Storm Before The Calm

♀

Never in my life would Olive imagine herself at this moment in time. Walking down the flights of stairs in the Convention Center with legs that felt like wet noodles, she felt her heart pulsing through her entire body like a drummer's beat. Not only was she going to get into the Fan Fair for free, but she was going to meet Jeff Skinner, #53, of the Carolina Hurricanes.
As much as she wanted to skip down the steps, singing “I've Got a Golden Ticket”, flaunting her pass in the air, she decided to stay calm.

“Ticket?” a man, who much resembled a black Abraham Lincoln, asked, when she went through the metal detector after getting her purse checked. She especially enjoyed the lady fishing her hands through her purse, touching every article to make sure she didn't carry a bomb. Sure, Olive disliked Ovechkin, but damn, she wasn’t gonna blow the guy up. She handed Mr. Lincoln her pass and he scanned it, letting her in. Once she entered, she thought she saw Stormy and her concentration broke. Just as she was about to whip her head around to look for him, her eyes fixated on a sign that read, “Meet Jeff Skinner”, with an arrow. She saw a long line and it was bubbling with excitement. It was mainly teenage girls who were in love with his face and teenage boys who were in love with his skills. When Olive approached the front of the line, she showed the lady her pass and she let her into the makeshift room. There, sitting before her, was Jeff Skinner.

He was smiling at a little boy with a Team Staal jersey on as the kid enthusiastically told him about something, using wild hand motions. Skinner's dimples showed and it took all of Olive’s power to keep my knees from collapsing. The kid's mom interjected her son, asking if Skinner would sign his jersey, not wanting to take up anymore of his time. He reached over the table, scrawling his name on the boy's shoulder, and bid them goodbye. The two left the area and the lady that let her in declared a five minute break for him to rest his hand and get some water. Olive approached the table he was sitting at and he looked up at her. She decided to just swallow my nerves and jump right into conversation.

“Hello, I'm Olivia Dean, but everyone calls me Olive.” she introduced. The blue eyed girl was relatively calm. She was afraid that She would get word vomit and just spew out words.

“I'm Jeff Skinner.” he replied. SHE smirked.

“I know.” Olive laughed. “I'm supposed to make sure that nobody attacks you and to move people along if they are taking too long. I'm gonna be completely honest when I tell you that I've never had a job like this before.” Skinner chuckled, leaning back in his chair.

“Neither have I.” he responded, looking out at the line of people in front of him. Olive hadn't really thought about it, but he was eighteen, just like her. He was fresh out of high school and he was already playing with the nation's best. This boy, who could just as easily be walking through the halls of her high school, is scrapping with the biggest and baddest. He was just a baby and he had a lot of weight on his shoulders, having to act so adult all the time. From what Olive had seen in interviews, he is mature, but still knows how to have fun.

“Well, you can just give me a sign, when you want me to usher someone out. I'll think of a good excuse or I can just use my brute force.” Olive said, flexing her muscle, or lack thereof. He laughed, placing all four legs of his chair back on the ground. He looked a little nervous, but she could tell that he knew he had to brave it out. He was an adult now, whether he was ready for it or not.

“I'll do this.” he said, straightening his tie. He gave me a thumbs up, which Olive returned.

“Alright.” she pulled a chair to the corner of the room, sitting with her legs crossed. She texted Mike and Allyson, snapping a picture of Skinner slyly and sending it to them. Skinner pulled his phone out to text someone, probably his girlfriend. Once he put his phone away, the lady let a couple of stupid puck-sluts into the room. One of them was wearing a Mario Lemieux sweater, but she had cut it so her boobs were almost spilling out. She also cut off the sleeves to the shoulder and had gold and black ribbons tied on them. Olive audibly gasped. How the hell do you cut a jersey? She would rather cut all her hair off than cut one, but it made it a million times worse because it was Lemieux's. The horrendous girl’s counterpart was almost as bad. She was a little on the heavier side, but that didn't stop her from wearing a too tight Canes zip-up jacket. She had it un-zipped a lot and was not wearing a shirt underneath it. They both reeked of perfume and had way too much makeup on. Needless to say, they were the trashiest girls Olive had ever seen in her life.

“Hey Skinnerrrr.” one of them called. His face smiled but Olive could see his eyes screaming.

“Hello!” he said. He tried to remain calm, but Olive knew that he was uncomfortable. They sashayed up to the table and she tried not to glare at them too hard.

“You are my favorite player,” Canes girl said, leaning against the table, trying to show him cleavage. “you're gonna be better than Sidney Crosby.” Olive snorted, not being able to hold it in. Canes girl glared at her and Olive went about staring at her nails, deciding she needed to repaint them.

“Crosby is my favorite player. But you're definitely my second fave. Can you sign this?” the Lemieux whore asked, putting an All-Star shirt the she “modified” down on the table. It too was cut and tied in a ridiculous fashion. Skinner politely obliged, signing his name down. She pulled out a slip of paper and wrote her number down, leaning her whole body over the table and sticking it in his suit pocket. Canes girl unzipped her jacket a little bit and exposed her collarbone even more. What the hell is she doing? Olive’s hand gripped her walkie talkie.

“Can you sign my boobs?” she giggled. Skinner swallowed, and Olive could hear it. He reached up, tightening his tie a bit. Olive took note of this and stood up and the girls glared at her. Olive wasn't really sure what to say. The Canes girl was built like a line backer, so Olive sure that her own small frame could easily be taken down. She decided to reason with these somewhat barbaric women.

“Wouldn't you rather him sign your shirt? It won't stay, if it’s on your boobs.” Olive pointed out, gesturing towards the All-Star shirt that she had grasped in her manicured catcher's mitts. Canes girl thought about it for a little while.

“Can you sign both?” she asked, giving a puppy dog face. Skinner shook his head.

“I'm sorry. One or the other.” he shot down, flashing her a smile.

“I guess the shirt, then.” she said, shoving her shirt in his face. She put her number on a piece of paper, kissed it with her bright red lipstick and put it in his suit pocket. Skinner handed her the shirt back. “Besides, you'll call me, so you can sign my boobs all you want.” Her friend and her laughed their awful witch cackles and left, walking away like wannabe models. Olive sighed a deep breath and collapsed into her chair. The whole day better not be like that, she thought.

“Well, they were friendly.” the somewhat jealous blonde said, running a hand through her hair. “Hopefully they were the worst of them.”

“You should have seen the chicks that came before you..." he trailed off. New people walked into the room and he greeted them.

What did she get herself into?