Hearts on Ice
- Thread starter Kyle
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- kyle.kyle
4 May 2021
Sauveterre-de-Comminges, Saintonge
09:15 AM
“Finn, Comminges is trading you to Saintes.”
Finnsteinn Ramsland simply looked down on his breakfast, stirring his morning coffee. He pondered his agent’s statement for a while. Saintes? That place was so far away. He had just been trying to rebuild his life in this small provincial town, and now he has to uproot himself move to a big city?
Never mind that he doesn’t really have a family. He had no siblings, no parents, no girlfriend or wife, or children to leave or take with him. But it seemed that he was having to start again.
“Finn?” His agent prompted him.
Finn looked up at his agent. Madame Béatrice Volpilhac was like an adoptive Santonian mother to him. Her husband, Oscar, was a scout for the ice hockey team CHG des Comminges. Oscar Volpilhac discovered Finn was he led the army team to a staggering win over the police team at the Christmas exhibition hockey game almost three years ago. He was just then inducted as Pvt. Finnsteinn Ramsland, 39th Alpine Battalion, Royal Santonian Army, stationed at the barracks in Sauveterre-de-Comminges, a hockey-obsessed provincial town in the Aubrac plateau in southwestern Saintonge. That he was Prydanian and had taken up hockey as a pastime meant that he was conscripted to represent the army team.
That was mostly his life in Sauveterre for the past five years: duties in the military, playing hockey as a pastime. He was carving out a new life for himself after his tumultuous childhood in war-torn Prydania and escaping to Saintonge in 2015. After being unsure of himself and the people around him, Finn began to open up and have friends again: his Santonian army buddies, his hockey playmates. Would all of that change now that he has to move?
“Finn, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Finn muttered, his eyes going back to his croissant.
“You don’t look okay.”
Finn sighed. “Do I have to start again?”
Madame Béatrice smiled and reached over to put a hand over Finn’s shoulder. She really had that motherly vibe around her. She looked at Finn lovingly in the eye and told him: “No, Finn, we’d still be here. I will be your agent as long as you keep me. Your friends here in Sauveterre would still be your friends as long as you keep them your friends.”
“I understand how it feels,” she continued. Finnsteinn was twenty-five years of age. He arrived in Saintonge when he was twenty and to her it seemed like Finnsteinn was still the scared, vulnerable teenager that he could’ve been when he was still in Prydania. Not that Madame Béatrice would know. Finnsteinn had never opened up to her about his life in Prydania. In the rare times she had pried, Finnsteinn just clammed shut. All she knew about him was that he was Finnsteinn Ramsland, born 6 August 1995, in Býkonsviði. She didn’t even know his parents’ names and he just left it blank on documents. The Santonian Immigration and Integration Agency also only lists those bare minimum data about him: his birthdate and birthplace.
Madame Béatrice used to wonder about what Finnsteinn’s childhood could’ve been. Why doesn’t he know his parents? Was he an orphan? An abandoned baby? She had stopped wondering about it because as she told Finnsteinn when she was convincing him to jump to professional ice hockey: “What matters is now. Today. What you make with your life now.”
Madame Béatrice tried to hark back to her comment. “But Finn, I think the opportunity in Saintes is much bigger than here in Comminges. I mean, look at Comminges’ team – your team is contending for relegation.”
Finnsteinn just nodded.
“Besides, you’d be playing for the organisation that counts bigwigs such as Kévin Beaudoin, the Baldrs… there are a lot of Prydanians there too.”
Finnsteinn inhaled deeply. Truth to be told, he doesn’t like being around Prydanians. It reminded him too much of his homeland, or what they might say about him. Except for a few though – Comminges’ goaltender and his practice buddy Jesper Thorsgaard, his army buddy Anders Schjeldahl, the cook at Sauveterre’s only Prydanian restaurant Oddbjörn Rölvaag – almost all of his few friends had been Santonians. So going to ARS Saintes to meet even more Prydanians like Baldr Hnappdal and Baldr Gudmundseth didn’t excite Finnsteinn. Especially Baldr Gudmundseth.
“I think it would be a great opportunity for you to be able to go to a team that won’t be relegated next season,” Madame Béatrice continued, “and it would be good for you to train and continue your career in one of the best teams in Saintonge right now.”
Finnsteinn pondered about it for a moment. The move does have obvious career advantages, but why did ARS Saintes want him?
“Why am I being traded?”
“CHG des Comminges is getting power forward Tim Hellmuth from ARS Saintes. Comminges will be sending you, Cal Calnegry, and a draft pick to Saintes in return.”
“Aren’t I just some sort of inferior bargaining chip then,” Finn remarked coldly. “Tell Coach Cailles that Comminges doesn’t need even more forwards! This team needs to support Jesper and Ulrich on the goaltending line! The team’s defence sucks!”
“It’s not Coach Cailles,” Madame Béatrice told Finnsteinn. “Coach Cailles was also against the trade. It’s GM Maurin that wants it,” she said, referring to CHG des Comminges’ general manager Marc-Maurice Maurin.
“F~ck that guy,” Finn thundered. It was no secret that most Comminges players disliked their general manager: an overbearing, mincromanaging, incompetent manager who got the position thanks to his politicking of the association that owns the team. Coach Charles-Constant Cailles regularly gets into arguments with Maurin, their team captain Brice-Antoine Cardonneret dislikes Maurin. Bless Antoine, that guy was a saint for defending his team against Maurin.
“See, Finn,” Madame Béatrice said, “the reason why I am also in favour of this is because it will get you away from Maurin!”
