Tangled Heartstrings

Forward James Neal shivers as the snow falling lands on his bare arms; the flakey substance coats the rooftops and the evergreen pine trees. It’s been falling at an alarming rate for about a week now in Pittsburgh causing the city’s villagers to be rather unpleasant. All you can hear regarding the weather are complaints, mountains of them.

A woman along the street sighs in frustration while scraping the ice off of her ruby red, 2013 Renault Clio. Meanwhile three doors down a loud grunt is heard from an older gentleman struggling to shovel the snow off of his laneway.

It’s safe to say that the only people who enjoy the brutal winter are the penguins. They thrive on it! That’s why number eighteen isn’t miserable standing on his front porch. Sure, he’s a little chilly and would benefit from a layer of clothing but all in all he’s embracing his morning breath of fresh air.

His attention directs across the street at his good friend and line mate’s house, Evgeni Malkin. The second line centre has his team beanie tucked over his forehead and a black trench coat wrapped around him. He paces frantically beside his vehicle which has the front hood lifted. The shaky breath being released from his chapped lips can be seen in the air. No matter what he does his car just won’t start.

“Geno, there’s no sense dwelling over it, you can load your stuff into my van and I’ll drive you to the Airport. “ James offers proceeding to get his spare key. He squats down, lifts up the floppy welcome mat lying down underneath of the door, and gets the shaped metal enabling him to drive.

Without a response he helps lift the two suitcases into the back of his ride. He knows that he won’t receive an objection. Geno can’t be more paranoid about missing his flight and has no other option. Expectedly, he accepts the empty seat and does up his seatbelt. Safety first!

“You crazy Nealer, you get sick without coat.” The Russian exclaims in broken English, not believing what he’s seeing. James is operating the van in nothing but running shoes, grey Roots jogging pants, and a black under armour t-shirt. Pieces of his most prized possession (Yes, his hair :) are still wet from his routine morning shower. Besides coffee, it’s the best thing to help wake him up.

“Relax; I won’t be going outside and the heat in here is on full blast.” That last reason’s true. The Whitby player has goose-bump-less skin and the penguin with the insulated coat is sweating like a pig.

“But what if car break down and you lost.” Geno counters as James makes a sharp turn around the corner. The squealing of the tires can be heard from a mile away.

“That’s what the emergency blanket in the back seat is for.” He tells him confidently. Back there there’s also a first aid kit and a set of spare tires that he remembered to put in there himself. That makes him proud. Generally, he’s a very forgetful guy who forgets to take off his skate guards if his teammates don’t warn him. As you can imagine, they haven’t told him a couple of times just for the hilarity of it. What’s funnier than watching your friend wipeout in the pro leagues?

“I must admit, for someone as bad driver as you, I'm impressed.” He confesses meaning for it to sound like a compliment. The key word in that sentence is meaning. James mouth hangs open and he crosses his left hand that’s removed from the wheel on his chest.

“I’m tremendously offended by your insult! I’m the best driver and you know it.” Simultaneously he gets distracted by the conversation at a green light only to have multiple drivers honk their horns behind him. The loud sound is jarring. James covers his ears for a split second to attempt to block out the noise and then proceeds straight down the road to the arena. The honking of the other cars stops causing him to inhale deeply.

Like he said though, he’s a good driver. “You distracted me.” He mumbles not wanting a response, Geno acts like a mind reader and doesn’t bring up the topic. Instead the duo rides in silence to the airport which thankfully isn’t too much farther. It’s a very awkward three minutes. Normally, the two have a lot to talk about and won’t shut up. This time they’re pleading to get out of the car, they both don’t know if they could have tolerated being confined for too much longer.
James helps his friend with his second suitcase. He follows behind him while dragging the bag on its wheels at his side.

Entering the building with the arched ceiling feels like nothing out of the ordinary, they know the place as well as they know their own homes. Spending hours on a plane is always on the daily schedule for a hockey player. Geno and the rest of the Olympic players however, will have to spend the most that they’ve endured in a long time. They have to fly from Pittsburgh to New York and then from New York to Sochi. It’s a number that even they don’t even want to attempt to calculate. Yikes!

“Hey Malkshake, over here!” Chris Kunitz calls out from the lobby where herds of penguins are currently sitting on the hard chairs. Some are slouching back in them. You’d think that pro athletes would have better posture.

