Inside Out

“This way Brenna,” Alexander clucked, waving his fingers beside his head as he wove through the scads of people waiting in line. A soft groan escaped my lips while I tried to follow his path but instead found myself amidst a game of human pinball. I bumped into tall people, short people, children, and one very angry teenager before finally whacking my hip on the corner of one of the tables.

“Fuck,” a nearby voice muttered. My eyes danced around to find the source as I tried to inconspicuously rub my hip. They finally settled on the guy behind the table I’d just bumped into and I fought the urge to drop the very same explicative. Another snapback covered his head; the brim shielding his face from me but his Islanders jersey was a dead giveaway.

“Sorry,” I muttered back as I put my head down and hurried away in search of Alexander.

My boss was standing among a group of men in suits, at least a few inches shorter than them and his expression was pinched. His mouth was moving rapidly and the hand holding his iPhone was waving out every few seconds. It was almost enough to make me want to slink back to the table my now least favorite Islander was holding fort at.

Alexander’s eyes locked with mine and he broke away from the men in suits and stormed over to me. Instead of cowering in fear like I wanted to, I straightened up and squared my shoulders. His eyes were murderous and as soon as he was nearby he began ranting about Evan, the other intern, and how he was more than a half hour late. I nodded where I knew he wanted me to and offered soft ‘mhm’s and ‘yes’s when he paused long enough for me to get them in before he grabbed my arm and tugged me back towards the tables.

The NHL store was as busy as I’d ever seen it; the lines were longer than when I walked in, and more intricate as they split between the four tables set up. The first table was Ilya Kovalchuk and Martin Brodeur, the second was Alex Ovechkin and Nicklas Backstrom while the other two were Henrik Lundqvist and John Tavares respectively. Alexander pulled me to stand behind Lundqvist’s table before heading off towards the back of the store. I twisted a little, turning so my back was towards Tavares’ table while I focused solely on what was happening with Lundqvist’s signing.

As part of the NHL’s post-lockout kiss-the-fan’s-asses jamboree the NHL store was having almost weekly signings with whatever New York team was home and their opponent. This week both teams were at home and the store was even more of a zoo than usual. It was the first time that bona fide superstars were taking part.

I watched as Lundqvist smiled tirelessly at the fans, obliging when they asked for a picture or a hug, and laughing at the little boys and girls that told him he was their hero. He was having, by all accounts, a pretty mediocre season; something that was practically unheard of for him but the fans didn’t stop smiling and refused to blame things on him.

After what must have been well over three hundred autographs, Lundqvist turned to me and gave me the smile. Nodding discreetly, I stepped up next to him and cleared my throat a little. The event was only supposed to be a two-hour event but all of the guys involved were still signing, well over that.

“I’m sorry guys but only five more,” I announced, much to the disappointment of the crowd. Everyone but the next five in line stepped back and it suddenly looked like a herd of wild animals as the other PR people involved told their lines varying degrees of the same thing.

Once they cleared out too Henrik stood up and gave me a big smile. “Thanks,” he offered. “If Alex was standing there he would have made me do more.”

I chuckled softly and gave a quick nod. Of course he would have. Alexander was, at best, a dictator. “It was purely selfish,” I joked. “My feet are starting to get hurt and, you know, I have to work with him all the time.”

Henrik laughed. “And for that I am truly sorry.”

I smiled as he wandered away. Lundqvist was one of the nicest guys on the Rangers. I hated his game, mostly because it generally resulted in a loss for my Islanders, but as a person he was one of my favorites to deal with. Gathering up the remaining pictures and the sharpies left on the table, I shoved them into my binder and glanced around.

The store had mostly cleared out save for a few people looking at things the barriers hadn’t blocked them from and a small group of people standing in front of Tavares’ table. Unable to contain myself, I put my binder down and wandered over to his line, smiling as he laughed with the kids remaining. His head was down when I was the only one left.

“Name?” He asked, his hand already scrawling his signature over the action shot.

Leaning down on the table, I smirked and let the words tumble past my lips. “Just put redheaded slut.”

Tavares’ head snapped up so quickly I couldn’t help but laugh as I straightened up. He looked good, something I didn’t get to really notice in the dim bar a few nights ago. But in broad daylight with a Mets hat and a jersey on he was very attractive. The smirk that spread across his lips as realization dawned on him only accentuated that.

“Alright,” he nodded, “but only if you share your real name.”

“Fine,” I laughed,” but only if you make out an extra one for my dad, Pat.”

“Done.” I watched as he first scribbled ‘redheaded slut’ and a quick message above his name before making out a normal picture to my dad and scrawling his name. He slipped them over to me and asked for my name as I picked them up.

A soft chuckle escaped my lips as I moved to grab my binder, easily slipping the Tavares autographs in to be hidden from Alexander’s sight. “Next time make sure someone does what you want before you give them what they want,” I tossed over my shoulder, smirking at John’s stunned expression as I walked away.