Page 49 of Pucking the Grump

So why do I feel so hollow inside?

Chapter 14

Stone

“Come on up.” Remy’s voice crackles through the intercom outside her complex, grainy under the sound of the continuing rain. “Apartment door’s open.”

The thrum of angry music vibrates behind her words, all grinding bass and raw vocals. It’s something dark and industrial that I’ve never heard her play before.

Remy’s usually a jazz, world music, or indie folk-rock girl.

“You sure you’re okay?” I ask, but the buzzer is already blaring.

The elevator looks like it’s out of service, so I take the stairs, each step up to the third floor weighted with memories of tonight’s shitty family dinner.

I can’t believe Coach went there, flat out saying he didn’t think Remy had what it takes to land the Seattle job without help from people with more experience. I especially can’t believe he went there without preparing any of the parties involved. Call me crazy, but it seems like someone—me, Justin, or, I don’t know, his daughter—should have been given a heads up about his “pro coaching help” plan.

If he’d consulted his guests ahead of time, all the awkwardness and hurt of this evening could have been avoided. Any one of us could have explained to him that Remy didn’t need our help and, even if she did, this wasn’t the way to go about offering it.

Hell, he didn’t offer anything. He laid down the law and called the plays, the way he always does. But Remy isn’t one of his players, and we weren’t on the ice. As my niece would say, it was all “so cringe,” I could barely force down my food.

The way Coach dismissed everything Remy’s accomplished, dismissed her experience as a woman in the game, and blasted past her boundaries without even seeming to hear her…

Honestly, it was painful to watch.

I don’t understand why he can’t see the truth right in front of him. Remy is an incredible player, a kick ass coach, and an almost intimidatingly successful professional. Basically, she’s the last person who needs her daddy to step in and help her find her way. She’s a fucking powerhouse, more than capable of calling her own shots and charting her own course.

Coach should have been telling her how proud he was, not embarrassing her in front of people she works with every day.

No wonder she’s pissed off and busting out her angry music collection…

As I climb the stairwell that lets out not far from her apartment, the heavy beat echoes off the concrete walls. By the time I reach the third floor, I can make out the lyrics to “Head Like a Hole” by Nine Inch Nails.

Ouch. She’s cruised right over to the pitch-black side of the angsty rock spectrum…

When I reach her door, the music is loud enough to vibrate the bones in my chest. I let myself in, as directed, and…freeze in the doorway.

It looks like a bomb went off in the middle of her tidy apartment. Or like she was raided by an FBI team who’d been tipped off that she’s hiding national secrets in her hockey player memoir collection.

Remy moves back and forth in front of her usually pristine bookshelves, dressed in cutoff shorts and an oversized Portland State sweatshirt, pressing up on tiptoe in her bare feet as she methodically strips the top shelf bare. Half her books and trophies already litter the floor in chaotic piles, and she’s hard at work decimating the rest.

Her movements are efficient, controlled, but also quick and a little scary.

“Hey there, Bossy,” I call out over Trent Reznor’s scream-singing, aiming for a teasing tone. “Hope I’m not interrupting your rage cleaning. That’s my favorite kind. Only time cleaning is actually fun.” I pick my way around a mound of award plaques that once lined a lower shelf. “Well, maybe fun’s too strong a word, but at least…” I trail off, searching my database, but it’s been a long day, and the brain meat isn’t playing nice. “What’s that word?” I shout. “The one that means that you got all the feelings out?”

“Cathartic,” she shouts back without missing a beat or a step. “You can turn it down if you want. Remote’s on the coffee table.”

“Right, thanks,” I say, gratefully lowering Trent’s volume to a less ear-splitting decibel. When I’m done, I continue in a gentler tone, “Anyone ever tell you that you’re smart and pretty and look really hot in jean shorts?”

She shoots me a tight smile but doesn’t stop gathering books into her already heavily loaded left arm. Tension still vibrates in the air, dinosaur footsteps warning that the T-Rex is just around the corner and she’s pissed.

“Is there um…anything I can help with?” I ask. “Are we dusting or…”

“No, I’m not dusting. Or rage cleaning.” She dumps her latest load of books onto an already overflowing pile with a lack of concern for page and binding damage that is also out of character. “Just purging myself of shit that no longer serves. I’ve heard Stephanie say that at least a dozen times in yoga class, but I never really understood what it meant. At least, not at a deeper level.”

She pauses, chewing her bottom lip as she moves back to the shelf, approaching her MVP-Minnesota State Championships trophy, the largest in her substantial collection. “Now, I think I do. It came to me in a rush on the way home. All of a sudden, it was all so clear.” She swipes a rough thumb over the golden plate at the base of the trophy, where her full name—Artemis Leanne Lauder—is inscribed. “Do you know of any resale stores or charities that accept things like this as donations? Or should I just throw it away?”

“Hey, now, killer,” I say, starting toward the shelf. “Let’s put a pin in this for a second, okay? Talk this through a little before we head for the Dumpster?”

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