Finn smiled slightly. “Poor Jesper,” he murmured.
“I’m sure you know about this, but Jesper is also looking for a trade,” Madame Béatrice said. “Oscar is helping his agent too, but with his numbers, I don’t feel like another team would take him in.”
“His dismal numbers are because of the team’s nonexistent defence,” Finn instinctively leapt to his friend’s defence. He knew Madame Béatrice didn’t really mean anything bad, and he understood why most teams would pass over Jesper Thorsgaard’s record because he had let many goals in despite having a save percentage that would put him in the middle of the league table. When the opposing team have four or five times as many shots on goal, even a high save percentage won’t save the game.
“I know,” Madame Béatrice replied. “I hope Oscar can help him relocate. But for now, Saintes wants you.”
“Was I their choice?” Finn inquired.
“Yes,” his agent replied. “They looked over at Comminges’ roster and selected you. They liked the fact that you are a two-way forward.”
Finn chuckled. “Necessity is the mother of invention, I suppose. I am formally a forward but because the Comminges’ defence sucks, I have to go back to support the goalies.”
Madame Béatrice laughed. “I know, I know. I think that’s what made you attractive to Saintes.”
“But how about my current contract with Comminges? I still have one year.”
“By the current rules of the federation and your contract, you are still signed with Comminges. But the standard contract that we have states that Comminges can trade/transfer you if they want.”
“I have no say about it?”
“Unfortunately you don’t. Your contract does not have an Argentin clause.”
Finnsteinn was vaguely familiar with that. An Argentin clause is a no-trade clause. Maurin was so much keen on doing away with all of those, which pissed off many of his old-time players.
“All this makes me just want to get back to soldiering,” Finn mused absentmidendly.
“Don’t do that!” Madame Béatrice said, alarmed. “Imagine that this will be good for your hockey career. Soldiering will always be there for you. But here in professional sports, grab the opportunity when you can.”
“Yeah, I know, I know,” Finn replied. “I will grab the opportunity, Madame Béatrice. But who will be paying for my salary if I’m transferred…?”
“ARS Saintes will be paying for your salary that you had in your contract with Comminges. Essentially, you are still signed with Comminges, but you are just ‘subcontracted’ – to use a business/legal term – to ARS Saintes. ARS Saintes will be paying your salary and your bonuses.”
“That’s alright,” Finn chuckled, “I don’t understand those terms anyway.”
“Don’t worry about money – Oscar and I will take care of all your accounts.”
“As if I have any use for money,” Finn commented, with sadness creeping into his voice. He had a lot of money now from playing professional ice hockey, but he had no family to spend and share it with.
Madame Béatrice detected what Finn meant. She went over and hugged him. “If ever you feel lonely in Saintes, you can always call me, ok?” Madame Béatrice said as she straightened back up. “Maybe… who knows… you will find someone in Saintes!” She then gave him a teasing laugh, like that of an aunt nosing around a nephew’s lovelife.
“Aunt Béatrice!” Finn tried to stop his agent from teasing him. “I don’t have time for that!”
“Oh, don’t stop it Finn,” Madame Béatrice said as she went back to her seat. “If you want it, you will have time for it. Besides, you are a very eligible bachelor! You are a nice guy, you are handsome, you are a soldier by profession, you are a pro hockey player… what’s not to like?”
“Aunt Béatrice, please stop flattering me.”
Madame Béatrice laughed. “That didn’t come from me,” she admitted. “That came from the new president of your new fan club.”
Finnsteinn’s jaw dropped. “Wait… I have a fan club?”
Sauveterre-de-Comminges, Saintonge
09:15 AM
“Finn, Comminges is trading you to Saintes.”
Finnsteinn Ramsland simply looked down on his breakfast, stirring his morning coffee. He pondered his agent’s statement for a while. Saintes? That place was so far away. He had just been trying to rebuild his life in this small provincial town, and now he has to uproot himself move to a big city?
Never mind that he doesn’t really have a family. He had no siblings, no parents, no girlfriend or wife, or children to leave or take with him. But it seemed that he was having to start again.
“Finn?” His agent prompted him.
Finn looked up at his agent. Madame Béatrice Volpilhac was like an adoptive Santonian mother to him. Her husband, Oscar, was a scout for the ice hockey team CHG des Comminges. Oscar Volpilhac discovered Finn was he led the army team to a staggering win over the police team at the Christmas exhibition hockey game almost three years ago. He was just then inducted as Pvt. Finnsteinn Ramsland, 39th Alpine Battalion, Royal Santonian Army, stationed at the barracks in Sauveterre-de-Comminges, a hockey-obsessed provincial town in the Aubrac plateau in southwestern Saintonge. That he was Prydanian and had taken up hockey as a pastime meant that he was conscripted to represent the army team.
That was mostly his life in Sauveterre for the past five years: duties in the military, playing hockey as a pastime. He was carving out a new life for himself after his tumultuous childhood in war-torn Prydania and escaping to Saintonge in 2015. After being unsure of himself and the people around him, Finn began to open up and have friends again: his Santonian army buddies, his hockey playmates. Would all of that change now that he has to move?
“Finn, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Finn muttered, his eyes going back to his croissant.
“You don’t look okay.”
Finn sighed. “Do I have to start again?”
Madame Béatrice smiled and reached over to put a hand over Finn’s shoulder. She really had that motherly vibe around her. She looked at Finn lovingly in the eye and told him: “No, Finn, we’d still be here. I will be your agent as long as you keep me. Your friends here in Sauveterre would still be your friends as long as you keep them your friends.”
