A/N: You ever have one of those ideas that just won't go away despite you trying to ignore it for actual reasonable story ideas? Yeah, this is one of those. Welcome back to Heather's Crack Fic Emporium, where I shall write bananas plots without shame. One minute I'm salivating over Ayres' miraculous saves for the 'Canes, and the next minute, words are happening. I expect this to be a medium-sized fic, maybe ten chapters? Reviewers, do ya thing, let me know if that is actually a desirable outcome.
After nearly two months of working full-time for the family business, I have already compiled a substantial list of Reasons Why Hiring Your Relatives Is an Even Worse Idea Than It Is Stupid, and I'm pretty sure that my big sister's list is growing as rapidly as my own.
Paige is better at pretending she wants me on staff than I am at pretending I actually want to be here, though, and her schemes to keep me on the payroll alternate between naming me Employee of the Month (every month) and incessantly plastering pictures of me being moderately successful at my job onto the rink's Facebook page. You know, so I'll feel more involved, or whatever. Personally, I just think that she's in desperate need of someone to run the military operation she is trying - and failing - to put into place at our parents' rundown ice rink. Nobody takes her seriously.
Lauren, for example, is prone to ribbing my big sister for wearing a 1980s power suit to work every day. She also sticks up notices on the staff board that mainly consists of catty memes about bosses and candids of Mark Zuckerberg, often with Paige's face superimposed.
Reason #6 Why Hiring Your Relatives Is an Even Worse Idea Than It Is Stupid: They expect extra freedoms (like me, for example, refusing to do anything other than manning the concessions stand and driving the Zamboni).
Reason #7: You have no bargaining chips. Lauren only laughs at Paige every time she's threatened with disciplinary action because she knows that Paige has no leverage over someone who's practically been raised as a surrogate Stanley.
Which is why I have absolutely no qualms about regularly reminding Lauren Mallory that her fiance is my most loyal customer; I have so much dirt on her, more than even I want to know - Tyler clearly doesn't understand the term oversharing - that she will probably have to emigrate once everyone finds out exactly what she likes to do in the bedroom.
That usually shuts her up for a few hours.
"Les Mis," is all I have to say, but, then again, I've never been known as someone to quit while they were ahead. "Marie Antoinette. Revolutionaries—"
"Alright, alright!"
Her cheeks pink, Lauren throws her perfectly manicured hands up and stalks off into the kitchen. I can see Angela grinning over her food prep as the double doors swing wide, who is only just within earshot and the only other person in this godforsaken place who is privy to her colleague's very particular kinks.
"I want that stock audit!" I yell at Lauren's back. She sticks two fingers up in the air in response, but I know she'll get it done - maybe not before the game starts, but at least by the time doors close - or else the world and its mother will know exactly how Lauren Mallory gets her rocks off.
Reason #8: You have far too much blackmail on them, and far too much motivation to use it.
Truth be told, I would much rather be working elsewhere - hell, anywhere that put distance between me and my family - but between indecision and apathy, somehow I have returned to the rink for my fourth consecutive year. Twenty-two isn't that old in the grand scheme of things, but I've always imagined adulthood to be a little more sophisticated, a little less sharpening skates until midnight. Paige has grown to expect my yearly resignation letter that, without fail, arrives on her desk within three weeks of my birthday, give or take, and I have accepted that the only way I'll ever leave the rink will be in a discount coffin from Walmart.
C'est la vie.
"Stanley! Shutters up in five," Angela bellows, startling me into alertness.
I've counted the same cash drawer three times over, and still, I can't recall the total. I shake my head restlessly, flicking through the paper notes in rapid succession. My till always has the widest margin—probably something to do with failing Algebra II twice, but my sister and I have come to a mutually beneficial arrangement: she turns a blind eye to my innumeracy, and I pretend to give a shit about customer service.
As the shutters rolled up, making way for a steady stream of people in various states of winter dress, I lean back against the railing, wondering when I became destined to shill over-salted popcorn at beer league hockey games. Not that I have anything against popcorn - my blood pressure has never been better since working full-time in concessions - or even hockey, for that matter. Dad set my tiny feet on the ice the moment they could fit in skates. From that moment, the rest was history, as they say (if history means being vaguely talented at ripping gnarly loops on the bumpy ice after closing time, strictly for quality assurance purposes, of course).
"Hey, you open?" a man grumbles, spilling a handful of sweaty change onto the sticky counter.
"Huh? Oh, yeah," I say, ducking to grab a bucket. "Just one?"
"Does it look like there's anyone else?"