“It’s the Koon” He yells out joining his teammates in the stiff, uncomfortable chairs. No announcement has been made for their flight to start loading as of yet. James sets down what he’s been lifting in the group’s trail of luggage to his right. All of the NHL team’s players participating in the Olympic Games are tightly bonded together, except for the Americans that is. They arrived in the big apple the previous day. It seems as though Brooks Orpik, Paul Martin, and their coach just couldn’t wait to pack up.

“I miss admit Nealer, you’re attire is flawless.” Rookie Olli Maatta teases. He fits right in with the guys and their crazy antics; he’s even able to start some jokes himself. What’s really astonishing is the fact that he’s nineteen, in his first NHL season and is already invited to the Winter Olympics. Talent speaks for itself as they say.

“I’m not going to Sochi; I’m just simply a source of transportation. I’m as comfy as can be while you guys are stuck in those preppy, dress shirts and ties that are strangling you around your neck.”

“I’ll admit that I am jealous that you’re still dawning your PJ’s at this hour but where’s your jacket?” Sidney questions taking on the fatherly figure. It’s quite naturally for him to play that role since he is the captain of the team. In his opinion, it’s his job to look after his teammates. He’s usually the one who will drive all of the guys who have had a little too much to drink home when the team goes out to the bar.

“At home on the coat hook, I didn’t anticipate that I would be driving anywhere. Geno’s car broke down so I’m privileged enough to be his escort. “James defends having nothing to hide. Part of him knows that eighty seven will find a way to make sure that he’s warm one way or another. This is Sid that we’re talking about here.

“How does a team Canada hoodie sound for you?” He goes right ahead and unzips his suitcase until one of his neatly folded sweaters is tossed into James’s hands. He pulls his arms through and gives a grateful nod towards the centre whose worry dies down. As the fleece presses up against his skin he closes his eyes and immediately feels better. It’s so warm! Also, it looks pretty good on him. The sweater’s a perfect fit and if there isn’t big black lettering on the back by the shoulder blades spelling out Crosby it could be easily mistaken for his.

“I hope you know that you’re never getting this back.” The Real Deal declares becoming attached to the piece of clothing. Some of the boys shake their heads and some laugh. Sidney doesn’t look too concerned about his sweater being kidnapped forever. A smile emerges from James’s face. He really did mean it when he said that he had full intention of keeping it to himself. Let’s just hope that no one calls him out on the fact that it’s really not his. Besides, the huge writing can’t be too noticeable, can it?

“Attention all passengers for flight 405 at 11:00am going from Pittsburgh to New York, your airplane is ready to be loaded and will departure momentarily.” The lady at the front desk with a headset announces. That would be their flight. A yawn is heard from Jussi Jokinen who stands up and stretches out his arms above his head. Slowly and reluctantly the Pittsburgh representatives make their way to their feet. It’s time!

“Don’t be nervous.” James pauses addressing Geno separately giving him some words of encouragement. It’s easy to tell that his hands are shaking and his arms are tucked making him look smaller. As an NHL player you face nerves a lot, they’re always there, but representing your country is something else entirely, they’re not just nerves anymore. “You’re fast, remember to use your speed and strength to split the D and then go in for the shot. Rip it as hard as you can, everyone knows that you can shoot. Don’t panic if it doesn’t go in the back of the net. Someone will be behind you to get the rebound.”

“Thanks Nealer. Do me favour and try to cook yourself.”

“I’ll try, though it won’t be as good as Paulie’s that’s for sure. Good luck in Sochi brother, crash it up out there. Just take it on easy on Canada would you?” He laughs and shakes his hand. James goes around to all of his teammates who are lucky enough to travel across the world to compete and offers them luck. Of course he spends more time wishing Crosby and Kunitz a good tournament. They’re his team for this one and he’s the audience, something that he’s not used to.

Everybody floods towards the terminal gate and wave’s one last goodbye. It suddenly hits James that they’ll be gone for three weeks while he’ll be in Pittsburgh with nothing but practices. Hockey games are out of the question. What will he do for the whole Olympic break? Most people would plead for that much time away from their jobs, James dreads it.