“I understand how it feels,” she continued. Finnsteinn was twenty-five years of age. He arrived in Saintonge when he was twenty and to her it seemed like Finnsteinn was still the scared, vulnerable teenager that he could’ve been when he was still in Prydania. Not that Madame Béatrice would know. Finnsteinn had never opened up to her about his life in Prydania. In the rare times she had pried, Finnsteinn just clammed shut. All she knew about him was that he was Finnsteinn Ramsland, born 6 August 1995, in Býkonsviði. She didn’t even know his parents’ names and he just left it blank on documents. The Santonian Immigration and Integration Agency also only lists those bare minimum data about him: his birthdate and birthplace.
Madame Béatrice used to wonder about what Finnsteinn’s childhood could’ve been. Why doesn’t he know his parents? Was he an orphan? An abandoned baby? She had stopped wondering about it because as she told Finnsteinn when she was convincing him to jump to professional ice hockey: “What matters is now. Today. What you make with your life now.”
Madame Béatrice tried to hark back to her comment. “But Finn, I think the opportunity in Saintes is much bigger than here in Comminges. I mean, look at Comminges’ team – your team is contending for relegation.”
Finnsteinn just nodded.
“Besides, you’d be playing for the organisation that counts bigwigs such as Kévin Beaudoin, the Baldrs… there are a lot of Prydanians there too.”
Finnsteinn inhaled deeply. Truth to be told, he doesn’t like being around Prydanians. It reminded him too much of his homeland, or what they might say about him. Except for a few though – Comminges’ goaltender and his practice buddy Jesper Thorsgaard, his army buddy Anders Schjeldahl, the cook at Sauveterre’s only Prydanian restaurant Oddbjörn Rölvaag – almost all of his few friends had been Santonians. So going to ARS Saintes to meet even more Prydanians like Baldr Hnappdal and Baldr Gudmundseth didn’t excite Finnsteinn. Especially Baldr Gudmundseth.
“I think it would be a great opportunity for you to be able to go to a team that won’t be relegated next season,” Madame Béatrice continued, “and it would be good for you to train and continue your career in one of the best teams in Saintonge right now.”
Finnsteinn pondered about it for a moment. The move does have obvious career advantages, but why did ARS Saintes want him?
“Why am I being traded?”
“CHG des Comminges is getting power forward Tim Hellmuth from ARS Saintes. Comminges will be sending you, Cal Calnegry, and a draft pick to Saintes in return.”
“Aren’t I just some sort of inferior bargaining chip then,” Finn remarked coldly. “Tell Coach Cailles that Comminges doesn’t need even more forwards! This team needs to support Jesper and Ulrich on the goaltending line! The team’s defence sucks!”
“It’s not Coach Cailles,” Madame Béatrice told Finnsteinn. “Coach Cailles was also against the trade. It’s GM Maurin that wants it,” she said, referring to CHG des Comminges’ general manager Marc-Maurice Maurin.
“F~ck that guy,” Finn thundered. It was no secret that most Comminges players disliked their general manager: an overbearing, mincromanaging, incompetent manager who got the position thanks to his politicking of the association that owns the team. Coach Charles-Constant Cailles regularly gets into arguments with Maurin, their team captain Brice-Antoine Cardonneret dislikes Maurin. Bless Antoine, that guy was a saint for defending his team against Maurin.
“See, Finn,” Madame Béatrice said, “the reason why I am also in favour of this is because it will get you away from Maurin!”
Finn smiled slightly. “Poor Jesper,” he murmured.
“I’m sure you know about this, but Jesper is also looking for a trade,” Madame Béatrice said. “Oscar is helping his agent too, but with his numbers, I don’t feel like another team would take him in.”
“His dismal numbers are because of the team’s nonexistent defence,” Finn instinctively leapt to his friend’s defence. He knew Madame Béatrice didn’t really mean anything bad, and he understood why most teams would pass over Jesper Thorsgaard’s record because he had let many goals in despite having a save percentage that would put him in the middle of the league table. When the opposing team have four or five times as many shots on goal, even a high save percentage won’t save the game.
“I know,” Madame Béatrice replied. “I hope Oscar can help him relocate. But for now, Saintes wants you.”
“Was I their choice?” Finn inquired.
“Yes,” his agent replied. “They looked over at Comminges’ roster and selected you. They liked the fact that you are a two-way forward.”
Finn chuckled. “Necessity is the mother of invention, I suppose. I am formally a forward but because the Comminges’ defence sucks, I have to go back to support the goalies.”
Madame Béatrice laughed. “I know, I know. I think that’s what made you attractive to Saintes.”
“But how about my current contract with Comminges? I still have one year.”
“By the current rules of the federation and your contract, you are still signed with Comminges. But the standard contract that we have states that Comminges can trade/transfer you if they want.”
“I have no say about it?”
“Unfortunately you don’t. Your contract does not have an Argentin clause.”
Finnsteinn was vaguely familiar with that. An Argentin clause is a no-trade clause. Maurin was so much keen on doing away with all of those, which pissed off many of his old-time players.
“All this makes me just want to get back to soldiering,” Finn mused absentmidendly.
“Don’t do that!” Madame Béatrice said, alarmed. “Imagine that this will be good for your hockey career. Soldiering will always be there for you. But here in professional sports, grab the opportunity when you can.”
“Yeah, I know, I know,” Finn replied. “I will grab the opportunity, Madame Béatrice. But who will be paying for my salary if I’m transferred…?”
“ARS Saintes will be paying for your salary that you had in your contract with Comminges. Essentially, you are still signed with Comminges, but you are just ‘subcontracted’ – to use a business/legal term – to ARS Saintes. ARS Saintes will be paying your salary and your bonuses.”
