The o zone, p.1
The O Zone, page 1
The O Zone
Kelly Jamieson
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
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The O Zone © 2021 by Kelly Jamieson
Cover by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
Editing by Kristi Yanta and Katie Kenyhercz
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews
Contents
1. Owen
2. Emerie
3. Owen
4. Emerie
5. Owen
6. Emerie
7. Owen
8. Owen
9. Emerie
10. Owen
11. Emerie
12. Owen
13. Emerie
14. Owen
15. Emerie
16. Owen
17. Emerie
18. Owen
19. Owen
20. Owen
21. Emerie
22. Owen
23. Emerie
24. Owen
25. Emerie
26. Owen
27. Owen
28. Emerie
29. Owen
30. Emerie
31. Owen
32. Emerie
33. Owen
34. Owen
35. Emerie
Epilogue
Another Epilogue
Excerpt - Good Hands
Author Note
Other Books by Kelly Jamieson
About the Author
1
Owen
She’s here tonight.
A few steps in front of me, the guys are yammering about the game tonight. They stride right past her where she sits playing and singing into her microphone, not noticing my steps slow as I walk by her. I feel like I’m in a slow-motion scene from a movie, her song the score as my head turns and our eyes meet…and hold for one step…two…three. It feels like time stands still but it’s seconds—a flicker of her eyes as she sings, a tiny dip of her head.
A guitar case on the floor in front of her holds bills and coins. Any time I’ve seen her, she attracts a crowd and always seems to have money in the case. I’ve never given her money. I don’t know why. I often toss cash to subway buskers.
As I walk through the subway station behind my teammates, the soulful melody floats around us and all the other people in the underground tiled space. I don’t know much about music or how to describe her voice—soft, high, clear, and utterly beautiful. Combined with the notes she plays on her guitar, her music never fails to give me shivers when I hear it.
One time when I was alone, I stopped to watch her for a few songs, trying to blend into the crowd. I didn’t want to be creepy, but there’s something about her music that’s…mesmerizing.
Her hair is green. I can’t say I find that attractive. I’ve always been into blondes. Okay, it’s not all green—it’s like, dark brown with a green tint, shoulder length, with long bangs. She wears big gold-framed glasses, and her full lips are shiny and natural. Today she’s wearing loose, ripped up jeans, and a massive, chunky-knit brown sweater that hides her shape.
I make myself keep going so I don’t fall too far behind my teammates, letting her voice fill my head then gradually recede behind me as we distance from her and emerge from Penn Station onto the street.
It’s game day, so the area is busy, lots of fans in New York Bears jerseys filling the streets even though it’s a couple of hours before the game. I brace against the cold January wind as we walk to the Apex Center and duck into the staff entrance, showing our security badges and greeting Homer. He waves us all in with his usual beaming smile. “Good luck tonight, guys!”
We head straight to the locker room to change and go through our game day routines. Game day is all about getting ready for puck drop. Every player’s routine is different. I’m not superstitious—okay, maybe I am a bit—but I do the same things in the same order, every game day, from getting up in the morning until I skate onto the ice.
Not only game day. My entire life is organized into a routine that keeps me busy. I eat, sleep, practice, and study. I have to work hard so I don’t waste this gift I’ve been given. A gift not everyone gets.
After I change from my suit into athletic shorts and a T-shirt, the first thing I do is go to the training room, where I roll out my quads and do some stretches. Then I have my bowl of oatmeal with a banana on top.
“What’s up, Cookie?”
I look up at Axe, who joins me in the lounge for a snack. He takes a bite of his protein bar.
My nickname comes from my last name—Cooke.
“Good. You?”
“Feeling fine. What’d you think about that fine for Reynolds?”
“Ugh.” I take a spoonful of my oatmeal and chew while I think. Reynolds, who plays for the Condors, was fighting with a Leafs player in their last game and punched him in the head while he was face down on the ice. He got fined five thousand dollars, and the public outcry has been loud. He’s a repeat offender and should have been suspended in my opinion. And in a lot of people’s opinions. “How does he keep getting away with shit like that?”
Axe shakes his head. “I don’t know, man.”
I’m not a fighter, but I’ll drop the gloves if I have to. I follow the rules, though. And believe me, I know the rules. That’s why I have an “A” on my jersey. I may be a jock, but I’m also a giant nerd. I spend hours watching hockey—video of our own team but also watching other teams on TV. I read everything I can get my hands on about hockey.
When I see guys get hurt, it makes me sick. But hockey’s a dangerous sport, and shit happens. We all take that risk every time we step on the ice. We can’t let that distract us from doing our jobs. Over the years, I’ve learned how to focus on the things I need to. Which is playing the best game I can.
