better than nothing at all.

There's some stats involved. I'd be working next to the scorekeepers. Keeping track of penalties is technically a stat. And considering I've been unemployed since quitting an office job and leaving a toxic work environment, it really is better than nothing.

"I accept."

Mr. Harris breathes a visible sigh of relief. His shoulders lowering by a measurable amount as his posture relaxes.

"Thank you. For now, I'll have you go downstairs to HR and they'll get you everything you need."

Everything I need amounts to a lot of new hire paperwork, an all access arena pass after my picture is taken for staff ID, and a tour of Renaissance Arena. The Ren, as it's known locally, is a dual-purpose arena, used for both the professional hockey and basketball teams. There was a basketball game last night and today the arena is being turned over to get ready for tomorrow afternoon's home hockey game.

"Oh good," Margaret, the woman I spoke to on the phone and now my tour guide, says as we walk out of a tunnel and into the main arena space, "they've got the boxes up. Here's the home and away benches. We'll take a walk over to the penalty benches."

The ice hasn't been uncovered yet, but the perimeter of the rink has been put up, along with player benches, the boards and glass, and safety nets. You would never know that just a handful of hours ago a professional basketball game was played in this space.

"Here we are. The penalty boxes." Margaret opens a small door with a plexiglass panel attached, ushering me into the small space. "That's the scorekeepers' box there, you'll work with the scorekeepers to keep track of the penalties and the timing for each one. The scorekeepers will handle goals, assists, and plus/minus. Your job is penalties."

That's easy enough. Minors are two, majors are five minutes, depending on the severity a misconduct could be ten minutes or the rest of the game. It's a lot to keep track of, but I can do that no problem. The problem is that we're about halfway through the season and I'm coming in as the new kid in school, having to start after everyone has gotten a chance to get to know each other.

"Any questions?"

"What time should I report?"

"Ah, let's go back to my office and we'll talk over what game days will look like."

Two hours later, I step into the frigid January air, pulling my winter hat down over my ears and stuffing my hands into my pockets. I grew up in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, I'm no stranger to snow and wind and air so cold it hurts your face, but it doesn't mean I like it. It is, however, a nice change from the overly warm air inside the arena, surprising considering there will be an ice hockey game played there tomorrow afternoon.

Once I'm in my car, I turn up the heat and sit for a minute to allow myself and the car to warm up, and I quickly call my brother.

"Francine!" Sam's voice rings across the line, filling the car with the joy that seems to follow him everywhere. "How's it going?"

"I got a job," I sigh, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. "It's…stats adjacent."

"What does that mean?" Sam asks with a laugh.

It means I'm a glorified babysitter for the hockey players who can't keep their hands to themselves.

"I'm the new attendant for the home penalty box for Detroit Union games."

"Franny, that's fantastic. It's a foot in the door."

"I know." It is a foot in the door of the organization I dreamed of working for when I was a kid. It's a start. A stepping stone on the way to the front office – or something bigger – which is where I've always wanted to be. "Thanks, Sam."

"And you know Maggie always has an ear to the ground in the baseball world. They're always looking for analysts."

Baseball. A world in which I'd be utterly useless. I don't understand the numbers and acronyms. My mind works in periods and not innings. Intermissions and not stretches. Give me ice and skates and sticks. Perpetual motion. Not lazily tossing a ball around a park. But Sam's best friend, Maggie, is one of the best scouts in the game. I could learn from her if I had to, but there's a chance I could use this new job as a stepping stone to my ultimate goal.

"Thank you, Sam. And thank Maggie for me, but I think I'll stay in hockey for a while."

"Suit yourself, Franny. But, you know I'm proud of you, right? Have you called Dad? He's going to be over the moon."

"He's my next call. I love you, Sam."

"I love you, Francine."

I could call Dad, or I could pick up lunch and surprise him. With a quick check of the time, I hastily pull out of the visitor parking garage, making note as I do of the staff garage Margaret mentioned. After a quick trip to our favorite burger joint, I'm on the road and headed to dad's office. After Sam and I were out of the house – Sam headed west to the Seattle area, and I'd moved away for grad school – Mom and Dad relocated from the Upper Peninsula to the Lower, settling down in Ann Arbor, just west of Detroit.

Finding a place to park near campus is nearly impossible but I manage to find a spot on the street a few blocks from Dad's building. He should be in his office, if I timed things correctly, and it looks like I have. His office door opens down the hall, and a student steps out, slinging a backpack over his shoulder as he does.

"Have time for one more?" I rap my knuckles on the door before popping my head into Dad's office. "I even brought lunch."

"Franny Girl, what a wonderful surprise!" Dad stands from his desk and wraps me in a warm hug. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Can't a girl surprise her dad with lunch?"

"Not usually," Dad laughs. "What's up?"

"I got a job."

"Franny, that's wonderful. What's the gig?"

"Penalty box attendant. For the Detroit Union."