“That’s alright,” Finn chuckled, “I don’t understand those terms anyway.”
“Don’t worry about money – Oscar and I will take care of all your accounts.”
“As if I have any use for money,” Finn commented, with sadness creeping into his voice. He had a lot of money now from playing professional ice hockey, but he had no family to spend and share it with.
Madame Béatrice detected what Finn meant. She went over and hugged him. “If ever you feel lonely in Saintes, you can always call me, ok?” Madame Béatrice said as she straightened back up. “Maybe… who knows… you will find someone in Saintes!” She then gave him a teasing laugh, like that of an aunt nosing around a nephew’s lovelife.
“Aunt Béatrice!” Finn tried to stop his agent from teasing him. “I don’t have time for that!”
“Oh, don’t stop it Finn,” Madame Béatrice said as she went back to her seat. “If you want it, you will have time for it. Besides, you are a very eligible bachelor! You are a nice guy, you are handsome, you are a soldier by profession, you are a pro hockey player… what’s not to like?”
“Aunt Béatrice, please stop flattering me.”
Madame Béatrice laughed. “That didn’t come from me,” she admitted. “That came from the new president of your new fan club.”
Finnsteinn’s jaw dropped. “Wait… I have a fan club?”
Last edited:
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- kyle.kyle
28 December 2021
Saintes
12:45 PM
Finnsteinn Ramsland arrived at the Patinoire de Saintes early. It was practice day.
As usual, he took the short subway ride from his apartment near Sainte-Carine station to Patinage station. He was not that well-known enough to be recognised on Saintes’ public transport anyway, that fan club notwithstanding. Someone approached Madame Béatrice if they could make a Finnsteinn Ramsland fan club, and Madame Béatrice, being Finn’s publicity manager, gave them the go-ahead. They even got a photo session and a meet-and-greet in Sauveterre-de-Comminges before Finnsteinn left CHG des Comminges for ARS Saintes.
But in the big city of Saintes, he was virtually unknown. He hadn’t even met the coach of ARS Saintes when the season started last October. He was told that he was being sent instead to Vikings de Saint-Alban, the semi-professional farm team of ARS Saintes which plays in the fourth tier of the Santonian Hockey League system. They said it was for ‘conditioning’, but it sounded like a demotion after playing in the top league. Conditioning, all right, but Finnsteinn showed them what he’s made of. Finnsteinn wowed the Fourth Division by becoming Vikings de Saint-Alban’s top scorer and the division’s third top scorer in this season, making himself well-known among the Prydanian immigrant community in Saintes, from which the Vikings get their support from. He managed to parry uncomfortable questions about himself and his life back in Prydania, thanks to Madame Béatrice’s deft handling of Finnsteinn’s public relations. Thank God for Madame Béatrice. She commutes twice a month from Sauveterre-de-Comminges to Saintes, a day’s trip, to personally check on her rising ice hockey ward. The rest of the time she communicates with him via phone and video call.
Finnsteinn entered the private entrance at the back of the building where the players enter. He was familiar with the place. ARS Saintes and its two semi-professional farm teams, Vikings de Saint-Alban, and Gardes de Saintes, all share the same rink. At the end of the short entrance passageway, the path divides into two, and the wall is emblazoned with a big “BONJOUR!” and some words of encouragement to the players coming in. Below it, the logos of the teams direct the players to where they should go. Vikings de Saint-Alban and Gardes de Saintes to the left, ARS Saintes to the right. Finnsteinn, for the first time since arriving in this big city several months ago, took the right path.
Carrying his gym bag down the turn of the corridor, he was met by an ARS Saintes team staff member. “Hello! You must be Finnsteinn Ramsland?”
“Yeah I am.”
“Alright,” the staff member pointed to the corridor ahead and pointed at the doors. “To your left is the locker room. We have taken the liberty to transfer your stuff from the Vikings locker room to the lockers here.” He then handed Finnsteinn the keys to the locker.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t dress up yet for the practice,” the staff member continued. “I know the call time was 2 PM, but the start of practice is actually 3 PM. They just called up early because Kévin Beaudoin would like to have a team meeting first. Coach Steegmann will also hold a meeting before practice.”
“Thank you for the information.”
“You actually came very early – there’s nobody there yet. If you want, you can get refreshments first?”
Finn smiled. “It’s okay, I had just eaten lunch.”
“I see. Welcome to ARS Saintes!”
Finnsteinn daydreamed on a bench in an isolated corner of the locker room, at the end of a short corridor wedged between unused lockers and spare hockey equipment on one side and the shower on the other side. When he was growing up in Prydania, he had never thought about being a professional ice hockey player. Neither when he arrived in Saintonge. He steered his aimless life into a regimented one in the Santonian army. His unit, stationed in Sauveterre-de-Comminges, played ice hockey as a pastime and for training. He was then immersed in it, had to learn it because the expectations of him was high because he was a Prydanian. Finally, he found something that he could be good at.
The Volpilhacs encouraged him to nurture his newfound talent and he quickly reached the big leagues. But when he reached Saintes, he was knocked down a few notches, until this opportunity came. One of the Saintes players got injured and so they needed to recall a forward from their semi-professional teams. ARS Saintes picked him to play as a replacement. Grab the opportunity when you can. Madame Béatrice’s words rang in Finnsteinn’s head. Finnsteinn would make the best out of this opportunity.
“Hey,” somebody interrupted Finnsteinn’s train of thought. “You’re the new guy, Finnsteinn?”