"Not with an attitude like that," I mutter, making sure to scrape the scoop along the congealed salt at the bottom of the vat.
"Excuse me?" he sputters, his face rapidly glowing purple.
"Gratitude for the hat," I reply smoothly, gesturing vaguely at his branded baseball cap, likely purchased for an exorbitant fee from the ticket counter. "Three-fifty, please."
He pushes his change towards me with a suspicious expression, taking his popcorn from my outstretched hand without another word.
I like making the customers sweat. It makes the time go faster.
Truth be told, I could quite happily while away the hours with nothing more than a vanilla coke and a family-sized bag of peanut M&Ms to keep me company. Once the game starts, I can easily go fifteen, maybe twenty minutes without being disturbed, and even then, scooping popcorn is hardly a hassle. Most of the time, I plug my headphones into some shitty indie music mix and tune out, seeing how many times I can spin on my bar stool before I lose my balance or my stomach contents or both. If I ever feel so inclined, I can stand on my stool and peer over the barrier to watch the game, but I hardly do that these days. Hockey, like everything else in my life, has become pedestrian.
The stupid mall-cop style earpiece I wear religiously buzzes shrilly, jolting me back to reality. We normally only use it to coordinate bathroom breaks (boring), food shortages (how do we always run out of guac?), and fistfights in the bleachers. Personally, I hold out hope for news of a brawl every time the receiver crackles.
"Jess," Paige says, pausing momentarily. "Can you hear me?"
"According to section twelve of the employee code, all staff are required to wear a headpiece, so I'm going to say a tentative yes," I say snarkily, tossing a yellow M&M up into the air.
I miss it, and it rolls somewhere under the counter. Gross.
"The Outlaws just lost their goalie to a collision," she says breathlessly.
"Okay? Thanks for the update, I guess." I throw another M&M up high, tipping my head back to try and catch it.
Paige falls silent for a moment, and the candy hurtles closer to my waiting mouth, like a spaceship coming into land.
"You're the emergency goalie. Come down and suit up."
If I were to be precise, I'd say the red M&M makes it approximately two inches down my throat before I keel over, coughing desperately until the wretched thing flies out. Double gross.
"Emergency goalie?" I rasp, clipping my keys onto my belt as I lock the register. "Since when?"
"Since you signed the paperwork in draft week," Paige says quietly, almost guiltily. "I didn't think they'd actually need someone on the ice -"
"For God's sake," I groan, taking the stairs two at a time. "Say a fuckin' prayer for whoever's minding the net."
"Language!" Lauren chirps, sounding a touch too pleased for my liking.
I vow to spit in her nachos after the game.
"Just get changed, Jess. What are the chances you're actually going to get called?"
And maybe his fate is jinxed, or the universe has a real sick sense of irony, that the poor bastard sporting the trapper takes a crosscheck hard enough to crack a rib just fifteen minutes into his shift, leaving me - the hapless stand-in - as the only remaining goaltender in the Outlaws' pathetic line-up. I've hardly pulled on the musty gear when the call comes cracking through the changeroom PA, issuing a summons for one Jessica Stanley to enter the rink for the tail-end of the third period and, in that moment, I say a loving goodbye to my perfect set of teeth.
"Just get on the ice, Stanley," the coach barks, bustling me towards the gate. "Bunker down and take the hits. Ten minutes, that's all we need."
Before I can even think of a way to delay the inevitable, two hands pressed squarely against my back are nudging me onto the ice, and it is far too late. There is no option but to awkwardly skate my way into the crease, keeping my head low to avoid the bemused stares of the actual skaters. It is no Stanley Cup (irony gladly noted, thank you very much), but I can still sense the crowd's presence, the watchful gaze of the spectators tracking my lumbering procession across the ice. With my stick firmly in hand, I settle uncomfortably in front of the goal, praying - something I rarely do, if ever - for the universe to grant me ten minutes of peace.
The referee blows his whistle, and all at once, ten burly men are descending upon the puck, battling furiously for control. They jostle and push one another, violently colliding in rapid succession in an attempt to make ground. From my vantage point, I can hardly pick head from tail in the scrum, let alone track the movement of the puck - a strong start to my goaltending career, that's for sure.
I glance at the clock. Nine minutes, fifteen seconds.
I can do this.
The roar of the crowd - all fifty of them, probably - make perspiration begin to bead on my forehead, mercifully concealed by the clunky helmet I'm wearing. The thing has been collecting dust in the staff locker room for months, if not years, on end, and I am sure it will get properly broken in tonight. I'm mentally debating the merits of cancelling the remainder of the beer league games when the play suddenly changes direction, twisting my stomach into knots that could rival a New York pretzel. The opposition's offence is good, I realise belatedly; the hulking winger rapidly weaves through the fray to approach the crease, nimbly manoeuvring his stick to propel an absolutely lethal slap shot directly into my left tit.
