Page 11 of Oh, Puck!
Two massive bronze bear statues flank the main entrance, each one standing on a carved wave base, mouths open in silent roars. The plaque between them reads:Built on sand. Forged on ice.
I adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder, and push through the heavy glass doors.
And holy hell.
The concourse is a cathedral of hockey. Soaring ceilings, polished concrete floors stamped with bear paw prints that lead off in every direction.
I walk further, my sneakers squeaking on the flawless floor. The walls are lined with enormous backlit banners of player portraits in dramatic black and white, their eyes and jerseys popping with color.
I don’t look long enough to recognize any of them yet, but I will. I’ll know their stats, their backgrounds, their favorite fucking breakfast cereal if it helps me prove my worth.
The whole place is beautiful. It’s everything I ever dreamed of.
But…
It'sempty.
Like,eerilyempty.
“Hello?” My voice echoes.
A cleaning cart sits abandoned near a trash can. A single paper cup rolls across the floor, pushed by the AC vent.
"Where is everyone?" I check my phone. 8:40 AM. "Shouldn’t there be… people? Staff?"
I've arrived twenty minutes early because, of course I did. I’m Josie Whitfield. I once showed up to a job interview an hour early and sat in my car rehearsing answers until my voice went hoarse.
I’m about to pull up the email with the General Manager's office number when the entire buildingshakes.
A sound erupts from hidden speakers. A deep, primal, bone-rattlingROARthat vibrates through the soles of my feet and up my spine. I jump so high I nearly drop my phone, my heart slamming against my ribs.
“Jesus Christ!”
The roar echoes, fades, and is replaced by a cheerful male voice over the PA.
“Good morning, Beachside! Daily systems check complete. Have a bear-iffic day!”
I press a hand to my chest, laughing at myself. “Okay. Note to self: the mascot is loud. Got it.”
“Scares me every damn time.”
I whirl around at the sound of a voice.
A man is walking toward me. He’s maybe mid-fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair, but…
"Oh my god," I murmur to myself.
The man is wearing nothing but a pair of brightly patterned board shorts and a beach towel slung around his neck. Water droplets cling to his tanned shoulders and chest. He's treading barefoot, leaving wet footprints on the concrete.
He looks like he just walked out of the ocean and into a fucking bank heist.
“You must be Josie,” he says, offering a damp hand. “Colin Holden. General Manager of the Beachside Bears.”
I stare at his hand, then his bare chest. “You’ve been… surfing?”
“Dawn patrol. Best waves of the day.” He shrugs, like showing up to work half-naked and dripping is completely normal. “Didn’t think anyone would be here this early. Nobody usually rolls in until ten.”
“Ten?!” The word squeaks out of me. “But… It's hockey. Don’t you have… things to do?”