Finnsteinn looked up. Standing in front of him was a big burly guy with a big friendly smile on his face. Brice-Kévin Beaudoin, the captain of ARS Saintes and the Santonian National Ice Hockey Team.
“Yes,” Finn stood up to shake Kévin’s hand. “Finnsteinn Ramsland,” he introduced himself. “How did you know?”
“Your hoodie,” Kévin replied. Finn looked down on what he was wearing. He was still wearing his red-and-white Vikings de Saint-Alban hoodie.
“Oh,” Finn muttered.
“We’ll get you a Saintes one,” Kévin grinned. “By the way, I’m Brice-Kévin Beaudoin. Captain of the team, occasionally the head honcho, but usually everyone’s assistant. Call me Kev.”
“Nice to meet you Kev. You can call me Finn.”
“Finn, you are Prydanian aren’t you? You will fit just right on,” Kev commented. “We have a lot of Prydanians in this team. You speak Prydanian, já?”
“Oui.”
“Just don’t talk about me in Prydanian in front of me,” Kev joked. “Them Baldrs do it all the time.”
“Guys, I would like to introduce you to Finnsteinn Ramsland,” Kévin Beaudoin told the team during their meeting. “He’ll be with us because Blast is injured.” The captain turned to the newcomer. “Finn?”
“Yeah?”
“Introduce yourself.”
“Hi… I’m Finnsteinn Ramsland. Twenty-six.” Finn then thought of something else to say, but could not think of anything else.
“That’s it?” Kev chuckled. “Well, we have a game for newcomers in the team, Finn.” He then gave a naughty giggle uncharacteristic for a grown man. “So, every one of these guys had played it. We’d like to get to know the newcomer even better. It’s also a way for you to know your teammates.”
Finn’s heart raced. Were they going to pry into his life?
“This is how it goes, Finn,” Kev explained. “Your teammates will introduce themselves to you, and they will ask one question about you, and then you’ll answer. Are you ready?”
Finn nodded tentatively as Kev gestured for the first guy on his left to start the grilling.
“Hi!” A babyfaced teenager waved hello. “I’m Joseph-Dominique Bethomier, goaltender. Are you Prydanian Prydanian, or Santonian Prydanian?”
Finn’s brows furrowed at the teenager’s question. “Uh, what does that mean?”
“Oh, I was asking if you are Prydanian from Prydania or a Prydanian from Saintonge.”
“Ah,” Finn murmured. “I’m Prydanian from Prydania, but I hold Santonian citizenship.”
“I see. Thanks!”
“Nice to meet you Finn,” the next guy began. “Baldr Hnappdal here, right winger. Where from Prydania are you from?”
Oh no. Here comes the prying questions. This one, though, seems harmless. “Býkonsviði,” Finn answered.
Baldr Hnappdal elbowed his seatmate. “Told you, that’s a Býkonsviði accent,” Hnappdal told his seatmate in Prydanian.
Finn pursed his mouth, exhaling as he dodged that bullet.
“Hi, I’m Baldr Gudmundseth,” Hnappdal’s seatmate introduced himself. Baldr Hnappdal and Baldr Gudmundseth were first-line forwards of ARS Saintes and were two of the most popular hockey players in Saintonge right now. They were also very close friends, so much so that their teammates and the media call them collectively as “the Baldrs”. And of the two, it was Baldr Gudmundseth that Finn was most apprehensive about.
“Can you tell us about your family?” Gudmundseth asked.
Finn’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t want to talk what happened to his family. He hadn’t talked about it when Madame Béatrice asked, and certainly he wouldn’t start talking about it now. He hemmed and hawed for a bit trying to think of a way to dodge the question. “Uh… I… my family…” A whimper inadvertently escaped Finn.
“It’s alright, Finn,” Baldr Gudmundseth gave a sympathetic smile as he stood up and patted Finn at the back. Finn looked up at Baldr Gudmunseth. He looked friendly enough. “We understand if you don’t answer that,” Gudmundseth told Finn as he sat beside him and rubbed Finn’s back. “I’m sorry if I opened up a touchy subject… we have a lot of Prydanians in this team who had come through similar experiences. You can talk to us if you need someone to talk to.”
Finn just nodded.
“Alright, what about something fun to talk about?” The next teammate said cheerfully. “I’m Émile Sémeril, left winger. What are your favourite pastimes?”
“Pastime?” Finn pondered. “Hockey was my pastime when I was in the army. This was my pastime… never thought that it would be a career.”
“So you just began playing hockey recreationally? When did you start?”
“I started playing when I was twenty. It was our unit’s pastime. Being Prydanian, they expected a lot from me. But I actually never held a hockey stick in my life until I came to Saintonge…” Finn’s voice trailed off, mentally suppressing the next thought that came to his mind. He wasn’t holding a hockey stick when he was a teenager, he was holding something else.
His new teammates beamed. “You’re a fast learner then!” Kev commented.
“Cool!” the Baldrs said in unison. “We saw you play amazing hockey with the Vikings. You don’t look like someone who had just taken up the sport a few years ago.”
“Thanks guys,” Finn answered. Maybe this group of guys weren’t so scary after all.
Saintes
12:45 PM
Finnsteinn Ramsland arrived at the Patinoire de Saintes early. It was practice day.
As usual, he took the short subway ride from his apartment near Sainte-Carine station to Patinage station. He was not that well-known enough to be recognised on Saintes’ public transport anyway, that fan club notwithstanding. Someone approached Madame Béatrice if they could make a Finnsteinn Ramsland fan club, and Madame Béatrice, being Finn’s publicity manager, gave them the go-ahead. They even got a photo session and a meet-and-greet in Sauveterre-de-Comminges before Finnsteinn left CHG des Comminges for ARS Saintes.