"The Union…" There's a wistful note in Dad's voice as he sits back in his chair, eyes fixed behind me on the picture I know hangs on the wall. A picture of The Assembly Line; the three players who led the team in the 90s. Players whose names I never learned because they were always "the assembly line."

"Here comes The Assembly Line, Franny Girl. This game'll turn around now, you just watch." And more often than not, Dad was right.

"I'm so proud of you Franny. That's wonderful."

"Thanks Dad. So…you'll tell Mom for me?" Mom has never wanted me working in hockey. Not since my injury. She protested when I got a job as Equipment Manager for the Michigan Tech Hockey team. And then scorekeeper for the same team. She's always wanted me to settle down in an office job, or in academia like her and Dad. Technically what I've been applying for have been office jobs, but Mom always overlooks that little detail and I'd rather not argue with her.

"I love you Franny. And I love your mother. You're on your own with this one, kid." That's what I was afraid of. "You can tell her tomorrow when you come to dinner."

"Tomorrow is my first game. I probably won't make it to dinner."

"Well, would you look at that," Dad looks at his watch, "I have a class to teach, and you have a phone call to make. Thanks for lunch, Franny Girl."

Dad rounds his desk, tossing his trash in the waste basket near the door and kissing the top of my head with a whispered, "call your mother."

Call my mother.

Easier said than done.

I drive for a while. Finding my favorite bookstore in Ann Arbor and wandering for a while. And stopping for another cup of coffee to fortify me for the conversation with my mother. It's not that I think she'll be upset about my job – it is a job after all – but I don't know if I can handle her disappointment when I tell her that I'm going to be working close to the action of hockey games.

When I've stalled as long as I can bring myself to, I fire off a text to my brother to let him know I'm calling Mom, and when his response amounts to a gif of a little boy turning away and running down the hall I know I'm in for an interesting conversation.

"Hi Franny," Mom answers on the second ring like she always does. "Your dad told me you'd be calling. What's up?"

That does nothing to calm my nerves. So I blurt it all out.

"Congratulations," she says with a sniff, her voice laced with emotion. "I had a feeling you'd end up working in hockey one day. It's what you've always dreamed of."

"Thank you, Mom. I know it's not exactly what you wanted for me."

"Franny, your heart has always been on the ice. I'm not going to let my fear stop you from doing what you love. Tell me more about it over dinner tomorrow night."

"I start tomorrow night so…I'll have to miss dinner."

"That's alright. At least you're not three time zones away like your brother," I think I hear a hint of humor in mom's voice. "Come when you're able. You know there will always be a place for you."

Game day at The Ren is wild. The energy leading up to game time is frenetic; from the fans filing in, to the team and staff taking their places. I report to the box early, getting acquainted with where I'll be stationed and what I'll be doing. The scorekeepers are welcoming and the attendant in the visiting team's box lifts a hand in greeting. Here goes nothing.

Ten minutes into the game and so far I've enjoyed ten minutes of beautiful hockey. Lulled by the sound of skates on ice, my eyes tracking the puck, and then our captain takes a particularly hard check into the boards on the opposite side of the ice. Stefan Morrow, wearing his signature scowl and dark scruffy beard, takes off like a shot toward the offending player and next thing I know the ice is thrown into chaos.

"Eighty-eight, two minutes for cross check. Ninety-seven, two minutes for slashing. Fourteen, five minutes for fighting." The referee's voice rings through the arena and cheers go up from the home crowd as their boys skate off the ice toward me and my open door. Stepping into the box, they jostle each other onto the bench, grinning as I close the door and do my best to disappear into the corner of the box, keeping an eye on my times so I know who to send back out and when.

Fourteen, Stefan Morrow, sits on the edge of the bench nearest me, removing his helmet and running a gloveless hand through his sweat mussed hair. Hair so dark it's almost black. He turns to me, giving me a slow appraisal before nudging eighty-eight, Pat Larsson, seated next to him. Then they both turn. Larsson shrugs and turns back to the action on the ice but Morrow, eyes sparkling, does the one thing I'm not supposed to do.

"You're new," he says. I stay silent, melting into my little corner, watching the two minute penalties tick down, getting ready to open the door and let his teammates back out onto the ice. "Did you just start?"

I don't respond. I have an official voice in my headset along with my own timekeeping and when the voice says "go" I go. I open the door and allow eighty-eight and ninety-seven back onto the ice. Giving me three more minutes in the box with fourteen. Somehow the box feels more crowded than it did when four of us were in here. Fourteen has a presence. I've seen him in postgame interviews all muscle and tattoos and dark smattering of hair on his arms and chest.

"GO. GO. What are you waiting for Francine?!" The voice in my ear shouts and I stumble as I scramble to the door, opening it as quickly as I can and allowing Morrow back onto the ice.

"Sorry." Why am I breathless?

"Don't let it happen again."