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Seraphina looked at this Gordon Stash, taking a mental picture of him in order to remember who he was.  In terms of size, the man was colossal.  He had the broadest shoulders Seraphina had ever seen on any living human being and he had to be at least six foot six at the very least.  His wild curly black hair was hidden underneath his helmet, and from her sitting position, she couldn’t make out the color of his eyes.  The moustache that he apparently was so well-known for rested just above his top lip like a sun-bathing caterpillar might and it only added to his intimidating presence.  Seraphina was absolutely certain that if she threw on Stash’s jersey, it would probably reach her calves.

And just like that, the man known for his fighting got into a scrap with another Shark.  Even though she had been watching him, she couldn’t figure out what had caused the fight. 
Probably some words or something.  But soon enough, both opponents tossed their gloves were on the ice, and Gordon extended that long arm in order to grab the Shark’s jersey before getting a couple of punches on him.  The whistle was blown and this fight was broken up much quicker than Alec’s.  Seraphina guessed it had something to do with Stash’s size, even though the match seemed relatively even.

But it was Stash who was sent to the penalty box, which meant the Sharks now had a good opportunity to score on their power play.

More defensemen than forwards now littered the ice, with Kyle Underwood being the only offensive player killing the penalty.

Michael Thompson managed to stop a potential goal by dropping his body and sliding in front of the shot.  The puck ricocheted off Thompson’s chest pad.  Kyle moved to clear it, but he didn’t reach the puck fast enough.  A Shark forward managed to get it around Kyle and passed it to his right wing
who, because of Kyle’s offensive tactic, was left open.  The right wing had enough time to settle the puck the down and shot it into the net.

Sam Miller, filling in for Brandon Thorpe, appeared as though he didn’t even realize he had been shot on, let alone scored on. 

Seraphina knew that Brandon Thorpe, had he been on the ice, would have made that save.  He just saw things no one could possibly see, making saves that should otherwise be goals.  And she could tell by the distraught look on Miller’s face that he knew this as well.

“Don’t let it get to you, kid,” Seraphina murmured under her breath.  Miller was probably no more than eighteen or nineteen.  He needed to keep his confidence up, needed to brush this off.

The penalty ended abruptly, and play resumed.  Seraphina kept glancing at the scoreboard as though it might change without her knowing.  But it was still one to one.

There was four minutes and fifty-seven seconds left in the first period when another fight broke out.  But this time, it escalated so much and so quickly that no one knew for sure what had caused the fight and who had started it.  However, it was obvious that it must have been between a Gull and a Shark, and their teammates deemed it serious enough to go out and defend their respective player.  Though the linesmen and even the refs
immediately skated over in order to break up the fight, it took some time before the brawl stopped and even longer to see who was responsible.  It was deemed that Chad Westwicke, the Gulls’ defenseman, and a forward named Tory Russell from the Sharks, were credited with starting the fight, and both were sent to their own penalty box for a five-minute major.  Because their penalties canceled each other out, neither team had to kill a penalty.

Neither team scored by the end of the period.

By that time, Seraphina was furious.  They were throwing away a game because of stupid reasons.

Jumping up from her seat, the young woman decided to have another talk with her team because this was getting to be ridiculous. 
The fighting, the injuries.  She followed the tired players into the locker room.  Henry Wayne, seeing her, nodded, as though to tell her the floor was hers.  Once the room quieted, Seraphina began to speak.

“What the hell is going on out there?” she asked them.  Even though the question itself was rhetorical, she looked at her players as though she wanted some sort of explanation.  “We can’t afford to have players coming into the regular season injured from stupid fights they had in the preseason.  These games amount to nothing; they’re just practice.  They provide an opportunity for Coach Wayne, Coach Stable, and I to assess just who gets to stay on the team and who doesn’t.  There are thirty-two of you.  I only need twenty-four of you.  The only thing I’m assessing now is that you’re letting the Sharks get to you.” 

She paused, allowing herself a moment to take in a deep breath and release it through her lips.

“I know we’re all upset about what happened to Ken,” she said in a quieter tone, “and what happened to Thorpe.  I’ve said before and I’ll say it again: I don’t think Thorpe killed my grandfather, and until the police come to me, proving Thorpe’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, I will continue to support him and I will continue to have a spot for him on this team.  But it better be a damn good team he comes back to.  Yes, some fans will turn against Thorpe, against the Gulls for our united stance behind him while others will stay loyal.  Other teams are going to give us shit for anything they can – our mascot is a seagull, for crying out loud – but we don’t play for anyone but ourselves.  We’re the Seagulls, goddamn it.  Go out there and
play like one.”