But in the big city of Saintes, he was virtually unknown. He hadn’t even met the coach of ARS Saintes when the season started last October. He was told that he was being sent instead to Vikings de Saint-Alban, the semi-professional farm team of ARS Saintes which plays in the fourth tier of the Santonian Hockey League system. They said it was for ‘conditioning’, but it sounded like a demotion after playing in the top league. Conditioning, all right, but Finnsteinn showed them what he’s made of. Finnsteinn wowed the Fourth Division by becoming Vikings de Saint-Alban’s top scorer and the division’s third top scorer in this season, making himself well-known among the Prydanian immigrant community in Saintes, from which the Vikings get their support from. He managed to parry uncomfortable questions about himself and his life back in Prydania, thanks to Madame Béatrice’s deft handling of Finnsteinn’s public relations. Thank God for Madame Béatrice. She commutes twice a month from Sauveterre-de-Comminges to Saintes, a day’s trip, to personally check on her rising ice hockey ward. The rest of the time she communicates with him via phone and video call.
Finnsteinn entered the private entrance at the back of the building where the players enter. He was familiar with the place. ARS Saintes and its two semi-professional farm teams, Vikings de Saint-Alban, and Gardes de Saintes, all share the same rink. At the end of the short entrance passageway, the path divides into two, and the wall is emblazoned with a big “BONJOUR!” and some words of encouragement to the players coming in. Below it, the logos of the teams direct the players to where they should go. Vikings de Saint-Alban and Gardes de Saintes to the left, ARS Saintes to the right. Finnsteinn, for the first time since arriving in this big city several months ago, took the right path.
Carrying his gym bag down the turn of the corridor, he was met by an ARS Saintes team staff member. “Hello! You must be Finnsteinn Ramsland?”
“Yeah I am.”
“Alright,” the staff member pointed to the corridor ahead and pointed at the doors. “To your left is the locker room. We have taken the liberty to transfer your stuff from the Vikings locker room to the lockers here.” He then handed Finnsteinn the keys to the locker.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t dress up yet for the practice,” the staff member continued. “I know the call time was 2 PM, but the start of practice is actually 3 PM. They just called up early because Kévin Beaudoin would like to have a team meeting first. Coach Steegmann will also hold a meeting before practice.”
“Thank you for the information.”
“You actually came very early – there’s nobody there yet. If you want, you can get refreshments first?”
Finn smiled. “It’s okay, I had just eaten lunch.”
“I see. Welcome to ARS Saintes!”
* * *
Finnsteinn daydreamed on a bench in an isolated corner of the locker room, at the end of a short corridor wedged between unused lockers and spare hockey equipment on one side and the shower on the other side. When he was growing up in Prydania, he had never thought about being a professional ice hockey player. Neither when he arrived in Saintonge. He steered his aimless life into a regimented one in the Santonian army. His unit, stationed in Sauveterre-de-Comminges, played ice hockey as a pastime and for training. He was then immersed in it, had to learn it because the expectations of him was high because he was a Prydanian. Finally, he found something that he could be good at.
The Volpilhacs encouraged him to nurture his newfound talent and he quickly reached the big leagues. But when he reached Saintes, he was knocked down a few notches, until this opportunity came. One of the Saintes players got injured and so they needed to recall a forward from their semi-professional teams. ARS Saintes picked him to play as a replacement. Grab the opportunity when you can. Madame Béatrice’s words rang in Finnsteinn’s head. Finnsteinn would make the best out of this opportunity.
“Hey,” somebody interrupted Finnsteinn’s train of thought. “You’re the new guy, Finnsteinn?”
Finnsteinn looked up. Standing in front of him was a big burly guy with a big friendly smile on his face. Brice-Kévin Beaudoin, the captain of ARS Saintes and the Santonian National Ice Hockey Team.
“Yes,” Finn stood up to shake Kévin’s hand. “Finnsteinn Ramsland,” he introduced himself. “How did you know?”
“Your hoodie,” Kévin replied. Finn looked down on what he was wearing. He was still wearing his red-and-white Vikings de Saint-Alban hoodie.
“Oh,” Finn muttered.
“We’ll get you a Saintes one,” Kévin grinned. “By the way, I’m Brice-Kévin Beaudoin. Captain of the team, occasionally the head honcho, but usually everyone’s assistant. Call me Kev.”
“Nice to meet you Kev. You can call me Finn.”
“Finn, you are Prydanian aren’t you? You will fit just right on,” Kev commented. “We have a lot of Prydanians in this team. You speak Prydanian, já?”
“Oui.”
“Just don’t talk about me in Prydanian in front of me,” Kev joked. “Them Baldrs do it all the time.”
* * *
“Guys, I would like to introduce you to Finnsteinn Ramsland,” Kévin Beaudoin told the team during their meeting. “He’ll be with us because Blast is injured.” The captain turned to the newcomer. “Finn?”
“Yeah?”
“Introduce yourself.”
“Hi… I’m Finnsteinn Ramsland. Twenty-six.” Finn then thought of something else to say, but could not think of anything else.
“That’s it?” Kev chuckled. “Well, we have a game for newcomers in the team, Finn.” He then gave a naughty giggle uncharacteristic for a grown man. “So, every one of these guys had played it. We’d like to get to know the newcomer even better. It’s also a way for you to know your teammates.”
Finn’s heart raced. Were they going to pry into his life?
