Page 12 of Fall Wherever They May

“This is where the kids your age hang out while their parents are working,” she says to Tucker, then she directs her attention to me and gives me a wink. I’ve expressed my concern to her over bringing him with me, but this puts my mind at ease.

With a chuckle, Hannah adds, “You can also find a man-child or two in here from time to time.”

“Mom, can I stay here?”

“That’s fine. Just don’t run around.” I look to Hannah.

Hannah sets up the big screen for Tucker and shows him how to switch to different gaming consoles and games. With him situated, we continue our tour. She first takes me to the ice, then we take a path through another hallway to a corridor housing several offices. A man walks out of a door and locks it behind him. Hannah turns to introduce us.

“Coach, this is Aspen Taylor. Aspen, this is the head coach, Luke Jenkins.”

“Aspen. It’s so nice to meet you.” He shakes my hand.

“You too, Coach Jenkins.” As I say his name, it registers that their last names are the same.

“You can call me Luke . . .”

“Jenkins?” My brows furrow, and I look between them.

“Yep. He’s my dad,” Hannah says, chuckling nervously and clasping her hands together.

Now that she’s mentioned it, I see the resemblance. Luke Jenkins doesn’t look old enough to be a head coach of a pro hockey team, though his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. He has brown hair with an auburn tint and browneyes that are the same as hers, but this guy doesn’t look like a father of a woman in her twenties. He’s built, like muscles so big that maybe even those muscles have muscles.Aren’t coaches supposed to be old and have potbellies or something?

My fingers twist together, my nerves getting the best of me. Even though I feel like an idiot with what I’m about to tell him, I might as well let him know the truth. He’s going to figure it out eventually. “You know, I’ll be honest with you, Coach. I’m extremely nervous and out of my depth here. I don’t know anything about hockey.”

“No need to feel nervous,” he reassures me. “We have a great team and staff willing to help you with whatever you need.” He winks at his daughter.

“I’m going to take her to meet Dr. Winslet; I know he’s been waiting.”

“It was nice meeting you, and I’m looking forward to the team meeting this afternoon.” I shake his hand again.

“You too, Miss Taylor. I’m glad you’re finally here,” he says, taking my hand in his and shaking it again.

On our way to the team doctor’s office, we pass floor-to-ceiling windows that allow a complete view of the incredibly large weight room. Hannah leads us inside. Televisions are strategically placed on every wall. A sound system is mounted to the ceiling. As we travel the length of the weight room, my vision snags on what looks to be four hot tubs.

“The two in the back are hot tubs, and the two in the front are the cold tubs,” she informs me.

We exit the weight room and enter into. . . well, I don’t know exactly what this room is. If the red file cabinets tightly pressed together were anything to go by, I would guess it’s a file room, but the location doesn’t make sense. Hannah crosses the room and comes to a stop in front of a keypad mounted nextto a door, where she types in a series of numbers and special characters.

“Voilà!” She says, as shelves begin to electronically shift and glide along the tracks on the floor.

As they widen, we are given access to rows upon rows of hockey equipment.Um, what now?My mouth is literally hanging open.

“Pick up your jaw, Aspen.” She laughs, “I warned you that you would be mind blown.

These storage units contain custom, individualized hockey equipment for each player. See the bin numbers?” I nod. “When they need something, they type in their code, press pound, then type in the bin number containing what they need and press star. When they’re ready to exit, they type their code into the keypad and press the pound button. The units then move back together and lock.”

Hannah opens the door next to the keypad, and we stroll into the adjoining locker room. In the center of the room, attached to the ceiling, hangs a large Blaze logo. Hockey uniforms are clean and hung in stalls. Designated places inside and outside the stalls hold equipment.

Something catches my attention, and I stop in front of the nearest stall, brushing my bottom lip with my thumb as I study the open cubicle. My eyes trail up to a gold nameplate above. Lukov C. My eyes travel back to what originally caught my attention. I point. “Are those air vents in the stalls?”

“After the uniforms are washed, they’re hung to dry in each of the players stalls. Every stall has a heat source drying vent. That’s not all.” She tilts her head to the stall. “Go smell his jersey.”

I point to said jersey with raised brows. “You . . . you want me to stick my nose in a stranger’s uniform? That’s just . . . weird,” I release a nervous laugh.

“Oh, just do it,” she goads.

I stand statue-still in my place, refusing to budge.

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