Seraphina clenched her jaw.  That was all she really had to say.  But there were a couple of things she needed to discuss with the head coach.  In a whisper, she asked Henry if she could speak with him.  After motioning for the assistant coach Clark Stable to take over the powwow, he led Seraphina to a secluded part of the locker room.

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Sera,” he began, his grey eyes twinkling in amusement, “when you’re pissed, you make excellent speeches.”

“Oh.”  She waved the compliment away, feeling her face to red.  She wasn’t even sure she gave them, if she had any right to.  But as the owner of the team, she felt that if she was pissed off, she had a right to let her players know about it. 
Especially since she probably wasn’t the only spectator who felt that way.  “Actually, I need to ask you a question.  Did my grandfather ever mention possibly trading Thorpe to you?”

Though Seraphina had her own idea about the answer to this question, she thought she should cover all bases, just in case.  Henry wasn’t only the head coach of the Gulls, but he was Papa’s close confidant as well.

“No,” Henry said, shaking his head.  “I heard the rumors though, but nothing from Ken directly.  Which, to me, meant Ken wasn’t as certain about trading Thorpe as the press was making him out to be.  If he planned on trading Thorpe at all.”

“That’s what I figured,” Seraphina murmured.  “What about selling the team?”

It was his response to this question that Seraphina was most interested in.

“That’s the funny thing,” Henry replied.  “He mentioned that someone approached him about selling the team, but that he wasn’t going to do it.  And that’s all he said about it.”

“Was the person who approached him Alan?”  She pushed her brows up.  “Did he tell you?”

“He didn’t tell me,” Henry said, shaking his head.  “But it sounded more like…  The way Ken spoke, I don’t think it was someone close to him. 
Maybe an acquaintance or something, but not family.”

Seraphina began chewing on her bottom lip, offering a quiet thank you before she headed out of the locker room.  There it was again, that feeling that something was starting to register, pieces were slowly starting to fall into place.  But nothing was clicking.  Not yet, anyways.  

22
.
 
“So where are these hats going, anyways?” Madison asked Amanda as they rolled in about two carts of various hats that had been tossed onto the ice after Kyle Underwood’s third goal of the period, or, in hockey language, after Kyle Underwood’s hat trick.  The game had just ended and it was Amanda and Madison’s night to collect the hats and sort them out after the game.

“One of three options,” Amanda said, wheeling them to the laundry room that was right between the men and women’s locker room.  “The player who makes the hat trick keeps all of them, throws all of them away, or donates all of them.  Ken always let the player choose what he wanted to do with him, but it’s always been tradition that the player keep three hats – symbolizing each goal he scored – and donating the rest to charity. 
Which is why we’re here, in the laundry room.  The staff down here is going to clean them so they’re, you know, wearable, and donate them to a charity Underwood chooses.  He picked out the three he wants to keep and I’ve already tagged those so when they come out of the wash, they’ll be delivered to his locker.”

“Wow.”  Madison blinked, leaning against her cart and crossing her arms over her chest.  “How did the tradition start, anyways?  Who, like, just throws hat onto the ice because a hockey player scores three points in one game?”

“It’s tradition!” Amanda exclaimed in a ‘duh’ tone.  “How dare you not know this, Madison?  And thank God you’ve admitted your ignorance to me.  If you said this to even any amateur hockey fan, they would laugh in your face and then demand your resignation later as a Gulls Girl.  Okay.”  She finished pushing her cart to its intended spot and turned around, her brown eyes dark, serious.  “The hat trick tradition started ninety years ago when a businessman handed out fedoras to players after a player scored thrice.  Then, in the seventies, fans decided they wanted to get in on this so they started throwing hats into the rink to the point where the NHL actually amended its rule to say something like articles thrown on the ice won’t result in some kind of punishment for the home team for delay of game.”  She smiled brilliantly.  “And that’s the hat trick.”

Madison clapped a couple of couple times and returned the smile.

“I like that,” she said after the story sank in.  “It’s cool.”

“Yeah, hockey has a bunch of traditions like this that other sports don’t,” Amanda said, nodding.  “I’m going to head home, okay?”

“What about showering?” Madison asked.  “Changing?”

Normally, the Gull Girls showered and changed back into their street clothes after every home game.  They could leave their uniforms in their designated locker or put them in the laundry room if they needed to be washed.