“This is how it goes, Finn,” Kev explained. “Your teammates will introduce themselves to you, and they will ask one question about you, and then you’ll answer. Are you ready?”
Finn nodded tentatively as Kev gestured for the first guy on his left to start the grilling.
“Hi!” A babyfaced teenager waved hello. “I’m Joseph-Dominique Bethomier, goaltender. Are you Prydanian Prydanian, or Santonian Prydanian?”
Finn’s brows furrowed at the teenager’s question. “Uh, what does that mean?”
“Oh, I was asking if you are Prydanian from Prydania or a Prydanian from Saintonge.”
“Ah,” Finn murmured. “I’m Prydanian from Prydania, but I hold Santonian citizenship.”
“I see. Thanks!”
“Nice to meet you Finn,” the next guy began. “Baldr Hnappdal here, right winger. Where from Prydania are you from?”
Oh no. Here comes the prying questions. This one, though, seems harmless. “Býkonsviði,” Finn answered.
Baldr Hnappdal elbowed his seatmate. “Told you, that’s a Býkonsviði accent,” Hnappdal told his seatmate in Prydanian.
Finn pursed his mouth, exhaling as he dodged that bullet.
“Hi, I’m Baldr Gudmundseth,” Hnappdal’s seatmate introduced himself. Baldr Hnappdal and Baldr Gudmundseth were first-line forwards of ARS Saintes and were two of the most popular hockey players in Saintonge right now. They were also very close friends, so much so that their teammates and the media call them collectively as “the Baldrs”. And of the two, it was Baldr Gudmundseth that Finn was most apprehensive about.
“Can you tell us about your family?” Gudmundseth asked.
Finn’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t want to talk what happened to his family. He hadn’t talked about it when Madame Béatrice asked, and certainly he wouldn’t start talking about it now. He hemmed and hawed for a bit trying to think of a way to dodge the question. “Uh… I… my family…” A whimper inadvertently escaped Finn.
“It’s alright, Finn,” Baldr Gudmundseth gave a sympathetic smile as he stood up and patted Finn at the back. Finn looked up at Baldr Gudmunseth. He looked friendly enough. “We understand if you don’t answer that,” Gudmundseth told Finn as he sat beside him and rubbed Finn’s back. “I’m sorry if I opened up a touchy subject… we have a lot of Prydanians in this team who had come through similar experiences. You can talk to us if you need someone to talk to.”
Finn just nodded.
“Alright, what about something fun to talk about?” The next teammate said cheerfully. “I’m Émile Sémeril, left winger. What are your favourite pastimes?”
“Pastime?” Finn pondered. “Hockey was my pastime when I was in the army. This was my pastime… never thought that it would be a career.”
“So you just began playing hockey recreationally? When did you start?”
“I started playing when I was twenty. It was our unit’s pastime. Being Prydanian, they expected a lot from me. But I actually never held a hockey stick in my life until I came to Saintonge…” Finn’s voice trailed off, mentally suppressing the next thought that came to his mind. He wasn’t holding a hockey stick when he was a teenager, he was holding something else.
His new teammates beamed. “You’re a fast learner then!” Kev commented.
“Cool!” the Baldrs said in unison. “We saw you play amazing hockey with the Vikings. You don’t look like someone who had just taken up the sport a few years ago.”
“Thanks guys,” Finn answered. Maybe this group of guys weren’t so scary after all.
- Discord
- kyle.kyle
1 January 2022
Saintes
“Way to go guys!” Brice-Kévin Beaudoin, captain of the ARS Saintes ice hockey team, told his team after the game. They had just defeated their visitors Chevaliers de Côme in the open-air outdoor ice hockey game at their home city, 5-2. “What a great way to start the year!”
Unlike the football league in Saintonge, ice hockey didn’t have a Christmas-New Year break. After all, winter was a great time to play a sport like ice hockey. The game they just played was the marquee game for the new year, in which two teams would play an outdoor regular season game in the morning of the New Year. It was a tradition in the Ligue des Jarlais since 1982, a move by the league to popularise the sport. This time, it was played at the Forain de Saintes, the Saintes City Fairgrounds, which was specifically converted into a rink.
“You know what, we Santonians have a belief,” defenceman Bavon de Grimbergen told his teammates, half of which were of foreign descent, “that whatever you do during New Year’s Day, you will be doing for the rest of the year. THAT MEANS WE KEEP WINNING BABY!!”
The dressing room erupted in cheers.
“This was indeed a great start,” fellow defenceman and alternate captain Gottsveinn ‘Robby’ Robberstad agreed, flinging a “season’s puck” up in the air and catching it again. Many ice hockey teams, such as ARS Saintes, had a post-game tradition in which one player who holds the “season’s puck” would speak and comment on the good things they did on the game. The player would then pass the “season’s puck” to the player who he thought made a lot of difference in the game, win or lose. That player will in turn speak and comment in the next game. That day, the holder of the “season’s puck” was Robby, who got it because of his tenacious defence in last week’s post-Christmas game against Val Bléone HG.
“We scored five!” Robby declared. “Of course, we obviously did a lot of great things today that’s why we won… li’l J.D. made a lot of saves, the Baldrs for one goal each, Alex for that great dive in the second period… You just have to be careful Alex that you’re not diving into a pool of water, you’re diving into solid ice!”
The team laughed. Defenceman Alessandro dal Cengio made a crucial block in the second period by diving forward to put his body in front of the racing puck. “You’re not a goalie,” Robby teased the Predicean-Santonian. “Are you sure you’re a defenceman? You’re giving J.D. a run for his money.”
