“Excuse me, I think you’ve got my stick bag.”
The voice was very deep and came from right behind me. I turned and crashed right into the chest of this young guy. Except for the frown on his face, he was kind of cute, with wide brown eyes, light brown hair and curling lips. But he looked young. No actually, he was a weird combination: his face looked about fourteen but his body looked like a man’s. He was tall, over six feet, and from what I could see through his clothes, slim but built.
“Don’t think so.” I replied. These old Bauer stick bags were pretty common, but mine was pretty beaten up, and I thought I recognized its war wounds. I flipped it over, looking for the luggage tag, but it was gone.
“No tags,” I observed. “Only one way to make sure.” I unzipped the bag, to reveal five Easton Stealths. Probably worth more than all my hockey equipment combined and definitely not mine.
“Whoa, nice twigs,” I said, handing over the bag. “Sorry about that.”
He raised his eyebrows in a skeptical way.
“What?” I exclaimed. “Did you think I was trying to steal your sticks?”
He shrugged. “You never know.”
“Oh, come on! As if I could tell you had good sticks in that old bag. Plus my stick bag looks exactly like that. Get real.” I was working up a good head of steam. “Besides, I have my own stick preferences. I wouldn’t even use your sticks.”
Well, I might if I could afford them, but he didn’t know that. The next special handling load arrived. An identical Bauer bag came sliding down the ramp.
“See, there’s my bag. Doesn’t it look exactly the same?” I pointed and turned around to find the guy laughing at me.
“Doesn’t take much to get you goin’.” He snickered.
“Oh, funny.” Maybe I did tend to fly off a little.
“Besides, you look cute when you’re mad.”
So original. “Not true,” I replied. I nestled the stick bag into the top of my hockey bag and got ready to go.
“No?” he asked.
“No, I look cute all the time.”
I took advantage of his stunned silence to take off. But I had a sneaking suspicion someone with hockey gear in July might be headed to exactly the place as me.
Burt Iverson had sounded a little wary when he interviewed me on the telephone. Deirdre gave me a glowing recommendation, but Burt wondered why I couldn’t find a hockey job closer to home.
“Lake Carswell sounds like a great camp, and I’m looking for a new experience,” I replied. No need to mention that I had applied to every hockey camp in B.C. and not even gotten an interview.
“Well, you don’t keep a camp running for twelve years without doing something right.” Burt cleared his throat. “Guess we’ll give you a try. It’s the first year we’re having girls, and we need someone to smooth out those ‘girly problems.’” He was an old-school hockey guy, so I let this go. At least he had started a girls’ section and hired me.
I ducked into the airport washroom. After travelling all day, I wished I could take a shower, but I settled for wiping myself down with wet paper towels, much to the amusement of a little boy waiting for his mom.
The New Brunswick weather smacked me in the face when I exited the airport. It was humid and hot. I took off my sweater and contemplated rolling up my cargo pants. I spotted the camp’s multi-passenger van idling and paying no attention to the no-stopping signs.
“Hi, I’m here for the camp,” I said to the driver. He was a youngish guy with a Habs cap and mirrored aviator sunglasses.
“How’s she going?” he asked with a big grin. “You must be Kelly Tanaker, eh? I’m Mark MacNeil. Trow your gear in the back and take a seat.”
I stood there and stared blankly. After two years with Deirdre, I didn’t think a Maritime accent was going to be a problem, but this guy spoke so fast, it sounded like one long, confusing sentence. I finally sorted out that he had greeted me, mispronounced my name, introduced himself, and directed me to do something.
“Okay,” I replied, after a long pause. He must have thought I was an idiot.
I went towards the back of the bus. There were two young guys in the middle and we nodded at each other. On top of the luggage, I saw a familiar Bauer stick bag. Oh great, him again.
I sat down in the middle section and looked out the window. He came bounding up to the bus, clutching a bottled water and a PowerBar.
“Thanks for waiting, Mac,” he said.
“No problemo, Freshy,” said the driver, swinging the door shut and taking off.
The young guy walked through the bus, looked at me, and did a big fake double take.
“I cannot believe this,” he said, grinning.
“What, that someone with hockey equipment would end up at a hockey camp?”
“No, not only did you take my sticks, but now you took my seat.”
