4. Worlds Collide

CHAPTER 4

WORLDS COLLIDE

STEFAN

"You've been in a mood since Monday night," Alex grips me by the shoulders, as we stand on the sidewalk outside of the nearby community ice rink. "Want to tell me what's going on?"

"Nope." Because how do I explain that Monday night I was hoping Francine would say yes to another night out? How do I explain that she let me down as nicely as possible and it still made me grouchy? And she's not wrong. That's the worst part of it. I know she's right; she's an official and I'm a player and that's not a good look. But if I'm going to talk to anyone about it, it should be Alex since he's a players union rep. But I stick with, "I'm fine."

"You're not fine," Gabriel Bouchard, one of the Union goalies, approaches us from the parking lot, hands stuffed in his pockets and a smile on his face. "But how can you not be fine on a day like this?"

"You're obnoxious," I want to scowl, but Gabriel makes everyone smile, no matter their mood. "I really am fine."

"I'm not buying whatever this is," Alex waves his hands in the general vicinity of my body, "so snap out of it. If not for me, then for the kids."

Once a month or so, when the game schedule allows, Alex grabs whichever teammates he can and brings us along to a youth hockey camp that he hosts at the local community center. We skate for a bit, run drills with the kids, feed them pizza, and then attempt an organized game. Attempt being the key word.

"Seriously, guys. I'm fine."

"In that case, you're coaching a team today. You too, Bouchard." Alex pushes us through the doors and into the rink, already filled with kids on the ice and parents in the stands. The kids turn to look at us as the doors open, eyes wide when they see us step onto the ice.

"Who thinks we should put coach Stefan in goal today?" Gabriel yells, eliciting a raucous cheer from the kids and earning a scowl from me and a gesture I keep hidden from the kids.

"Alright you little ding dongs," I gather my usual group of boys and girls around me as we head down to our half of the ice, and they laugh the whole way. "Pair up for passing!"

Harper, a ten year old girl with a wicked slapshot, is left without a partner so I call her forward to help me demonstrate our passing drills for the morning. If ever there was a definition of tape to tape passing, Harper embodies it. Her passes are crisp and precise, and even when we start moving and incorporating more puck handling into the drills, she nails it.

Harper also knows hockey.

She grills me about my last game while we drill. Asking about my penalty minutes and why I passed instead of taking a shot when, according to her, I had a clear opening to score. I try to tell her that while I did have a clear opening to score I also had a skater who was much bigger than me skating at me full tilt and it was pass or be flattened like a pancake on the ice.

"I guess that's a good excuse," she gives me a cheeky smile and an eye roll to go along with it. "And an assist still counts for something."

I hope she remembers that come game time this afternoon.

After pizza, the kids gear up and Gabriel and I serve as coaches and on-ice officials for the game. Alex serves as bench minder, making sure line changes happen as smoothly as possible. Harper is on my first line and squares up for the first face off, winning decisively and passing the puck to her teammate who streaks toward the goal before meeting Alex's twin – literally, a set of fraternal brother and sister twins – defenders.

Sometime during the third period, the rink starts to fill up a little more, and there's jostling for space on the benches. Alex calls time and skates to the bench, chatting with a woman who has a gear bag slung over her shoulder and skates in her hand. There's a handful of other women behind her watching and waiting. Alex nods and so does the woman, offering him a handshake before he skates back to Gabriel and me.

"There's a women's league that uses the arena too. Usually on Thursdays, but they switched to Saturday this week because one of the forwards works this Thursday night."

"Okay…" I draw out the word, hoping Alex hears the unspoken ‘what do I care?' in my voice. "What does this mean for the kids?"

"They're going to wait for us to finish. Some of them even want to watch. And then we are going to grab one of those leftover pizzas, camp out in the stands, and watch some hockey." Alex skates away from us before I can argue, and play resumes.

"Why are we doing this?" I ask, reaching for a cold slice of pizza.

"Because," Alex lounges so his back is against the row of bleachers behind us, "you need to watch hockey. Just for fun. We all do."

Back home in Windsor, I played on my brother's beer league team a few times when he brought me in as a ringer hoping to pass me off as something other than a professional hockey player. That league was chaotic; some played in full gear, some were lucky to have scrounged up a stick. No checking, no slashing, and definitely no fighting. These teams have jerseys. Everyone has gear.

This is the most organized beer league I've ever seen. And the most lax in terms of rules. There's checking in this league. And one of the skaters in purple just shouldered a woman into the boards in a move that would land me in the penalty box if I pulled the same move. A whistle blows and it seems the offending skater is being sent across the ice to the penalty bench.

The skater takes her seat on the bench and pulls off her helmet, revealing a familiar mess of red curls piled on the top of her head, previously hidden by her helmet.

Francine.

Her curls are wild on a good night. Tonight, after she's been working up a sweat on the ice, her curls are attempting to break free from the hair tie that barely contains them. She laughs with the woman next to her, and when their two minutes are up, they get back onto the ice and right back to business.