“Actually…”  Amanda let her voice trail off, looking away.  The worry that had been etched in her brown irises before the game suddenly came back full force.  “I called my older brother to meet me right after the game.  As lame as it sounds, I’m just kind of…  I just want to make sure that nothing happens to me, you know?  So I’m going to sneak out the back, where I told him to wait, and he’s going to walk me to my car.”

“You know there are plenty of ushers or security guards here to walk you to your car, right?” Madison asked.  “You didn’t have to call your brother here.”

“I wanted to,” Amanda said with a shrug.  “I trust him.  Plus, he’s taking me out for a late dinner, so it’s all good.  Will you be okay?  Stewart can walk you to your car too, if you need it.”

“I’ll be fine, thanks,” Madison said.  “I’ll see you later.”

Madison followed Amanda out of the laundry room but headed over to the locker room rather than the back exit.  Most of the Girls had already left, and by the time Madison had showered and was back in her street clothes, she was by herself.  After grabbing her bag, she shut her locker and headed out of the room when she ran into, quite literally, Alec Schumacher.

“Oh,” he said, placing both his hands onto her shoulders in order to steady her.  Because of his size, her small frame knocking into him didn’t even make him stumble.  “Are you okay?  Seriously, Madison, you need to pay attention to your surroundings.”

“What are you even doing here, waiting outside the ladies’ locker room?” she asked.  She pushed her damp bangs across her face, hoping to get them out of her eyes.  She succeeded, but they probably looked a bit disarrayed.  “No offense, but you kind of look like a perv.”

As he chuckled, Madison noticed his dark blond hair now looked brown due to the fact that it was wet, the locks falling into his face in clumps rather than being pushed up into spikes. 
Which made it easier for Madison to notice a cut on his forehead.  It didn’t look deep enough to warrant stitches, and even though it was cleaned, it started bleeding again.  Why didn’t he put a bandage on that?  He gestured with his arm, causing Madison to see that he, too, was wearing regular clothes; a white t-shirt that clung to his nicely toned torso, the sleeves showcasing extremely pleasant looking biceps.  Loose, grey sweatpants and tennis shoes completed the look.  He looked relaxed, normal, like someone one might run into at the gym.  Except Alec Schumacher wasn’t normal.  He didn’t look normal.  Because he was breath-taking.

Not that Madison would ever admit that.

Out loud, anyways.

“Actually, you’re going to regret saying that because I’m here to walk you to your car,” he told her in a smooth voice.  Before Madison could protest, the hockey player thrust a hand into her face – a hand that was so large, Madison was certain it was practically the size of her face – and added, “And I know what you’re going to say, but I don’t care.  I’m walking you to your car, Montgomery, and that’s that.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” she told him.  “Really, I don’t know why everyone is making a big deal about this.”

“Because it is a big deal.”
  His gentle tone was serious, causing Madison to look at him with an inquiring gaze.  “Listen, I know you’re unfamiliar with a lot of the hockey stuff, but the Sharks and The Gulls have nearly as big a rivalry as we do with the Los Angeles Centaurs.  I don’t know if you noticed, but the Sharks were pretty scrappy tonight.  Well, they’re always scrappy, but tonight more so than normal.  They have a big fan base here even though they’re from Frisco and their fans can get pretty scrappy too.  Plus, what with the whole Ken Brown and Brandon Thorpe thing – I mean, you must have heard the fans booing Thorpe before tonight, that’s just not normal.  In fact, people actually love Thorpe.  He’s one hell of a goalie. – and the tension…  When I was on the bench, I saw a couple of people throwing food, shoving each other.  It never gets that way.  We have pretty classy fans.”  He paused and gave her that smile that caused the butterflies in her stomach to start bumping into each other.  “I just would feel a lot better if I made sure you got to your car safely.  You’re a beautiful woman, all by yourself, and I would feel responsible if anything happened to you on my watch.”

Madison couldn’t help but smile as she watched him explain his intentions.  He had this genuine look on his face, so even though his voice sounded plastically charming, he meant what he was saying.  And the more he spoke, the faster he got, as though he wanted to make sure to say everything that popped into his mind in case he forgot.  It was actually pretty cute.

And sweet.

Her eyes were drawn upwards, back to the cut on his forehead.  More blood had accumulated and was going to start to drip down his face if he didn’t get a band aid on it soon.

“You realize this is Newport Beach and not, like, Compton, right?” she teased.  She felt her eyes sparkle and realized that perhaps she actually liked Alec Schumacher.  Not romantically or platonically, but in general.  As a person.  

“Hey, I learned how to fight because I’m from Newport Beach,” Alec said.  

