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“You set him up for it, you know that, right?” Fiona says. “I just want to establish that here. You literally called yourself an obnoxious interloper. That’s not even low hanging fruit, that fruit is dragging in the dirt.”
“I know I set him up for it,” Holden hisses. “But now I am sitting in Georgie Dineen’s bathroom because if I look at him right now I am going to punch him.”
It’s a stupid nice bathroom, and Holden guesses if he has to be stuck in a bathroom it will do, but he’d rather be out enjoying the beautiful day and also punching James Erickson in his stern fucking mouth. Unfortunately there’s an obstacle.
“No punching anyone holding a baby,” Fiona says. “I also want to establish that. Or even like, baby adjacent. Do not involve a baby.”
The baby is the obstacle, yes.
“I know!” Holden says. “See: sitting in a bathroom!”
Someone knocks, and not for the first time.
“Use the downstairs one!” Holden says. It’s like no one knows an upstairs bathroom’s purpose is for hiding, fuck.
“Babe,” Fiona says. “How big is the backyard.”
“What kind of backyard do you think six million gets you in Hartford,” Holden says.
“So it’s massive, then?” Fiona says.
“Stupidly,” Holden says. “I think he might even own the woods behind it. Can you do that? Should you? I don’t think people should own the woods, that’s just me, I think trees should be for everyone.”
“Can you go back out without having to talk to him?” Fiona asks, refusing to be derailed.
“Yeah, probably,” Holden says. “But I’m going to have to play on a damn line with him tomorrow, and I don’t know how well not talking’s going to go for that. I know it’s just a preseason game, but still.”
“Let’s just work on today right now,” Fiona says. “Leave the tomorrow problems for tomorrow Holden.”
Holden grumbles but allows it. It’s not like that isn’t his typical philosophy anyway.
“Get back out there,” Fiona says. “Talk to your teammates who aren’t jerks. Don’t punch Erickson.”
“What if he isn’t holding the baby anymore,” Holden says. “Or baby adjacent. What if he’s out of baby range?”
“Punching your captain is not a good idea, babe,” Fiona says.
“He’s a shit captain anyway,” Holden mutters.
“Sounds like it,” Fiona says. “But still.”
“Feel like I should lead a mutiny,” Holden says.
Fiona laughs, which mollifies him a little. “No mutinies either!”
“We’ll see,” Holden says.
Holden makes it through the rest of the afternoon without punching James or gathering the bottom six and ‘tweeners around to stage a coup, which he thinks says a lot about his restraint. Also the size of Georgie’s backyard, honestly — he thinks he could genuinely get lost in it, and he isn’t even including the woods that may or may not be Dineen property.
He’s day drunk when he gets home, the worst of the drunks — he had to do something that didn’t involve mutinous violence. An intended nap before dinner turns into waking up in the middle of the night, mouth dry and sour, and no amount of trying is going to make going back to sleep happen. Not on game day, the first of the season — he doesn’t give a shit if it counts or not, a game’s a game, unlike the scrimmage shit he’s been subsisting on during the offseason — not when Fiona’s coming.
He’s sleep deprived but wired as hell when he gets to XL, goes too hard on the exercise bike and walks around after like a sailor on dry land after, dodging the players kicking the ball around and whatever weird shit the goalies have going on until his phone buzzes, Fiona letting him know she’s there early, and there better be Holden Chase jerseys at the team store or she’s repping the Bs. Now Holden feels bad he didn’t shoot a jersey her way along with the rugs.
“You are not supposed to be here,” Fiona says. “Go back to your locker room.”
Holden’s getting mixed signals, here, considering she’s saying it into his chest after shrieking his name and then leaping right into his arms. Not that he’s complaining.
“Baby girl,” Holden says. He buries his face in her hair, which smells like roses, like the bathroom after she’d finished using it, all steamed up and garden lush. He had a shower of his own, off the master, but the shower head was shit, and he never got around to doing anything about it, so they shared a bathroom for years. She smells like home.
“Down now,” Fiona tells him, and Holden reluctantly lets go, smile dropping when straightens up to see her boyfriend. He can’t blame her for bringing him along, knows it’s probably less boring to do the drive, the game if she’s got company, and it’s not like Holden can do it.
“Hey Holden,” Fiona’s boyfriend says. Holden’s completely forgotten his name again, and he really hopes that won’t shortly become obvious. “Good to see you.”
“Hey,” Holden says. “Thanks for coming.”