***********************************

Days pass by and James still hasn't made anything out of the February break. Everyday becomes more boring than the last and he's running out of stuff to do. Morning skates are increasingly appealing. He's always the first one in the dressing room and the last one to leave. Energy is continuously pouring out of the player as he gives them every ounce of fuel that he has. It's hard considering he hasn't eaten like a king.

Anything with instructions Lazy can cook. That includes chicken fingers, oven cooked pizza, Kraft dinner, and canned Italian wedding soup. As for rice, he tried but forgot to stir it continuously so it burnt and ended up being stuck at the bottom of the pot. He's still having trouble scraping it off. Anyway, it's easy to say that cooking's not his strong suit and being a pro athlete requires good eating habits.

Most of the time when he gets home from the arena he curls down on his leather couch, watches a little bit of TV, and ends up taking a nap. Somehow his increase in sleeping hours has made him more tired. Is that even possible? On the odd time that he's awake he finds himself drifting off to sleep. His eyelids will involuntarily slam shut, his muscles will lose tension, and he'll get tired of fighting for consciousness.

Geno calls him when he's in a deep slumber. The speaker on his IPhone sounds only to be ignored. James doesn't cringe, flinch, wince, toss and turn, or acknowledge the noise for that matter. He can't believe that he missed a call from his best friend.

As he sits in the dressing room on this ordinary Monday taking off his equipment he wonders what his line mate's doing right now. The hockey portion of the games doesn't start until later in the week. Chances are Geno's spending time with his family and exploring the Sochi village for the time being. He can imagine him in his winter coat with a canon camera swung around his neck by a strap taking photos of him, his parents, and his older brother in front of the mountain skyline. If his daydream is correct he's probably having a fun time.

"You don't appear to be in a real hurry Nealzy?" Brandon Sutter snaps him out of his thoughts. It's not until now that he realizes that everyone else is almost done getting undressed while he's still untying his waxed skate laces. They're gripped tightly in the inner palm of his hand.

Suddenly his cheeks turn bright red.

"I just dozed off I guess." His voice comes out raspy while he tugs his right skate off of his size ten foot. "Am I really that slow compared to you guys?"

"Yeah I'd say so, half the team's already evacuated and went home. Tell you what though, when you're done come join Kris and I in the lounge."

"I'll try to be as fast as I can." He says feverishly sliding his equipment off, this is the longest that it's taken him by a landslide.

"Don't worry about it, we have to wait for Duper to get done his physical anyhow. Take your time and cool off if you need to. We're not going anywhere." Brandon leaves him on that note and exits the room with his hands in his jean pockets. The room's empty except for him.

Once he's removes the equipment that he's dawning and has changed out of his soaking wet under armour he enters the team bathroom. It has a large white sink with a vanity stretching along the whole left side of the wall with a rectangular mirror parallel right above. He runs the sink until the water's cold and places his gym bag so that it's touching the hard surface.

His hands dig through his carry-on. A tube of deodorant, a bottle of axe cologne, and a container of liquid soap arises in the center of his hand. He washes under his arms, sprays the substance over his chest, and splashes water on his overheated face. Ahh, that's better! When he's done he curls his long sleeve t-shirt over his neck and straightens it over his stomach. Relief pours over him now that he's finally ready to meet his teammates.

He exits the empty locker room and heads down the hallway. On the way he hands Dana, their equipment manager, his hockey bag. The organisation insists on washing all the padding at least once a day. They tried going longer without doing it. Long story short the smell was so unbearable that Dan took the liberty of purchasing the whole team nose plugs.

Finally he reaches the team's hangout where he finds Brandon and Kris sitting on top of bar stools in front of the marble countertop. Their topic of conversation is interesting for lack of better word.

"If we were all girls what would our names be?" Brandon purposes for discussion. Once again he proves why he has the mind of a pure genius.

"Hmm, well I would be Krista and you would be Briana, and James would be Jamie."

"Or Brandie, that one's a bit closer. " James contributes to the conversation. After he finishes his sentence he travels to the fridge behind them. At this point it feels like two hands are pushing between his ribs and his dehydrated throat resembles a dry dessert. He finds a leftover chicken Caesar salad wrap in a plastic container and a yet to be opened carton of milk.