“Really?”  Madison sounded doubtful.

“Yeah.
  My mom signed me up for ice skating lessons when I was probably four.  She loved skating; she nearly made the Olympic Team when she was in her twenties, but that dream never panned out.  Anyways, when I got good at skating, my mom asked if I wanted to play hockey.  I had seen other kids practice the sport and I had always been interested in learning it, so my mom signed me up.”

“So hockey taught you how to fight?” 
Still doubtful.

He gave her a dry look.  “I haven’t finished yet,” he said, feigning annoyance.  “I had always lived in Newport Beach my entire life.  I think the team – the Gulls – were formed after I was about a year old, right?  But my mom was used to the rink in Anaheim, so that’s where I learned to skate and that’s where I played Pee Wee Hockey.  Now, when you’re from a place like Newport and you play hockey at a place like Anaheim, you get picked on.  Anaheim is actually not that bad a place to live in, but when you compare it to a wealthy place
like Newport…  Well, let’s just say that there’s more diversity in Anaheim because people feel more comfortable in Anaheim rather than Newport.  Do you get what I’m saying?”

“People, kids, feel more comfortable with other kids from the same financial background as they do,” Madison said.  “Same feels more comfortable with same.”

“Exactly,” Alec said with a curt nod.  “Newport kids felt that they were better than Anaheim kids because they came from money while Anaheim kids felt they were better because they didn’t.  It was rare for a Newport kid to skate in Anaheim just like it was rare for an Anaheim kid to skate in Newport.”

“But you were a Newport kid and you skated in Anaheim,” Madison pointed out.

“Yeah, I know,” Alec said.  “But you know kids, they get their attitudes from their parents.  My mom took me to Anaheim.  And trust me, those kids let me know that they saw me as different.  At first, my hockey team ignored me.  When I got good, they would go out of their way to pick on me.  There were many fights that I got into – some of them I started, some of them I didn’t – in order to stick up for myself.  And the thing is, when I first started going to Anaheim, I wouldn’t have realized there was a difference between me and those kids.  It was that they sort of made me feel different when I realized there was an imbalance between us.  I was the rich kid and I got beat up a lot for it.”  His tone had been serious, and the way he was looking at her with those midnight blue eyes struck her with such intensity that goosebumps burst out all over Madison’s body.  But when he finished the sentence, he smiled.  “So I learned how to fight and I got good.  I don’t want you to have go through what I went through.  So please let me walk you to your car.”

“Did you just say please?” she teased.  He gave her a look. 
“All right, all right.  Fine.  You can walk me to my car.  But only if you let me clean that cut on your forehead.”

A drop of blood rolled down the length of his forehead, hanging just above his brow.

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”

Madison smiled in triumph, and turned back to head into the women’s locker room.  When she realized that Alec wasn’t following her, she turned, her hand still resting on the door handle.

“What?” she asked.

“I don’t know if you realize this,” Alec said in a dry voice, “but that is the
female
locker room.”

Madison rolled her eyes.  “Please. 
Like you’ve never seen the inside of one before.”  She pushed her brow up.  “And anyways, I was the last one in there.  It’s completely empty, and I know where the first aid kit is.  Come on.”

This time, Alec followed her into the locker room and took a seat on a bench between two rows of lockers while Madison flipped back on the lights.  She headed over to the top locker on the wall of the room, and grabbed the first aid kit.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Alec asked as Madison placed the box on the bench next to him.

Madison looked up from what she had been doing.  She pulled out a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a band aid before shutting it.  Instead of answering, she headed over to the sink where a paper towel dispenser was.  She grabbed a couple and walked back over to Alec before kneeling down in front of him.

“So let me ask you a question,” she said as she poured some peroxide into the brown paper towels.  “What was the deal with all the fighting tonight?  I mean, besides the fact that the Sharks play a scrappy game and everything.”  She pressed her lips together, pushing the damp paper towel on his wound, causing him to inhale sharply.  “You can take the hit, but not the cure.  Oh man.”

“What do you mean, what’s up with the fighting?” Alec asked through gritted teeth.

Madison pulled back, finished cleaning the wound.  She locked eyes with him and said, “You got scored on three different times because of penalties.  And it’s only preseason and I feel like these fights are turning ugly.  You could get injured, and then what?  Are these fights really worth it?”  She turned, grabbed the band aid and placing it on his cut, smoothing down the wrinkles to ensure it stayed on and felt comfortable.

“Of course they’re worth it,” Alec said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Madison furrowed her brow and pushed up so she was standing.  She stretched her muscles – kneeling too long caused her knees to tighten a bit – and then straightened.  Alec followed suit.