He wasn’t aware Mystery Name was coming, but that’s on Fiona, not him, so he’s not going to be a dick about it. He thinks his name starts with a T. Tom? No, it’s something real Boston, like Jimmy or Jack or —
“Sean has family in Bridgeport,” Fiona says. “So he drove me. You mind if I crash with you tonight?”
Holden flashes Sean a more genuine smile. “Obviously not. Thanks man, you sticking around for the game?”
“Can’t, but I’ll be back to pick Fiona up tomorrow around lunch, if that’s cool,” Sean says.
“For sure,” Holden says
“I’m not a package,” Fiona says. “You guys don’t have to work out the handoff.”
“It’s more like a custody arrangement,” Sean says, and Holden laughs.
“Okay, I officially don’t like it when you two get along,” Fiona says.
“We always get along,” Holden says. “Right Sean?”
“Absolutely,” Sean says. “Text me the address later, Fee. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t,” Fiona says.
“You always forget,” Sean says. “Holden, don’t let her forget.”
“Man, I’m worse than she is,” Holden says. But he gives Sean his address, along with a warning that if he idles more than two minutes in the car park, numerous people are going to start interrogating him about what business he has there. Holden’s delivery drivers so often arrive with horror stories. He really needs to find somewhere else to live. The last time he blasted music he got a letter under the door about sound torture and noise bylaws. It was four in the afternoon — he wasn’t even being a dick, just trying to use a soundtrack to motivate him to finally unpack some of his kitchen shit so he didn’t have to order delivery all the time. It didn’t work. Also now he’s at war with 306, and his no doubt outrageous sodium intake is entirely their fault.
“I’m going to score a goal for you,” Holden says after Sean leaves. The warning turned into a recap of his incredible time in a building where the median age is the same age pension kicks in, and they got interrupted every minute or so by someone asking if Holden can sign something for them, and now he’s going to get asked where the fuck he got to when he gets back to the room. But priorities: Fiona has to know his first goal’s for her.
“You’re going to score a goal for your own ego,” Fiona says.
“But I’m going to say it’s for you,” Holden says, then makes a heart with his hands. “All you, baby.”
“Get out of here,” Fiona laughs, but he refuses to move. “I’m not going to do it.”
“You are,” Holden says. “If you want me to make my game on time.”
“Fine,” Fiona says, and makes a heart back.
*
It’s 6:07 into the first when Holden scores his first goal as a Whaler. He has no idea where the fuck Fiona is, but he has full confidence, wherever she is, she’s screaming her guts out right now.
“Nice fucking start, Chaser,” Georgie says. “Absolute beauty of a goal.”
“Yeah, it was, wasn’t it,” Holden says, and ignores the sound of disgust from James, sitting beside him. It’s not like he didn’t get the primary assist on it, nice fucking pass that became a beauty fucking goal.
The game’s a bit of a letdown after that, at least on the score sheet. Holden doesn’t manage anything the sole time he gets out on the power play, the Whalers get scored on when he’s in the box for the softest trip in history, and their bottom six make a few rookie mistakes that get capitalized on. Which, whatever, they’re literally rookies in some cases. There’s a reason preseason games don’t mean shit, though he’s privately counting that goal. Inaugural goal of the Whalers season. That has to mean something.
The mood’s generally loose after, except among some of the rookies who made those rookie mistakes, are seeing their careers flash before their eyes. He considers going over to tell them it could be worse, that in Holden’s rookie preseason he managed an own goal, and look at him now, but Finn gets there first, and he’s probably better at the pep talk thing. Shit always seems to go sideways when Holden tries.
There’s some kind of loose meet-up getting discussed, but as far as Holden can tell, none of the vets are going, which means it isn’t team official shit, and Holden’s got to get home to his girl. Or go home with his girl. Whichever.
“You scored for me!” Fiona says, waiting in front of the now dark box office. She’s acquired a Whalers jersey with his name on it and a bag of cotton candy since he last saw her. The fact that she’s only eaten half of it says so much about her strength of character.
“I told you I would,” Holden says. “Sick jersey, you want that signed?”
“Hell yeah, bet I could make some big money on Ebay,” Fiona says. “Pink or blue?”
“Baby blue,” Holden says. He regrets it a little when he’s sucking his fingers clean so he doesn’t get his steering wheel all sticky, but also: cotton candy. Shit should come with wet wipes though, for real.
Fiona feeds him the remaining cotton candy — only at red lights, because safety first — and tells him about the family sitting beside her during the game, who of course are her new best friends.
