Stick Handling

Stick Handling

Kit Olmstead

ISBN: 978-1-7381423-4-7

Stick Handling

Copyright © 2024 by Kit Olmstead All Rights Reserved.  

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or in any means – by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise – without prior written permission, except in the case of short quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. No resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, is intended or should be inferred.

The author expressly prohibits any entity from using this publication for purposes of training artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text, including without limitation technologies that are capable of generating works in the same style or genre as this publication. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine-learning language models. Published electronically in Alberta, Canada.

Content Note

As this book takes place in a Canadian location, it is written in Canadian English. In true Canadian fashion, the author apologizes for any confusion this may cause. On a more serious note, this book contains themes that may be difficult for some readers including mentions of panic attacks, swearing, and on-page sex. This story also contains an opposites attract love story, hand-holding, too many hockey puns, only one hotel room, and a happy ending.

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Epilogue

Also by Kit Olmstead

Acknowledgements

About the Author

One

Correcting the last of his typos, Devon saves the final draft of his article. Leaning back in the bespoke leather office chair that he’d purchased as a gift to celebrate his first full-time journalism job, he checks the time. Half an hour. Plenty of time to get his story in to Vera before the end of the day.  Up-and-coming designer Elizabeth Beltrain’s groundbreaking Stone Age inspired designs are the talk of the fashion world and there are rumours she will be in demand to dress Hollywood’s biggest stars for this year’s awards season. Devon pulled in all of his favours to be the first to interview her, and his sacrifice has paid off with an in-depth profile on Elizabeth covering everything from ancient astronomy to late-night snacks. 

Satisfied the story is as good as he can make it, he sends it to Vera for her edits and final approval. In the two years since he’s worked for Yonge Street magazine, the majority of his editor’s feedback has come in the form of sarcastic comments in his track changes accompanied by the occasional email. But today, Devon doesn’t have time to even open the first of his unread messages when a reply from Vera pops up at the top of his queue. Devon’s stomach clenches and he eyes the email warily before clicking on it. Nothing good can come from such a quick response. 

My office. Now.

The knot in Devon’s stomach constricts. Usually, Vera allows Devon to choose his own story topics, but Elizabeth Beltrain isn’t high profile enough for Vera to know about, not when Vera’s inability to stay on top of emerging fashion trends is a constant frustration.  Maybe he should have cleared the article before charging ahead, but he hadn’t wanted to miss his chance and get scooped by Vogue. Or even worse, Vanity Fair. 

Making his way through the clusters of meeting rooms and cubicles that comprise the magazine’s offices, he adjusts the cuffs of his Hugo Boss button-up shirt, making sure they’re even before tapping on Vera’s door. 

Come in.

Devon pushes open the door to find Vera scowling at her computer. Or at least, he thinks she’s scowling, some days it’s difficult to tell. Devon would never dare to give Vera fashion advice, but he gives a mental nod of approval to her sunflower-yellow blazer and multi-coloured scarf. Paired with matching glasses, the combination warms her dark skin. Looking up from her computer, Vera waves him inside then points to the chair in front of her desk. Why is he here? This is the first time Vera has summoned him to her office. Hesitating in the doorway, he resists the urge to loosen his tie, which is suddenly too tight against his neck. On the rare occasions she’s had verbal feedback for his articles, she’s stopped by his desk. Being invited here usually means something tremendous or something catastrophic is about to happen. Devon’s money is on the latter. Maybe Vera doesn’t appreciate that his last few articles have focused on the younger, up-and-coming designers in the city. Maybe he should focus on more established fashion houses. I know Elizabeth Beltrain isn’t a big name, but she will be—

It’s not about that. Vera gestures towards the chair for a second time. Uneasily, Devon perches on the edge and tries not to fidget. Ray’s gone.

Ray is the magazine’s chatty sports reporter. He insists on cornering Devon every morning to talk about stumping the cricket batsman or sacking the tight end instead of allowing Devon to eat the free doughnuts in the break room. Gone as in missing or gone as in fired?

Gone as in quit. Vera taps her pen on the desk. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Oh. Devon can’t pretend to be sorry. Yonge Street portrays itself as the number one place to read about everything that’s happening in Toronto, but there’s no reason sports need to be part of their stories. Not when sports coverage drags down the overall quality of the magazine. The fewer stories they publish about baseball sticks and hockey bats the better. While Ray never failed to point out that the sports reporting was the most popular part of both the print and online editions, Devon refuses to believe it’s true. Ray quitting is for the best. Leaning back as the tension eases from his shoulders, Devon settles into the chair. It wasn’t necessary for Vera to tell him in person, but he appreciates the courtesy. Disposing of the sports section will be better for Yonge Street’s reputation in the long run. Before he can say as much to Vera, she takes the wind out of his sails.

I’m assigning his stories to you. Vera regards him intently, gauging his reaction.

"Oh. Oh no. No, no, no." Devon jolts upright, his hands clenching the wooden arms of the chair. This has to be a mistake. He doesn’t know anything about sports. And he doesn’t want to watch sports or talk to people who do the sports, with their addiction to physical activity and misguided fashion sense. He doesn’t belong on the sports beat, he belongs in Elizabeth Beltrain’s studio, discussing thread counts and colour palettes. 