After my oatmeal, I join some guys in the hall for a little soccer. And some laughs. This warms up our muscles but also relaxes us.
Around five-thirty, we have our pre-game meetings with the coaches with last minute reminders about the team we’re playing tonight, the Flames. Coach gives a quick review of the game plan from the morning five-on-five meeting. He also reminds us that the Flames’ power play has been hot lately, so our penalty kill guys have to be on top of them.
“Remember, bump and run!” Coach says. “We don’t need the big check, just harass them, put pressure on them, but don’t take yourselves out of the play.”
In the dressing room, I put on my equipment in the same order I always do, left to right. I tape my stick while music plays, the sound of tape ripping mixing with the tunes. It’s always something fast paced to get us going. Right now, Imagine Dragons gets us grooving. Our dressing room DJ, Bergie, puts the play list together, and he’s good at it. I mean, I think he is.
“The fuck is this?” Jake whines as he tosses a wad of tape toward a garbage can and misses. “Come on man, where’s Blake Shelton? Kenny Chesney?”
Bergie laughs. “Patience, my friend.”
I hear the words of the song. Whatever it takes.
I get myself ready to do whatever it takes to win.
The game is close. And frustrating. I feel like we’re playing great, but we can’t get ahead, and things are tied one-one. Then we end up with a goddamn penalty for too many men on the ice.
“Okay, we gotta kill this, boys,” I say as our penalty kill team jumps over the board. “Let’s do this!”
This could be the end of the game with a loss. Just what we didn’t want, another penalty against a team with a hot power play. That’s how they got their only goal. We can’t let it happen again.
Barbie is our penalty kill god. He always has his stick in the right place and isn’t afraid to block shots. He’s a maniac that way. I watch him throw himself in front of the puck and wince along with him. But he gets up and keeps skating.
“Attaboy, Barbs!” I shout.
Then I’m out on the ice, watching JBo take the faceoff. He wins it, gets the puck back to me, and I have lots of room to head toward the Flames’ net. I skate my ass off, knowing I’m being chased, keeping the puck on my stick, watching the goalie, my mind racing, planning. I watch him come out, and I shoot over his glove hand and fuck yeah! I light the fucking lamp!
Shorthanded!
“Fucking beauty,” JBo crows.
We’re still short one guy for another minute, but my goal gives us a huge boost, and we kill the rest of the penalty.
With frustration mounting, a scrum develops around the Flames’ net after a whistle. I’m watching from the bench. Hellsy and Barbie hang at the blue line. The linesmen break things up, and the guys disperse to their benches. I jump on the ice.
Peters, one of the linesmen, skates to the neutral zone for the faceoff.
“Hey, hey, wait. Hold up.” I skate over to him. “The faceoff has to be inside the blue line.”
He shakes his head. “We’re doing it here.”
“No, that’s wrong. Our D-men stayed on the blue line. That means the faceoff happens inside.”
He frowns.
“Seriously. Following a stoppage of play, should one or both defensemen who are the point players enter into the attacking zone beyond the o
The refs skate up to us to see what’s going on. I explain it to them.
They agree with me.
With a sharp exhalation of relief and satisfaction, I take my place for the faceoff. With another quick faceoff win by JBo and a pass to Bergie, Bergie pops it into the net. We fucking score again!
In the dressing room, I peel off my jersey and shoulder pads and sprawl on the bench with a bottle of Gatorade. Now the music is “Winner Take All” by ABBA, which cracks me up.
“ABBA?” Jammer shouts, dancing. “This is fucking perfect!”
I swipe sweaty hair off my forehead, laughing. Then it’s time to talk to the media, and I take off my pants and switch my skates for a pair of sandals to answer questions. They ask about the shorty, of course. “Hey, it was a great faceoff win by JBo,” I say. “He got the puck to me just like we wanted.”
Then I head back to the training room to ride the bike for a bit.
Three of my teammates and I live in the same apartment building, so we often take the subway to and from games together. But tonight they’ve got other plans. They’re all boo’d up, as the kids say. I kind of envy them. It’d be nice to have someone to go home to. Maybe even a dog, like Millsy has.
But I don’t need distractions. The occasional hookup is enough for me. I need to focus on the game.
I trudge to Penn Station through dark but still lively streets and then through the station. As I pass where the busker was playing earlier, I glance at the empty space. She’s gone. Good.
Not that I don’t want to hear her music; I love it. But she shouldn’t be hanging out alone in the subway at night.
2
Emerie
“Hey, Eddie, you done for today?” I walk over to Eduardo in the 14th Street/Union Square station, carrying my prized LX1 Little Martin in its case and my amplifier. He’s putting away his pan flute.