“Their son Hudson says you’re his new favorite,” Fiona says. “Think you could send him something? I got their address.”
“I bet I became Hudson’s new favorite when my best friend sat down beside him,” Holden says. “But yeah, duh.”
“Their daughter said you’re a goon,” Fiona tells.
Holden barks out a laugh. “I’ll send her shit too. Bet she’d prefer something from Erickson though.”
“She was wearing an Erickson jersey,” Fiona says. “So don’t worry about it, she’s set.”
“I am the opposite of surprised,” Holden says. They reach the longest light in the state, and for once, Holden doesn’t mind, because that just means more time for cotton candy.
He drops Fiona off at the front doors before he goes to park — the parking garage elevator is out of service half the time, and she’s got heels on, even if they’re what she calls the ‘sensible’ kind. It’s a good thing he does, since the elevator isn’t working once again. His legs feel watery, weak: twenty minutes of ice time after a whole lot of nothing will do that.
“I have gotten at least seven weird looks,” Fiona says when he finally gets to the lobby. “And I’m being conservative, here. I think someone pretended to get their mail just so they could get a better look at me.”
“Wanted to give you the authentic experience,” Holden says. “Let you know I wasn’t exaggerating about the neighbors.”
“You need to move, babe,” Fiona says, as a couple Holden’s pretty sure live on his floor walk out of the elevator. Holden gives them a loose wave, and gets head shakes and scowls in answer.
“I’m making friends,” Holden tells her.
“They seem lovely,” Fiona says.
They order food, watch a movie, chill shit Holden could be doing any other night, but Fee’s here, so it’s the best night he’s had since he got here. She’s yawning not long after midnight, and that makes sense, considering her work schedule, but it feels like she just got here.
“If you want to go to bed—“
“Please,” Fiona says. “I can sleep all day tomorrow.”
“Well, let me know if I’m keeping you up,” Holden says.
He feels weird saying that, because she never had to do that at home — she’d just say ‘night’ and peace out to her room, if she was even up; nights where he got home late because the boys went out to celebrate, she often wasn’t, not if she had to work in the morning. Nobody had to announce themselves or anything, just do as they like, when they like. Fiona as his guest feels weird, like putting on something that no longer fits.
“You look tired,” Fiona says.
“I look like warmed over shit,” Holden says.
“Well, I was trying to be nice about it,” Fiona says, and Holden laughs and flops down, putting his head in her lap.
Fiona’s hand starts carding through his hair, and Holden’s eyes drift closed. Tired, but not the right kind, not yet. But that’s fine, because she’s here, so he doesn’t want to go anywhere. “You need a hair cut,” she says.
“I know,” Holden says. “I’ll get one next time we play in Boston.”
“Not until November,” she says.
“Fine, I’ll get one in New York,” Holden says. They’re going to spend practically as many nights there as they in Hartford over the next month. Not that he’s complaining. He likes New York. Who doesn’t? Better than Hartford, anyway.
“May as well find someone around here,” Fiona says. “It’s home now.”
“Yeah,” Holden says. “I guess.”
“How’s it been, really?” Fiona asks. “Other than your charming new neighbors and your captain being a conceited dick.”
“It’s been fine,” Holden says. “The team’s nice. Everyone’s nice.”
Fiona’s hand pauses. “You don’t have to talk about it.”
“I’m literally talking about it right now, Fee,” Holden says. “And have talked about it with you practically every day.”
“I know,” Fiona says, but it still sounds like she’s waiting for something. When he opens his eyes she’s looking down at him, her listening face on. Head slightly to the side, ‘I don’t judge’ expression. And she doesn’t, he knows. Not him, at least. Sidewalk hogs and shitty coworkers and the antivax Boy Moms taking over her lunch hour yoga classes, sure, but not him, not even when she has every right to, more right than anyone.
“What do you want me to say?” Holden says. “You don’t need to tell me this is something else I’ve fucked up, I already know that.”
“I wasn’t going to say that,” Fiona says.
Of course not. Just like she’d never say that he looked like warmed over shit. Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.
“You know you’re the only person in Boston I’ve heard from in weeks?” Holden says. Tries to laugh, but it doesn’t work out that way. “It’s like I was never even there.”
“Oh babe,” Fiona says, and when he rolls over, pressing his face into her stomach, she starts stroking his hair again, slow, even, and unbearably gentle, and neither of them say a thing after that, not for a very long time.