The team's cooled white box contains tons of meals. On the bottom two shelves are rows of Gatorade, milk, and protein shakes. Workers place all of the beverages and food in there immediately, before games they have cooks who will prepare a buffet. It's always a race to see who will get there first. Usually it's innocent Flower who has an alarm set on his IPhone for five minutes prior to when it gets set out. Casually he waits next to the room to be first in line.

While Nealer opens the microwave and inserts the delicious not-yet-eaten meal to be heated Kris lends him a hand. The French Canadian pours the milk in to the glass cup. Collectively they decide to speak over the obnoxious humming of the machine. Their voices increase in volume as they discuss.

"Evgeni would be Evelyn, Coach Dan would be Danielle, and Sidney would be" Brandon pauses and chokes trying to contain his laughter. Finally he manages to get it out. "Sydney!!"

"Speaking of Sidney team Canada plays their first game tonight." The Norris trophy candidate reminds them.

"Yeah, hopefully we can make it to our second straight Olympic gold medal. Our hockey club dominates."

"Excuse me." Suttsy says a little bit too offended. His voice squeaks out and his eyebrows raise, it's not his country that they're referring to. "You guys can pretend that you're the gods of the game but once America wins the tournament you'll be admitting to me that you were wrong."

"Yeah right." The two north of the boarder exclaim in harmony, both seething with confidence.
"You may have won last year but that means nothing. While you're country's been sitting around everyone else has been at work attempting to catch up. Think about it, we took you all the way to overtime four years ago. Now's different; improvement is key."

"Enough of all of this bickering, you sound like a bunch of old ladies. Cut it out." Pascal joins in limping over to them, his face exemplifies pain. Poor guy! "End of discussion, you want to know why; Brandon you're being stupid. We'll win once again and prove to you why we're at the peak of the ladder."

"I'd love to see that." He crosses his arms as the entree gives multiple high fives to his fellow Canadians. Duper walks over to the couch, elevates his leg across the piece of furniture, and positions himself so that he's facing his teammates. Meters may separate them however he feels by himself. Meanwhile The Real Deal shoves his snack into his mouth and chews loudly with his mouth sealed. The lettuce moisturizes his esophagus and fills his empty void.

"Hi guys." Marc Andre Fleury greets making himself an addition to the pack. They're shocked to see him as they figured he would be long gone on his drive home.

"Great, another person from Maple Syrupland."

"Looks like you're outnumbered four to one now buddy. Are you ready to surrender to us and not argue anymore? All of what you're telling us is invalid." James explains taking a break from
devouring what's on his plate, crumbs layer the dish.

"Yeah, I'll keep my totally correct opinion to myself if that's what you mean."

"Can you at least agree that we're going to beat Norway tonight?" Duper compromises. He's used to taking the role of the problem solver. With the number of kids belonging to him and his wife it would be surprising if he didn't have that amount of control given his authority.

People have a lot of respect for number nine. If he hands out orders to his children they follow them without any questions asked. Guys on the team never prank him. Typically Marc Andre's the master mind behind the shenanigans and Nealzy is the victim. No one ever suspects it if Pascal commits the crime.

"Yeah I wouldn't bet against them, I was planning on watching the game myself."
"I've been looking forward to it all month, Flower and I made plans to go to the sports bar down on Main Street. You're welcome to come if you desire." Tanger extends the invitation looking towards James and Duper.

"Oh and Flat Stanley feel free to accompany us as well. We don't discriminate against location of origin you know." Flower adds pulling his hands through his soft locks. The group straggling around after practice contains quite a few members with model worthy hair.

"Yeah since you don't own a team sweater I can lend you one. I have extras, Sidney lent me one of his."

"No thanks, I would be betraying my homeland and I would never forgive myself. I may dress in red though to cheer you guys on in secret."

"Suit yourself. Just so you know though, Norway's colour is also red so you may get confused for supporting the other side." Kris reminds him noticing his error. Brandon hangs his head for a split second until his neck feels like a toothpick supporting a bowling ball.

Running out of things to talk about they evacuate the arena and part ways until later on. James hops into his car and drives home on the slippery roads assuring himself he'll make it home safely. Sure enough he does without any infractions of the law. Prior to shutting off the vechile he takes note of the time. In a couple of hours he'll be occupied and be freed of his eternal boredom.

Notes

I hope that was an okay first chapter, they're always the hardest to write. Let me know what you think and I hope that you like it :)
-LazyPens