Page 3 of Off Side
SAM
My minor revelation silences the mountain man. Good. Never underestimate a Maxwell. I hate when people, men especially, think they can brush me under the rug or pat me on the head and say, “There, there.” Fuck that. If there is one thing Grandpa taught me, it is to hold my ground and not allow people to walk all over me. I’m good at that…unless it concerns the men I choose to become involved with. That’s when I let my common sense and good judgement take a vacation. It’s also what sent me running from Minnesota. I made the worst judgment call of my life, but that particular road is one I won’t have to go down ever again.
Mountain man is pretty quiet. He looks shocked. His mouth is opening and closing, and he keeps blinking and widening his eyes again. Maybe he’s more than shocked. Horrified, maybe? Whatever it is, it doesn’t appear to be a good thing for me, especially when he starts to look a little green. Is he going to throw up?
I’m about to apologize and ask him if he’s okay when he blurts, “You’re Sam Maxwell.” Not a question, a statement about who I am. He’s wiping his palms on his pants like he’s afraid I’ve passed him the plague. What the hell is that about?
“Yep,” I replied, popping the P and lifting an eyebrow in question, silently asking, do you have a problem with that?
He seems to know who I am…I think. “Shit. I mean fuck. Wait, that’s not any better. Shit!” He hasn’t told me his name yet, but he seems pretty freaked out since hearing my name. Weird.
“Okay...is there a problem with that?” I ask. “What’s your name? You haven’t said, and that’s usually what people do when they meet others.” I give him my winning smile, dialing down my irritation a tad, and wait.
He’s staring at me with his mouth hanging slightly open. I think he’s in shock. Or maybe he’s having a seizure? Either way, I’m not sure what to do. It’s not like I’m really main stream sports material news, so I don’t think he’s awed by who I am in the NCAA.
Sure, my hometown updates my doings periodically, and there are pictures around the arena of me as a kid, but nothing crazy. It’s not like he can be star struck or anything. My grandfather probably told anyone who works here about me, and it’s not like my name is unusual. So, what’s with his reaction?
OMG! Can I have something in my teeth? I quickly shut down the smile, just in case. God, why is this so awkward? I’m a people person. This has never been hard before, but this guy is making me second-guess everything, including if I’m wearing matching shoes. I glance down to make sure. Yep, I’m wearing my bunny slippers because they are comfortable to drive in, and my feet won’t sweat like they do in my boots. Wait, maybe that’s the problem? He probably thinks I’m weird because I’m wearing slippers in public? He’s not wrong, I suppose. Still, what is his problem here?
“I have to get the ice cleaned,” he says and practically runs back to the Zamboni. Nice ass in those jeans. Too bad he seems a bit off. This is not how my first day back in town is supposed to go. If he’s the Zamboni driver, I will definitely see him again in the future.
However, with the team about to make their entrance, I’m going to make myself scarce. They aren’t expecting me until tomorrow, and I need some time to come to grips with my new reality before meeting them.
I should probably also appear a tad bit more professional, and I really need a shower. Time to do the next hard thing: going to my grandpa’s farm.
DREW
As I drive the Zamboni around the ice, a bit too quickly, all I can think about is how angry at Old Tom I am for not giving me a heads up about his heir…his granddaughter…the Sam Maxwell. I mean, he talked about his granddaughter all the time and called her Sammy and all that. I just didn’t make the connection since the last names were different.
I should have listened more, asked more questions. But I didn’t. I came and helped Tom with the horses and spent time with an old man I admired. For me, it was and is only about the horses. Mostly, I kept to myself, and I’m kicking my own ass for being so bloody stupid. I checked out of hockey after my injury and didn’t care to really talk about anything that had to do with it, but four months ago, Tom was told his cancer was terminal. He had six months left, tops. Rather than panic and cry in the corner, the old guy made sure he had his affairs in order and contacted everyone who had a part to play after he was gone. Except Sam. He didn’t clue her in on the entire plan unfolding, and as a result, it looks like I’m going to be caught in the middle. Something I am not too keen on.
What’s my part? Oh, you know, nothing huge at all. I only have to live in the house with her and basically be her nurturer for the rest of the season as well as help with the horses. And the damn donkeys. Have to say, I’m not that kind of ass man. They don’t really like me either. Takes one to know one I suppose, or something like that. But, if I can follow through as stipulated, Tom left a sizeable amount of money to me, so I can start up a therapy program that uses his horses. That’s the carrot dangling in front of me to get through all this. It’s the future I’ve dreamed about since the NHL flew out of my grasp. For some reason, Old Tom thinks I will be good for Sam and help her grieve, but I’m not too sure about that.
When that tiny spitfire in the rabbit slippers introduced herself as Sam, it blindsided me. I hadn’t had a chance to even Google her, even though I’d planned to, wanting to know what she looked like so I could avoid the scenario that just happened. That would have been nice. I didn’t know she is a hot little number that would be testing all of my patience.
I recall overhearing some players say she was caught doing something sketchy with a player in Minnesota and lost her officiating title. I want and need to get an idea of where she is at and what kind of trouble she got into. I don’t want to trip on any unintentional landmines, which means avoiding any hysterics and, of course, ensuring my part of the inheritance isn’t jeopardized.
I saw her leave the rink before the players arrived. I guess she decided not to introduce herself to them yet. I don’t want the complication of dealing with a woman and feelings and all that garbage. I mean, sex is fine, who wouldn’t want sex? I just don’t want any attachments except to the horses. They get me. They know my moods, and it’s so easy with them. I was not gifted with the ability to be the smooth operator with the fairer sex, as evidenced by my freak out at her introduction and running off to the Zamboni. At least I had decent looks to make up for my sometimes awkwardness with women. I have to live with the woman for at least the next seven months, and I’ve already come across as a bit of an asshole. I didn’t even give her a heads up that we would occupying the same dwelling for a time. Oops.
With an enormous sigh, I make sure the Zamboni is clean and put away before I head to my truck. I need to get home to take care of the horses and do the farm chores.
I pull into the now familiar driveway and see what I can only assume is Sam’s truck in the yard. She’s more than likely inside and coming to terms with not seeing her grandpa in his familiar recliner. I know it took me awhile to adjust. Glancing from the house to the barn, I move toward the animals. I need at least forty-five minutes to deal with the horses and chores. Hopefully, by then, she has had enough time to mourn a little, adjust, and pull herself together because while it might make me an asshole, I don’t wish to walk into anything messy, like Sam crying. I’m not ready to handle that kind of responsibility tonight.