Francine is slower on the ice than her teammates, but she skates with purpose. Her puck control would put even a few of my teammates to shame. Watching her makes me want to get on the ice with her. To face off against her at center ice. I want her to press me into the boards. Which is not something I should be thinking about a friend. A league official.

"Isn't that the new box girl?" Alex asks, nudging me with his elbow.

"I wouldn't know," Gabriel reaches for another piece of pizza with a laugh, "what does the penalty box look like?"

"Her name is Francine," I grit out, ignoring Gabriel. There's more bite in my voice than I intended and Gabriel shakes his head and turns back to the ice.

Alex turns to me with a smug smile. "Tell me more."

"No, I don't think I will."

The only other fans in the stands are a couple to my left, the woman has been knitting through most of the game, and when Francine receives a pass from her teammate and skates down the ice with it, the woman – who bears a striking resemblance to Francine – drops her knitting and jumps to her feet.

"Go Franny!" She shouts.

Franny.

I wonder if we're here to watch the same person.

Stealing a glance of the woman beside me, I'm almost certain I must be sitting next to Francine's mom. From the few conversations I've had with Francine, I'm surprised her mom would be here. Francine always talks about her mom as someone detached from the game and from her daughter. I assumed she was cold and uninvolved, but this woman beside me is invested in the game, and in watching her daughter play.

"How do you know Francine?" I scoot away from Alex and Gabriel, down the row toward the couple.

"She's my daughter. How do you know Francine?"

It occurs to me, as I turn and look at Francine's mom, that this woman has no idea who I am and it's refreshing.

"We work together." It's technically the truth.

"You spend almost as much time in the penalty box as she does," Francine's mom smiles and offers a wink. "It's nice to meet you, Stefan. I'm Juliette, this is my husband, Thomas."

"Nice to meet you both."

"I see you've got some friends with you, too." Juliette, leans forward and waves. I turn to find Alex and Gabriel grinning and waving right back.

"I can't take those two anywhere, " I remark, feigning embarrassment.

"I suppose it's not often you're able to get out and watch much hockey for fun?"

"No ma'am," I answer, naturally at ease with this woman who just moments ago was a stranger. "We weren't even planning on this today. Alex, he runs a youth hockey organization and we ran a little into Francine's league's time today. He thought we should stay and watch and…now I'm glad we did."

"I won't keep you," Juliette says, scooting closer to her husband again, "go back to your friends, and enjoy the rest of the game. And, know that you're welcome to join us anytime."

Francine's line is out for the next face off and she bends down, a fierce look on her face as she fights for control of the puck. She loses the face off and skates full tilt across the ice. There's a moment, just before she catches up to her linemates, that I see a hitch in her step, a little bit of a stumble, but she recovers and keeps skating. There's a scuffle for the puck in the corner, and Francine takes a cross check that doesn't look legal.

"Come on ref, are you blind?" I jump to my feet, my voice echoing across the ice and drawing the attention of several skaters, one of whom locks eyes with me from the ice, a bemused – if slightly reluctant – smile tugging on her lips.

"Gabriel?" Alex leans forward, looking across me to Gabriel on my other side.

"Alexander?"

"Do you find it interesting that Stefan here was upset about that call, and not the one when Box Girl…"

"Francine," I growl.

"Francine." When Gabriel says her name, rich with his Quebecois accent, I want to slug him.

" Francine ," Alex corrects with a smug grin that I'd punch off his face if we were on the ice, "cross checked her opponent and it was missed."

"Francine didn't cross check," I argue, "she encouraged her opponent to move out of the way."

"With a stick to the back."

"It wasn't a cross check."

"Keep telling yourself that, Morrow. Hey, by the way, what's the name of the official scorekeeper?"

"I don't know. Why?" I ask, annoyed with my friend and linemate.

"No reason. What about the guy who sounds the siren when we score a goal? Do you know his name?"

"Why do you assume it's a guy?" I don't know if it is or isn't, but I'm bothered that he defaults to assuming it must be a man.

"Okay fine, do you know their name?"

"No, Alex, I don't know their name. I know Francine's name because I spend a lot of time sitting in the penalty box and it would be rude of me not to introduce myself."

"You really think she didn't know…"

"Shut. Up."

Alex shuts up but his face speaks volumes as he turns to the ice with a self-satisfied smile. For the rest of the game Alex is, blessedly, silent, which means I can watch Francine skate in relative peace. And the thing about it is she's good. She doesn't just know how to skate, she knows how to play hockey. She knows where her wingers are on the ice, she spots her defenders and knows when to put on the breaks. When she passes backhand to her left wing, without even looking, my jaw drops and Alex's does too. We've seen plays like this in our league, but we're pros.

"I'm glad I don't have to face her," Gabriel says, whistling low, "she's a great shot."

"I want her on our line," Alex's voice is filled with awe as he elbows me in the ribs, "think we can trade you for her?"

