Page 6 of Puck of My Life

“Well, they’re having a charity event. It's basically a puff piece.”

That I could handle.

“They’re trying to raise money to help the kids. The article is about community, families, coming together for the youth, and opening doors. All that feel-good stuff you’re so good at.”

And then it made sense why he picked me out of everyone here. I’d kind of found my lane in my current position. It didn’t stop me from wanting to move up and onto bigger and better things, but while I was in this position, I was enjoying it.

He went through all the details, and some of them surprised me. Place and time, who I could and couldn’t talk to—that was pretty par for the course. But for this event, they didn’t want it to be obvious that reporters were there. There would be no big fancy cameras, no assistants, no press passes. I was going as an attendee, and then I’d share my experience. They wanted me to lean very heavily into it being a personal story.

I didn’t love the idea. It felt like it kinda took some of the journalism away. I had to remind myself it was a puff piece. This wasn’t about hardcore journalism. I wasn’t being sneaky or lying about being a reporter or anything like that. I was just supposed to blend. I could handle that.

“Sounds good. Going to probably have to leave an hour early to shower and get over there.”

“Do you have the right kind of attire?”

Shit. “Is it formal?”

He nodded.

“You might need somebody else, boss. The only suit I have is very obviously a funeral suit.”

It was dark, cheap, and didn’t fit well because it was bought off the rack on clearance. Nothing about it shouted “charity event.” If I went in there like that, people might think I was the charity.

There was a knock at the door, and in came Louisa with a pile of papers. “I’m sorry, boss. I just need you to sign some things.”

“That’s alright. We were just about done here.” He turned to me. “If you need to leave now to go buy a suit, go ahead.”

Buy a suit. What a joke. As if I could afford one.

“You need a suit?” Louisa asked.

“Yeah. I’m covering that fancy charity gala hockey thingy.”

“You’re about the same size as my husband. Why don’t you just borrow one of his? I actually have one in the car because I was going to take it to the dry cleaner after work. It’s not freshly pressed, but it’s not dirty.”

Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and I gratefully accepted it. She went and got it, and I tried it on. It fit to the point where I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone thought I had a tailor for me. I was definitely the same size as her husband, just in a different decade of life.

There was a slight tinge of cologne still on it, though. I had time in my day to go home and shower before the event, but it was getting too late to do much else. I left as soon as I got the bare minimum of my to-do list done and grabbed something quick to eat, took a shower, and put the suit on. It was much higher quality than the shirt I had underneath it, but no one would be looking at me. I wasn’t a hockey player coming to raise money for kids or one of the big donors. I was some random guy just soaking it all in.

I managed to get ready with a half-hour to spare and pulled up the event page. I wanted to have at least a little bit of background. The charity was solid. Everything I could find on them praised their work.

Then I moved on to the team’s site. They had a pretty good record. I wasn’t a hockey guy. I didn’t understand some of the awards the players had won, but it made me local proud they had so many under their belt. I saw a button for the event and I clicked it. The page filled with their history with the charity, all the people who were attending, and ways you could help if you weren’t able to attend. The main picture there must’ve been sent by a fan, because it was on the pixelated side. I wouldn’t be able to use it for the article, which sucked given I couldn’t bring a decent camera with me.

I read the names one after another, trying to be familiar enough with them that I didn’t make a fool of myself at the event.

“Archie,” I said the last name out loud. “Archie.”

His face was familiar but far more mature than the Archie that lived in my head rent-free. Eight years had passed, and if it was him, of course, he didn’t look like a teenage boy anymore. But what were the odds that the guy I met once had moved on to be a professional hockey player?

That didn’t stop me from staring at the picture and soaking it in. What if it was him? Then what? I kept telling myself he wouldn’t remember me and I didn’t have to worry about it even if it was him. I could go in, do my job, and leave, and be none the worse for wear. That was a lie. I’d be much worse, my stomach was already in knots.

The messed-up part was it probably wasn’t him and I was getting myself worked up for nothing. It had been a long time since I’d seen him, and memory was a weird thing. It could easily be someone who just looked similar to the image of him I couldn’t let go of.

My phone buzzed telling me it was time to leave, which was good because the longer I stared at that picture, the worse I was making myself feel.

The event venue was one I’d never be at if it weren’t for work, with chandeliers and marble and people dressed in outfits that cost more than my rent. Heck, even the staff wore white gloves. I thought that was only a movie thing, but no, it was real. The only thing that kinda felt out of place was a photo backdrop near the entrance. It didn’t ooze the elegance of everything else.

Blending in was not going to happen. As nice as the suit I was wearing was, it was nothing compared to what I saw everyone else in. Maybe they’d think I was a rando coach scouting out players. Was that how scouting worked? I wished I’d had more time to prep.