“Does it have your name on it?” I challenged him.
He pointed, and too late I noticed his gray hoody on the floor at my feet. “Feel free to throw my stuff on the floor,” he jeered.
I picked up the hoody and dumped it on the seat in front.
“I’m sure you’ll find that seat equally comfortable.”
“I don’t know,” he said, looming over me. Did he want to sit beside me? This bus had lots of seats, no need to share mine. I plopped my pack on the seat beside me. He seemed okay, but kind of weird. Not my type.
Did I even have a type? Well, maybe like Phil: tall, dark, and fun. And this year, I had finally stuck a toe into the dating pool in Montreal. I met J.P. Denis at the rink. He was also tall, dark, and fun, but way more laid-back than Phil. So laid-back, he barely bothered to let me know he was moving back to Europe to play hockey. We weren’t that serious anyway, and J.P.’s departure hardly bothered me. We had fun while it lasted.
It took all of five seconds to relive my entire love life. In any case, I was here to get hockey experience and not to pick up guys. Especially not an L.B., I wasn’t into little boys. Besides, I wasn’t really getting a flirty vibe off him—more of a bratty little brother vibe. Although without his hoody, he looked even better.
He sat down in front of me and immediately turned around. He draped an arm over his seatback, an arm than was tanned and muscular with a bicep so big that it stretched out his t-shirt sleeve. I had time to notice this because he didn’t say anything for ages. His mouth fell slightly open, and he was thinking hard.
Finally, I felt sorry for him. “Hey, I’m Kelly Tanaka.”
“I’m Jimm—James,” he said. It sounded like he was going to say Jimmy, but wanted to switch to the more grown-up version of his name.
“Have you been to this camp before?”
“Yeah, when I was a kid. But I’ve taught there for two years now.” He paused again. “So, you’re not from around here.”
“No, I’m from Vancouver. You know, in beautiful British Columbia.”
“Yeah, I was just in Vancouver—in June.” He said that like it was some big accomplishment and not something anyone with a plane ticket could do. This guy was definitely weird. Too bad, because he was kind of cute. Maybe he was awkward because he was young.
“How old are you?” I wondered.
“How old are you?” he responded with a definite edge in his voice.
“Nineteen—with a birthday real soon.”
“Oh yeah, when?”
“July 21st.”
“So, then you’ll be twenty.”
Obviously a math major. “Yeah.”
My age seemed to stump him for a bit. Then he steered the conversation into a bizarre direction. “Your hair looks good like that.”
“Um, thank you.” That was something your girlfriend would say after you’d gotten it cut. Maybe they didn’t have scrunchies in New Brunswick?
There was another long pause, and I jumped in again. “I’m a winger, what position do you play?”
He snorted. “Oh, a winger. Float around near the goal and benefit from all the centre’s hard work.”
“Let me guess: you play centre.”
“Yeah. I’m on the top line at UMaine.”
That was bullshit. No way a guy this young was on the top line at a top school, although I still didn’t know his exact age. What was certain was that Jim-Jam was pretty conceited. I stopped pitying his lack of social skills and looked out the window. It was pretty, lots of green and occasional glimpses of rivers.
“So, are you the cook or something?” he asked.
“The cook? That is such a sexist assumption. I have hockey equipment, why wouldn’t I be a hockey instructor?”
He grinned, “I knew I could get you to talk if I got you mad again.”
I couldn’t help laughing; he was kind of funny in a goofy way.
“So, where do you play hockey? At a U.S. college?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I play at McGill.”
“Oh yeah? How good is McGill?”
“We’re good. I think we have a decent shot at the C.I.S. championship this year.” We came close last season, and most of our players were returning.
“Same here, last season, the Black Bears had our best—” He stopped talking and frowned. “Uh, do you like Taylor Swift?”
“She’s okay, I guess.”
“What’s your favourite movie?” What was it with all these random questions?
“Slapshot,” I replied.
“No way, really? I like that too. How about television, what’s your favourite TV show?”
“What is this, Twenty Questions? Why don’t we just talk about hockey? Did you watch the playoffs?”
“You want to talk about the playoffs? Really?”
“Yeah, did you not think the series momentum completely shifted when Conklin let in that goal?”
He nodded and we talked hockey for the rest of the bus ride. It saved the day.