With one more fluid turn, Ren strolls away and pulls the door closed behind him. It’s only when I hear it click shut that I realize how weirdly easy that felt, having him here and how uneasy I feel now that he’s gone.
This is bad. Very, very bad.
Ren
Playlist: “Neighborhood #2,” Arcade Fire
“Bergman!” one of the guys yells from the kitchen. “I can’t find the honey mustard!”
I come in from the deck with another tray of grilled chicken. “I’m going to take a wild guess and assume you didn’t check the refrigerator.”
Lin frowns. “Why would I do that?”
Sliding the tray onto the range, I yank open the fridge and pull out a slew of condiments, including honey mustard, and shove them into his arms.
“Wow,” he says.
I pat his arm. “You wear your bachelorhood on your sleeve, my friend.”
Lin gives me a look. “Says the guy who doesn’t even look at women.”
“Please. It’s called subtlety. Unlike you, I’ve learned not to drool at them. And when it’s time to settle down, I’ll even know how to navigate my own kitchen.”
Spinning Lin, I shove him toward the table where all the food’s laid out and then survey the state of my home. It’s currently tipping the scales from quiet beachfront oasis to frat house. I shudder. Like my mom, I’m a neurotically tidy person. It’s one of the few things I share in common with most of my siblings, except for Freya and Viggo, who, like Dad, are unrepentant slobs.
The entire team is here at my place after practice. I’m feeding them before we hop a flight later tonight to Minnesota and start our first stretch on the road for playoffs. Virtually all the guys live in Manhattan Beach, so it isn’t unusual to get together here, but there’s a specific reason for this gathering: superstition.
Two years ago, we barely clawed our way to the playoffs. Tensions were high, the guys were a nervous wreck, and Rob, our captain, for the first time turned to me for help. I’d recently been named alternate captain, which was a huge honor after just finishing my rookie season.
“I need a distraction for the guys,” he said. “Not more pep talks or watching game tape. Help me get them out of their heads.”
So, I did what he asked. I invited everyone over to my place for a night of distraction.
It was…not what they were expecting. There was no poker. No cornhole. No bro games. There were twenty-two printouts of the “rude mechanicals” scenes from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream and a smorgasbord of Swedish food.
I’d been prepared for skepticism and awkward silence, because I’m me and I’ve encountered that plenty of times in my life. The guys were wary, until they started eating and then devouring food, and Rob asked me to explain what this was all about as he flipped through the pages, a grin tugging at his mouth.
“I know we’re under pressure,” I told the team. “But there’s a reason we got where we are. We’ve been doing what we’re supposed to, and we’ll keep doing what we’ve done well. So tonight, we’re just going to get out of our heads. A little distraction. Lightening up, laughing at ourselves.”
The guys looked nervous as well as self-conscious when I assigned parts and explained the setting of both scenes in the play—the first scene, in which a half-dozen skilled tradesmen—the “rude mechanicals”—decide to enter a theater competition held by the king of Athens, and the second, in which they actually perform the tragedy, which is well beyond their understanding, with entirely comedic results.
I could tell they were apprehensive, but if any bit of Shakespeare was going to work for a newbie, it was this. Not four lines into reading, laughter began. Flubbed language, falsetto voices affected for females, bad English accents, and countless mispronunciations. The undeniably ridiculous physical comedy that unfolded as a bunch of athletes intuitively performed the scenes. The aha moments when they got the humor. It led to grown men crying, we were laughing so hard.
That night, everyone ate well, got their minds off the pressure, and left full and happy. Maybe even a little more comfortable with each other in a new way. And then we won our way straight to the Stanley Cup.
Thus, a ritual was born. Because hockey players are truly some of the most superstitious athletes you’ll meet. If they took a crap backwards on a toilet before the night of their first hat trick, you better believe they’ll be pulling that stunt before every game without even blinking.
We read Shakespeare before the first away playoff game that led to our first Cup in far too long. So, now, this is what we do before we hit the road for our first away playoff game: eat my mom’s best Swedish recipes and read the “rude mechanicals” scenes.
“Moreaux.” Andy pokes François. “Swap parts with me.”
“Get fucked,” François tells him. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to play Thisbe?”
Andy pouts. “Besides Halloween, Rude Mechanical Day is the one day of the year that I get to dress adventurously and not get crap for it.”
Rob starts down the line of food, piling up his plate. “Not true. You dress adventurously regularly during the off-season, and none of us say a word. That bikini you wear on the beach belongs on a much less hairy ass.”
“Hey.” Andy glares at him. “It’s a Speedo. And it’s European. The ladies like it.”
François snorts. “Trust me, Andrew. I am European, and both I and these ladies you speak of would prefer if you kept to your American swim trunks.”
“Okay, let’s eat,” I call to the stragglers outside and in the living room.
The guys descend on the table like hyenas on a carcass, quickly draining platters of food. They trickle into my living room, which is a wide-open space with a vaulted ceiling made cozy with built-in bookshelves, pale blue-green walls like the ocean outside, and an expansive dove-gray L-shaped sofa bracketed by mid-century end tables.
Throw in a couple of ivory oversized chairs and a huge wool rug in coordinating colors to absorb sound, and it’s my favorite room in the house, besides my bedroom. I had few feelings about the décor, so I let my brother Oliver pick everything out for me. He has a good eye and ended up putting together a space that I really like.
There’s plenty of room, and the guys are used to making themselves at home here, so they settle in tight on the couch and chairs, even cross-legged on the floor at the coffee table.
“Damn, you can cook, Bergman,” Rob mumbles around a bite of food.
I sit in the last open spot, which is next to him, and dig into my plate. “Thanks. I’m glad you like it.”
“Like it?” He chuckles. “I’d eat this over anything they serve at those fancy places Liz likes.” After a moment in which he demolishes a shrimp sandwich in three bites, he leans in a bit and drops his voice. “Speaking of Liz. I was wondering, would you mind giving me a cooking lesson or two? Once the season’s done, I want to make the wife a nice meal, start pulling my weight a bit more at home. I’m going to have my parents take the kids for a few days once this is over. Just to show her how much I appreciate her putting up with the insanity.”