Page 7 of On the Power Play

Jack chuckled. "I dated a girl from Quebec City once. I think she smoked more than you do."

André pulled on his pants, and his brow furrowed. "Not possible." As if to prove it, he pulled the carton of Marlboros from his pocket and slipped two behind his ear. Jack laughed and shook his head. He was going to miss the hell out of that dressing room.

He took time packing his equipment and zipping up his bag. When he had no other excuse to stand in front of his locker, he shrugged his black puffer coat on and slung the bag over his shoulder.

As he turned, Sean stepped over Ryan's gear on the ground and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Not so fast, bud." Sean motioned to Tyler, who was in the middle of pulling something out of his locker. Everyone on the team, including André, quieted.

"Had to get you something to remember us by.” Tyler lifted a swath of mustard yellow and teal green fabric.

Jack groaned. "Where did you get that?" It was the jersey he'd bought at the thrift store with Brett and Tyler the night of his initiation only a few months prior. He was ninety-nine percent certain he'd thrown that in the garbage after practice.

"We made some adjustments." Sean nodded, and Tyler turned it around. Jack's jaw dropped. His name was now stitched across the back instead of whatever player's name had been there before. Below the all-caps "Harrison" read the line, "Master at handling his stick."

Jack laughed out loud as Tyler strode forward to hand it to him. "How?"

Curtis snorted. "Sharla thought it was so nice we thought you were such an impressive stick handler."

The pieces clicked into place. Jack had been to enough Sunday Suppers to know Sharla Thompson, Sean’s mom, was a seamstress and a talented one at that. He’d seen the eighties ski coat she'd crafted from scratch for Curtis's birthday. "She did this?"

Sean nodded. "If you ever let it slip that I made her stitch a masturbation joke on a jersey, I'll tell Rhonda you have a micro penis."

"More of a chode, don't you think?" André called out, and the whole team chortled like they were noticing pubic hair in grade seven gym class. Turned out penis jokes were still funny whether you were twelve or twenty-nine. Maybe by fifty, they'd all grow out of it. He hoped not.

Jack looked up from the fashion disaster of a jersey and opened his mouth to say something, but his words stuck in his throat. If he’d spoken, he probably would’ve expressed how depressed he'd been leaving the AHL without a contract. Or the relief that washed over him when Sean reached out with an opportunity to hold onto the sport he loved, and then his trepidation before meeting the team. He would’ve admitted how much he'd needed the Snowballs and how much he was going to miss their practices and games. In the end, the only words he could get out were, "Thank you."

Heads nodded around the dressing room, and Jack threw his free arm around Sean, clapping him on the back. As he walked down the narrow aisle, he fist-bumped the rest of his teammates until he found himself standing in front of the door. He turned, nodded one final time, then exited into the hall.

_____

When Jack stepped into his sister's house, the aroma of roasted garlic potatoes hit him straight in the face. He took off his shoes, dropped his gear in the boot room, and walked into the kitchen to find his brother-in-law Oscar watching over slabs of meat sizzling in a cast iron pan.

"Hey." Oscar looked up and waved his spatula. "Any fans stalk you tonight?"

"Just two. They were waiting in the parking lot." Jack rounded the counter and rolled up his sleeves. It still felt surreal that people A, knew who he was, and B, cared enough to wait for him after practice to get his autograph. After his first pro game, he'd been recognized four times in the grocery store that same weekend. Now that word had gotten out about him officially signing with the Blizzard, he'd learned to expect that any stranger he interacted with knew his middle name and birthdate.

Jack washed his hands with soap and warm water. "How can I help?"

"You can chop some cucumbers for the salad. I already peeled them." Oscar motioned to the cutting board at his left.

Jack nodded and picked up the knife. It was Monday, which meant his sister Clara would've just gotten off her shift at eight. She should be home any minute. "How was work?"

"Worky."

Jack chuckled. "Tax deadline is coming up."

Oscar blew out a breath. "That's why we're having steak. I need something to remind myself that life is worth living."

"Plus, if you make steak on your night, I can get away with spaghetti on mine."

Oscar chuckled. "You made that last week, didn't you?"

"It was fettuccine. Keep it straight." Jack had barely sliced four cucumber rounds when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He dried his hands on the dish towel next to the sink, then pulled it out and, seeing Sean’s name, answered.

"Miss me that much already?"

Sean grunted. "Nonstop weeping since you left the dressing room."

"I figured." Jack leaned against the counter and watched Oscar shake steak seasoning over the seared meat.

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