Page 1 of Played
Chapter One
ADINA
I hate stereotypes.
Not only do they help disseminate and ingrain misinformation, but they’re extremely harmful.
Yet . . .
Yet this Black woman from Rhode Island doesn’t know a damn thing about hockey. And doesn’t really care to. Not just because I consider it a white-people sport, but listen ... I’m a Patriots girl through and through. Blue and silver run amok in these veins.
And well ... I’m a Black woman.
Sorry, not sorry.
All that said, I still never expected my first time in a hockey arena—if there ever was going to be a first time; please consult aforementioned stereotype—to be because of a fire.
Well, technically, not the actual hockey arena. The Pirates—the professional team from Providence, Rhode Island—plays downtown at the Dunkin’ Donuts Center, along with the AHL’s Bruins and Providence College’s Friars. And yes, the Dunkin’ Donuts Center, not the Amica Mutual Pavilion. The name may have changed on the stadium a few years back, but it will always be the DD Center to me.
Still, walking through the lower level of the Pirates’ training facility, I never imagined this would be my introduction to the sport. Thanks to the sprinkler system and our hoses, my rubber boots slap through the half inch of water covering the floor. Ahead of me, Jared Silva, my partner and mentor on Engine 5, scans the locker room and adjacent therapy room. We arrived in time to contain the fire and prevent it from spreading to the rest of the facility, but smoke filled the area in a thick noxious cloud. Thank God for my face mask and tank.
“We’re all clear.” Jared’s voice crackles over the in-mask radio, and I nod. “Hell of a way to start the season.”
I laugh at his annoyed grumble. My mentor is a longtime Pirates fan, and knowing his superstitious self, he probably considers the fire a bad omen for the team. I don’t necessarily believe in things like omens, premonitions, and shit, but even I have to admit, this isn’t agoodthing. I mean, if a fire broke out at Gillette Stadium, I’d start going to altar calleverySunday. Maybe even coming up off 10 percent more in tithes and offerings.
“Let’s head out,” Jared says. “This just makes me depressed.”
I laugh. “Right behind you.”
Even with all his turnout gear on, I can still peep the dejected slump of his shoulders. Shaking my head, I follow Jared toward the door leading to the complex’s main hall. Luckily the flames had been contained to just these two rooms. That’s all the owners of this place could be thankful for. The damage had been done, the sprinklers helping but not completely snuffing out the fire by the time we arrived. I’m no arson investigator, but I’d bet Dad’s prized autographed Brady jersey that the cause was electrical. Maybe faulty wiring. Or too many plugs in an outlet. This facility isn’t decades old, but it’s not new either. People update cosmetically through the years but don’t bother with the wiring. Y’know, the important things—rather than enlarging a locker size.
I give the locker room one last scan. Nothing to see but scarred wood, walls, smoke, and water as far as the eye can ...
“What’s this?”
My feet slow, and I squint behind my mask. With the smoke hindering visibility, I should’ve missed it. Hell, I nearly did. But before I can ask myselfWhat the fuck?I veer off, away from the exit, and head toward the bank of lockers near the closest wall. It’s not the soot-covered athletic gear that’s grabbed my attention, though. Tucked against the bottom board is a ... I squat down and pick up the object.
A book.
No. I flip it over a couple of times, feeling like Bilbo finding the One Ring. However, it’s not an evil piece of jewelry or a book. A journal. Leather, with a thin strap circling the spine and edges, it’s a little bigger than my hand. Water already stains the back and front covers, and droplets drip from it.
Surprise wings through me at finding a journal in a hockey locker room. Yeah, here I go, stereotyping again. But I don’t know. When I think of the big toothless players, introspection isn’t what comes to mind.
I see sensitivity training in my future.
Turning over the volume in my hands again, I study it. Really, I should mind my business and return it to the floor or tuck it into one of the lockers. But seeing as how I have no idea who it belongs to, I also don’t know which locker to hide it in. Again, I don’t know the culture of hockey or hockey players, but I can imagine my own embarrassment and anger if a book with my private thoughts ended up in the wrong hands. But if I just put it back where I found it, the water will ruin it more than it most likely already has.
And there’s something in me ...
Thatsomethinghas my chest pinching at the thought of just leaving it to be damaged. As if the words themselves or the thoughts captured in this bound notebook will also be damaged. It’s fanciful, silly, I know. But I can’t deny it either.
Sighing, I slip the journal in the pocket of my turnout coat before my brain even acknowledges what I’m doing. As if I’ve crowned myselfits protector.Shit.I shake my head, scoffing, and the sound rebounds back to me inside my mask.
Like the owner, who could probably bench-press two of me, needsmyprotection.
Still, I don’t remove the journal. The safest and most private option is turning it in to the facility’s front office. They’ll know who to return it to. I walk toward the door, not stopping until the October sunshine greets me as I push through the exit. A cacophony of sound—of calls from the other firefighters and the gathered crowd, camera flashes from phones, shouted questions from reporters—ripples on the air. They only become louder when I remove my helmet, mask, and hood. The cool afternoon breeze feels good on my sweaty face and neck. Shrugging off my air tank, more formally known as the self-contained breathing apparatus, I head toward my engine just in time to hear Jared griping to Cam Riley, one of our lieutenants.
“... already had my doubts about the team’s chances of going all the way this year. Yeah, we made it to the playoffs last year, but with Morgan gone and this new goalie they got ...” He grunts.