I double over, wincing as the force of the strike radiates through my flesh like an explosion.
The whistle blows moments later, and it is only then that I realise I've saved the shot, trapping the puck between my boob and forearm.
Skaters, presumably from the team I'm playing for, clap me on the back, hooting words of encouragement that I can hardly parse through the ringing in my ears. All too soon, play is resuming, and I am left to nurse a throbbing chest and a startled constitution.
Seven minutes, forty-one seconds.
The shots come quickly after the first, and I soon realise how exactly the previous two goaltenders have been put asunder. Sure, I am suited up with all the pads and protectors I could find with two-minutes notice, but it does nothing to stop the sting of the puck slamming against my body again and again, surely bruising my flesh to a dazzling blue hue.
I chance a glance at the clock when the play eventually resets. My team has finally scored a goal, and I will with every fibre of my being that the final two and a half minutes will fly by without further bodily harm. The probability of that actually happening is slim to none, but I can dream - and wish for a lifetime's supply of ice packs, which I will be sure to commandeer the moment the final buzzer sounds.
As the play rages on in the offensive zone, I squat low on my skates, relishing the familiar burn in my hamstrings, the fiery heat in my calves. I focus on the movement of my breath, the way the air soothes my aching lungs, resolving that I will get on the ice more often -
And then the puck hits me squarely on the forehead, pinballing back towards the centre line with tremendous force.
"Fuck my life," I groan, falling back onto my ass. I can feel the slickness of the ice seeping through my padded pants but, in that moment, nothing can distract me from what is sure to be a puck-sized hole in my cranium.
Thankfully, as if the universe has finally attuned to my pain and suffering, the buzzer echoes shrilly across the rink, signalling the end of my torment. Unfortunately, it also triggers a mob of sweaty, unfamiliar men to hoist me up off my haunches, encircling me in a hug far too familiar for the context. My skin aches, my sweaty forehead itches something fierce, and I undoubtedly have perfect circle indents across my entire coronal plane. The moment my patience evaporates - approximately five seconds, give or take - I wiggle myself free, ripping off my sticky helmet. I don't need a mirror to know my braid more closely resembles a haystack, and the tell-tale sting of my flesh hints at a beautiful display of fire-engine red skin.
Reluctantly, I allow one of the skaters to corral me into the line of handshaking players, resolving to dip out the very moment I reach the end of the queue. Every ounce of energy that remains in my aching body is devoted to propelling my tired feet forwards at an incremental pace; I hardly look at the opposition, and I doubt they look at me. The only thing I can think about is keeping my fatigued husk upright, and even that is a mission far beyond my calibre. Finally, I reach the end of the line, extending my gloveless hand for one last shake with the merciless winger -
And then he speaks, and the world tilts on its axis.
"Stanley?" he murmurs, his deep voice a mixture of confusion and wonder, a voice so smooth that it practically begs for me to look up at him.
I don't recognise him, but something about his wide-eyed expression makes me think he knows me, somehow - perhaps the monthly employee of the month Facebook post? - and the way he grips my hand almost reverently makes me want to know him.
It doesn't matter that I have to crane my neck almost one-hundred and twenty degrees to look at him, or that he has beaten my body senseless with the puck - actually, that part does matter.
"You hit me in the boob," I complain, shifting uncomfortably on my skates. "Nobody told me I needed chainmail."
His chocolate brown eyes widen, looking more contrite than a Catholic at Sunday Mass, and I resolve then and there that I will forever nominate myself for emergency goalie if this is the result. A stunningly attractive behemoth with all of the power of Gretzky, cupping my hand between his two hulking paws as if I am something breakable.
Score.
Before he can open that delectable mouth once more, one of his teammates coasts up behind him, clapping a firm hand on his shoulder. "Seth, c'mon, let's go -"
And then he stops, blades digging into the ice, his gaze rapidly flicking between me and Seth.
"Oh, shit."
A/N: More to come. You can expedite the process by dropping me a line in that tasty little review box. Shoutout to Riveriver for generously allowing me to cannibalise the opening scene of a long-forgotten draft.
Follow up A/N: Everyone give Riveriver a little smooch on the forehead for fixing this chapter (I work the poor lass to the bone). Also, if you're here because an email lied to you and said I updated, I AM SORRY.