Oh, yes. Vera smiles at him, enjoying his discomfort. It’s good he quit when he did. We were going to have to cut a position. This way the choice is easy.

I can’t take Ray’s stories. He writes about sports and… athletes. Devon can tell his face is making the expression he usually reserves for sticky children or people who stand too close in line-ups. Unless … I don’t suppose you want me to write about gymnastics costumes? Or maybe figure skating outfits?

I don’t know what to tell you, Devon. Vera punctures his last remaining hope of salvaging this situation. If Ray hadn’t quit, we would have cut your job. So, you can either suck it up and cover the sports beat or maybe I can find someone else to take your place. Devon glares at her, but she’s unmoved. You’ll find Ray’s notes on the server and you have an interview at the arena with one of the Tigers’ players first thing tomorrow.

The Tigers? Against his will, Devon squeaks out the question, knowing it will expose his deficiencies.

It’s a hockey team, Devon. Devon teeters on the edge of his seat, trying to absorb this unwelcome information. As he stares at Vera, her lips twitch as though she’s five seconds away from laughing at him. 

This is a disaster. He’s not sure he can even name all the sports—there’s baseball and hockey and basketball and the one with the racquets—and—it’s pointless. Rising from the chair, he takes an extra second to straighten the crease of his pant leg as he attempts to gather his thoughts. 

Get the story in by the end of the week. Vera gestures towards the door, her attention focused on her computer screen.

Leaving Vera’s office, Devon heads down to the hall to visit Sam. His best friend doesn’t acknowledge him as he throws himself into the chair in front of her desk and crosses his arms. He’s so worked up from his conversation with Vera that he can’t even summon the energy to remark on her outfit. No matter how many times he’s told her that anime T-shirts and faded denim are not appropriate work attire, she refuses to take his advice. Eventually, Sam looks up from her computer and raises an eyebrow at him. Is the coffee shop out of matcha powder again?

Devon makes a face at her. He’d complained about the inadequacies of the coffee shop one time and she won’t let him forget it. No. Ray quit.

Okay, but you think Ray is annoying. Sam’s not wrong. Devon hates Ray’s enthusiastic personality and incoherent sports metaphors, but at this moment he’d give anything to see Ray come bouncing down the hall.

Vera’s assigned his stories to me. I have to interview a hockey player tomorrow. At eight o’clock in the morning! This is unbelievable. Tomorrow morning, Devon will have to wake up at the crack of dawn and go to a sports theatre to talk to some Neanderthal with no teeth about what motivates him to smash people with his stick. Being forced to watch sports is much worse than the deficiencies of the coffee shop.

"Vera put you on the sports beat? Devon scowls as a delighted smile spreads across Sam’s face, suggesting she’s as thrilled as Vera was by this turn of events. Devon has never hated his friend as much as he does in this moment. But past experience should have taught him that Sam’s sympathies always come second to her ability to laugh at his expense. Oh, this is gonna be good."

Why are we friends? Devon can’t pretend his reaction would be different if their circumstances were reversed, but he might try to fake it. 

Because without me, you’d have to eat lunch with Jamal. 

Devon grimaces at her—Jamal sees the best in everything, it grates on Devon’s nerves. Thanks for nothing.

You’re welcome. Sam focuses on her computer. Be sure to come back and tell me about it.

Talking with Sam leaves Devon feeling more disgruntled, so he heads to his office to pull up Ray’s notes from the shared drive. Scanning the folders, he’s relieved the documents are properly organized. Opening the folder for the Tigers, he finds Ray’s outline for his profile of a hockey player named Jamie Bennett. Ugh. The name reminds him of every beer-drinking, locker room sports bro he’s ever had the misfortune of meeting. He brings up the photo from Ray’s files. It’s a headshot of a man with reddish brown curls and a toothy grin. He looks nice. Normal, even. Not like someone who punches people for a living. With a groan, Devon scans the rest of the background information. Opening a new document, he begins to draft a list of questions. His failure is preordained, but it won’t be because he’s not prepared. The faster he can prove himself to Vera, the faster he can avoid sports stadiums and return to covering fashion shows.

Two

The arena is only two blocks from Devon’s apartment, but two blocks is too far when he’s running out the door with five minutes to spare. Sprinting down the street, he dashes up to the heavy glass doors, and yanks them open, gasping his name at the unsuspecting security guard on the other side. Passing over his press badge, Devon waits as she checks her computer for his name. 

Jamie’s on the ice. Take the elevator to the lower level and turn right. 

Catching his breath in the elevator, Devon attempts to recall the first of the questions he’d prepared, but the morning’s exertions have destroyed his careful preparations. With a soft ping, the elevator doors open into a concrete hallway. Devon pauses for a moment, taking in the cold cinder block walls and the hum of the fluorescent lights as he drags his phone out of his pocket and brings up the list of questions. The only noise is a rhythmic thumping that echoes through the cavernous building. 

Schwack. Thunk.

Schwack. Thunk.

Schwack. Thunk.

Clutching his phone, Devon turns to the right. The noise increases as he approaches the end of the hallway.

Schwack. Thunk.

The tunnel ends in a plexiglass wall. Stepping through the door, Devon finds himself in an open box. Devon makes a face at the plexiglass and the low bench that were clearly built for functionality over aesthetics. A plastic lime green water bottle sits on the edge of the wall that separates the space from the ice. Devon shivers, the chill from