“I don’t get it,” Madison said, grabbing her bag and then throwing away the trash.  She came back over to put away the kit back in the locker.  “My parents barely fight.  I have two sisters and we were more catty with words than with our fists.”

“You are girls,” he said flatly.  He opened the door and allowed Madison to walk through it before he followed suit.  “Let me guess – you’re the middle child.”

“Actually, I’m the oldest,” Madison said with a smug smile.

The two headed to the exit, walking side by side.  Occasionally, their shoulders – well, Madison’s shoulder and Alec’s upper arm due to the obvious size difference between them – would brush, which Madison made it a point to ignore.

“When I was seven, my mother died from melanoma,” Alec said.  His voice was slightly
hesitant, as though he wasn’t sure he wanted to share this with her.  Madison knew she probably should apologize for his mother’s death, but for some reason, she couldn’t bring her mouth to form the words.  But it didn’t seem to matter because he decided to continue.  “I never met my father and there wasn’t any family close by to take me, so I lived with my step-father.  This was just after my first season of Pee Wee Hockey.  I’m not sure if my step-father put up with me because he loved my mom so much or what, but even before she died, I kind of got the feeling that he didn’t like kids, and that was proven when he was forced to raise me.”

The couple decided that it might be safest to exit through the back, in hopes to avoid the crowd and the press.  Alec, again, opened the door, and the two walked out together into the night.

“He was never abusive or anything dramatic,” Alec continued, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants.  “But it was like he just didn’t care.  He would take and pick me up to my games, but he never stayed and watched.  When I got an A on a paper or a test, he never congratulated me.  I never had a curfew and when I was old enough to cook, he stopped making me meals.  At the time, it was cool, but in my entire life, I’d never felt that lonely.  So I started to get in trouble, just to get some kind of reaction from him.  But it never worked, probably because he really just did not care.  He wasn’t a bad guy, he just didn’t care.

“I kept up with hockey, though.  And it was my senior year in high school when I met Ken Brown, who had come to a few of my games.  I knew exactly who he was – I was a huge Gulls fan – but I was surprised that someone who built Sea Side Ice Palace in Newport would come to Anaheim, whether to scout for players or just to watch the games.  After that game, Ken came up to me and invited me to training camp that summer for the Gulls.  I don’t know what he saw in me, but after that meeting, I was at the Anaheim rink, working my ass off to be the best skater, the fastest, the best shot, because I knew I’d be in competition with people like Dimitri Petrov.  I went to training camp, made first cut, and then, just before the season began, I made the team.  And I’ve been on this team ever since.”

He paused, a nostalgic smile on his face.  They could hear people shouting and talking near the entrance of the stadium, but there were only a few people in the back parking lot.

“I never felt like I was a part of a family unless I was on a hockey team,” he said.  “So when I made the Gulls, I wanted to stay with them.  I wanted this team to be my family.  The great thing about Ken was that he viewed us, his players, as his family too.  Rarely did he ever trade people unless the players wanted them to or if there was an issue that couldn’t be resolved.  He always encouraged loyalty, which is probably the most important trait I look for in a mentor or a friend.  I know we aren’t the best team in the league, but this is my family.  And because of that, I would fight for them just like I know without a doubt they’d do the same for me.”  He shrugged his shoulders.  “I’m not the brightest kid.  I never went to college, graduated high school with a C-average, but I would fight for the people I care about.”

“It’s no wonder you’re so popular with the ladies,” Madison said with a grin, just as they reached her car.  “The story is very moving.”

Even though Madison had taken numerous psychology classes and could read people quite easily, but she couldn’t decipher the enigmatic look Alec Schumacher was now giving her.  But she knew it meant something important, but she had no clue as to how or why.

“I don’t think so,” he said in that charming voice that didn’t match the serious look on his face.  “It must be something else because you’re the only lady I’ve told it to.”  He glanced away from her, and because they were away from the noisy crowd, the waves crashing into the nearby shore could be heard clearly.  And then, he turned and said, “Good night, Madison.”

Again, Madison couldn’t form the words to say something she knew she probably should say.  Should she thank him? 
Should she guarantee that she wouldn’t tell anyone this, even not and especially not Amanda, her closest friend?  Instead, she unlocked the door, slid into the driver’s seat, and shut the door.  She pulled out of the spot and waved to Alec before driving off.

Something changed between the two.  But like so many other things when it concerned Alec Schumacher, Madison did not know what that was.