“Hola. Djess, I am done,” he replies in his thick accent, flashing a smile. “Juss for now. I weel be back for the lonch crowd.”
I nod. As he turns away briefly, I quickly drop my wad of bills in my hand into his case. “I’m going to Penn Station.”
“Be careful.” He looks up and frowns at me. “Those wack jobs got in a duss up with Cherry a few days ago.”
I grimace. “I know. They usually leave me alone.” The wack jobs he refers to are a group of break dancers who attacked another busker for being in “their space.” There are often turf wars over the best locations, like 42nd Street and Herald Square, which make the best money. There are unwritten busking rules and one of them is first come first served, but lately some groups have been using their numbers to push individual performers out. These guys actually have weapons, and they check to make sure there are no cops around before they attack other musicians.
“Lucky you usually got lots of people around watching.”
I shrug. “Not as many as you.”
Eduardo’s music is remarkable. He’s from Peru originally and has been doing this for years—busking in the subway and on New York streets. He does it to support his family, a wife and two young kids. Since I’ve been a regular here, we’ve become sort of friends.
He grins. “Theengs are peeking up. The money ees coming een again.”
Times have been tough lately, and I feel for him and the others who do this to survive.
“Things are looking up!” I wave as I head up to street level.
My stomach is rumbling. I never eat breakfast, and I’ve been here since about nine. I stop at a cart and buy a falafel rice platter, which I devour sitting on a nearby wall, and then I continue on to Penn Station. Every station is unique, and I like to move around.
I find a spot where another friend is finishing. “Hi, Em,” he greets me with a smile, removing the mouthpiece from his saxophone.
“Hi, Nash. How’s it going?”
“Going good.”
Nash plays amazing jazz music on his sax. He’s really talented but struggled with performance anxiety and found a place busking with not as much pressure.
“How’s the SoundCloud thing going?”
He grins. “Great. It’s seriously dope. And I’m making money. You should try it.”
He’s told me that before, but meh, I’ve got enough on my plate.
“Have you seen this?” He holds out a flyer.
I take it and scan the words. It’s an advertisement for a competition—American Busker. It’ll be held in June in Central Park, with cash prizes and a recording deal. It’s like an American Idol kind of contest for buskers. To enter, you have to go through a series of auditions. “No,” I say. “I haven’t.” I hand it back to him. “Are you going to enter?”
“Ha. No way.” He waves a hand. “Keep it. You should enter.”
I look back down at it. I don’t need the money, and I don’t think I’m going to ever get a recording deal. “I don’t think so.” I tuck the flyer into my guitar case.
“You should! Your voice is amazing.”
I shrug, as always uncomfortable with the compliment. “Thanks, but I doubt it’s good enough to win.”
He shakes his head.
“You should enter,” I say.
He holds up his hands. “Okay, point taken.”
“Maybe we can both enter.”
“Ugh. Forget it.”
I grin. “Done.”
I set up, tune my guitar and finger a few notes, then start playing and singing.
I love singing. I love music. I’ve loved it all my life. My father was a Broadway musician, and there was always music in our home. When my mom started my piano lessons, I was so eager. I never had to be forced to practice. After Dad died and my mom remarried, my stepdad bought me a gorgeous grand piano, more to impress her than me, but I loved it. I wanted to learn to play more instruments. At school, I played clarinet and saxophone in the school band. I learned guitar more or less on my own.
I had dreams of making music my career, but that was years ago. I’m realistic about my talents—I don’t have a Broadway show voice—but I possibly could have followed in my dad’s footsteps or…who knows. I gave that up when my little sister needed me.
About a year ago, I decided to try busking. I was terrified at first. But most people walk right by and ignore me, and that’s fine; it was mostly the possibility of attention I was afraid of. I spent my teenage years feeling invisible, and busking suits me for that reason. I can make music and be invisible.
I’ve never told anyone else about the busking. I’m not ashamed of it, but it’s…personal. Something just for me that I want to keep just for me.
My stepfather? I don’t think he’s ever even heard me play that grand piano. After my mom died, he never came to my recitals or concerts. He’s never asked me to play for him like Mom did. Whatever.
I’m singing a song I wrote, “Darkness,” when my attention is diverted by…him. The guy.
There’s a bit of a crowd gathered for this song and he’s at the back, but he stands out because of his height. He has to be six and a half feet tall. I’ve seen him a few times here at Penn Station. His tawny hair often curls out from under a knit beanie he wears, and his trimmed beard and moustache are also dark gold. He’s usually dressed in a suit and tie and a long black coat. The suit makes me think he’s a businessman of some kind. I can tell his clothes are expensive, so he must be successful, whatever he does.