"Sure," I nudge him with my foot, "but I don't think you can handle her."

After the game, Francine's linemate removes her helmet and skates toward the benches, calling everyone to attention and making a few announcements before reminding them of their next game and practice. Francine stands nearby, seemingly only half listening, her eyes locking with mine. The women on the ice hug and shake hands and make their way toward the exit, and Alex – bane of my existence today – makes a beeline for the ice.

"Let's go say hi!"

I'd rather die. But Alex pushes me ahead of him all but shoving me right into Francine. She stumbles and I reach for her, steadying her so she doesn't fall back onto the ice. She's taller than me in her skates and I wish I didn't like that as much as I do.

"Hey Francine." I lift my hand in awkward greeting. "You skated good out there."

Alex rounds on me with a bemused grin, mouthing the word smooth.

Yeah. I bungled that one.

"I mean, you know, it was a good game." I was once concussed and had an easier time stringing words together.

"Stop being weird," Gabriel gives me a once over, "And that's coming from a goalie."

This would be so much easier if I didn't have these two goons with me. Francine watches the three of us, not sure what to do, and to be honest I'm not sure what I should be doing either. I know what I want to do. I want to get Francine out of here and spend time with her, but as has been established, we shouldn't.

"I don't believe we've met," Gabriel holds out a hand to Francine, "I'm Gabriel Bouchard."

"Francine Henderson," she laughs good naturedly, shaking Gabriels hand, still wearing her gloves. "Nice to meet you."

"You too. I know you know these troublemakers behind me. Unlike them, I never get any penalties."

"You're a goalie, you goof," Alex presses in beside him, offering his hand to Francine as well. "Alex Hyryck. Morrow's right, you looked great out there."

"Thank you," her cheeks flame red, eyes shifting toward me, "felt good to get out there on the ice tonight."

"How long have you been playing?" Alex asks as Francine removes her gloves and sits on the bench to untie her skates.

"I started skating at three years old," she leans down and unties her first skate. "I grew up in Houghton, we learn to skate almost as soon as we learn to walk. And when I was five my dad put a stick in my hand. How old were the kids that were here this afternoon?"

"Ten and up," Alex answers, standing just a little bit taller when Francine asks about his kids. "They're all from under-funded schools. I offer a free hockey program to kids that want to learn the game. All skill levels and abilities are welcome."

"That's incredible, Alex."

"Thanks. And sometimes I'm able to convince this guy here to join me."

Francine's eyes find mine, her gaze softening, a small smile on her lips.

"I caught the end of the game, and the kids looked great. They were having fun out there."

"Hockey is always fun." Gabriel smiles. When I first met him I wasn't sure about his whole schtick. I thought for sure no one could be so happy all the time. So enthusiastic. But it's not a schtick, it's just Gabriel. Gabriel loves hockey and he loves his team and he loves being a part of Alex's outreach efforts here in Detroit.

"That's the most important part," I whisper, and Francine's smile spreads. "If we can't have fun playing hockey why do we do it?"

"Exactly."

"It's late," Alex says, reaching up to drape his arm around Gabriel's shoulders, "we need to be going. Francine, it was lovely to meet you. Give us your schedule some time so we can catch another game."

"What are you doing?" I hiss at Alex out of the corner of my mouth.

"Morrow, we'll see you for morning skate tomorrow." Gabriel claps me on the shoulder as he passes. "Don't screw this up."

Alex stuffs his hands in his pockets, walking away and leaving me and Francine, and the handful of other stragglers that are still packing up to leave the rink. While I attempt to figure out what my meddling teammates are up to, Francine strips her jersey off over her head. She's down to a long sleeve compression shirt, a shade of dark forest green that makes her eyes pop and her hair flame brighter. Her hockey pants are still on, held up by suspenders at her shoulders and my breath catches for just a second. I see people in their hockey gear on a daily basis, it's a hazard of the job, but no one looks as good in their gear as Francine does.

"Coaching kids, huh?" Francine looks up at me as she slips her feet into a pair of sneakers pulled from her gear bag.

"Alex is lucky he's my best friend," I laugh. "But I do love the kids. They remind me of when I was first falling in love with the game."

"If you need more hands next time…" She pauses, a faraway look on her face as she laces up her shoes. "I remember being in a league at that age. My dad took me to every practice. He'd sit in the stands and grade papers or read a book. He knew that if he watched me, he'd try to coach me, and that wasn't his job."

"Sounds like a good dad." I sit down on the opposite end of the bench from Francine.

"The best," she says with a smile, "and after every practice, we'd drive to the gas station near the rink and get a donut."

"Gas station donuts?"

"It was a gas station and bakery," she responds, mock offense in her voice. "The donuts were stale and the coffee – according to Dad – could have stripped paint, but it was our thing."

"Sounds like a nice thing."

"Yeah. Anyway…I still get a donut after every practice, and sometimes after every game. If – if you'd care to join me."