“Just kidding,” Robby told them. “We defencemen have to do what we gotta do.” Robby then got back to business. He stood up and paced across the room. “But between the goals of Carlo, Druggy, and Bulky, there’s this one guy that made it all possible: Finn.”
Finnsteinn Ramsland looked up from his corner, surprised that his name was called. “What?”
“It’s tradition,” Robby told Finn as he gave him the puck and gave him a pat in the back. “You don’t have that in Comminges?”
“Oh yeah, we had this thing too.”
“Finn, you assisted in all three goals of Carlo, Druggy, and Bulky, so the season’s puck goes to you.”
The team cheered again as Finn stood up. Carlo Palmieri, Günther ‘Druggy’ Drögemüller, and Alexander ‘Bulky’ Boelcke all came to Finn to give a fraternal hug.
“Thanks guys,” Finn said with a slight grin. “Let’s keep winning.”
“Hey Finn,” Baldr Gudmundseth approached Finn after almost everyone had finished packing up. “Do you have anything to do this afternoon?”
Finn zipped his bag close. “Just going out to eat lunch.”
“That’s convenient!” Baldr ‘Goody’ Gudmundseth said happily. “Hnappdal and I are organising an impromptu late New Year’s lunch with some of our teammates who don’t have family commitments. Wanna come?”
Finn thought for a bit. Having no family, he didn’t have any family commitments. He was actually just planning to get takeaway lunch from the Prydanian food stall at Sainte-Carine metro station. He would then go home and eat the lunch in front of TV.
It would probably be nice to join the lunch to get to know his teammates, Finn thought. But this was Baldr Gudmundseth. His guard automatically came up. “No thanks,” he replied curtly.
“Aww that’s sad,” Baldr frowned. Finn could see genuine disappointment in Baldr’s face. “We would be glad to have you. Maybe next time then.”
As Baldr turned to leave, Finn picked up his gym bag and slung it over his shoulder. He’d be in this team for the next half a year. He couldn’t turn down all invites. Maybe he should just try this out.
“Baldr!” Finn called out. “I’ll come.”
Baldr’s eyes widened with joy. “Yay!” He gestured for Finn to follow. “Come with me, Hnappdal is driving his big van.”
The group settled for La Colline de l’Abbaye, a small boutique restaurant operated by the only abbey-convent located within the city of Saintes, the Abbaye de Notre-Dame-de-Saintonge.
“Have you been here, Finn?” Thibault-Étienne ‘Brock’ Brocquevielle asked as they disembarked from the vans that brought them there.
“No,” Finn answered.
“This is a restaurant operated by the Abbey of Our Lady of Saintonge,” Brock explained. “This is one of their income-generating ventures to make money for the operations of the abbey and sustain the operations of their orphanage.”
“I see.”
“I’m not sure whether you’re familiar with the sight of nuns back in Prydania, but don’t be surprised if you see nuns inside. But don’t expect that the servers or cooks will be the nuns,” Brock chuckled as he led his teammates into the historic 18th-century brick building that used to serve as an inn. “They also use this as a place for on-the-job training to prepare their wards for the job market. Some of the children who grew up in the orphanage also ended up working here.”
Finn nodded. He knew how it was to become orphaned and afraid. Being orphaned and afraid in a foreign country… must’ve been even worse. In some respects, that described him too.
Baldr Hnappdal put an arm over Finn’s shoulder. “So glad you could be with us today.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” Finn replied. It was a generic answer.
“Hope you enjoy,” Hnappdal patted Finn’s back as he pressed the button on his key fob to lock his car.
The group was ushered through the packed dining area and into a private dining room. “Did you even make a reservation, Hnappdal?” Bulky asked.
Hnappdal unzipped his ARS Saintes hoodie and placed it on the backrest of the chair he wanted to sit on. “Haha, no.”
As the server closed the door behind them to get the menus, Hnappdal spilled the reason why they were able to get good seats. “Brock’s grand-aunt is the convent’s Mother Superior.”
“Huh, didn’t know that,” Bulky chuckled.
“This isn’t really public seating,” Brock admitted. “This is the private room for the nuns to eat if they wanted to eat here.”
“I thought they aren’t supposed to get out of their cells.”
“That’s a popular misconception,” Brock explained, knowing that Alexander Boelcke was of Hessunlander descent and may not be that familiar with the workings of the Santonian National Church. “In general, we have cloistered nuns and non-cloistered nuns. The cloistered nuns are the ones who don’t leave their cells or convent or interact with the public. They are usually found in monasteries. The non-cloistered nuns are allowed to interact with the public. This abbey is not a monastery, the nuns here are not cloistered.”
“The food here may be more delicious because they prayed over it first,” Hnappdal jested. Brock shot Hnappdal an annoyed look. So did the two other ethnic Santonians in the group, Bavon de Grimbergen and Jonathan ‘Mitch’ Michenaud.
“Sorry,” Hnappdal apologised for his irreverence.
“So it’s going to be just us?” Alex asked, looking around. In attendance were Finn, Goody, Hnappdal, Brock, Bulky, Mitch, Bavon, Druggy, Brestir ‘Besty’ Fyldtkjaer, Timo ‘Bolt’ Boltmann, and Karlbjörn Slettebö. One Predicean-Santonian, three ethnic Santonians, three Hessunlander-Santonians, five Prydanian-Santonians; twelve people, almost half of their roster. “Good turnout though.”
“Just one more we can have the Last Supper,” Druggy joked. The ethnic Santonians gave Druggy an irritated stare.
“What?” Druggy ignored the Santonians and continued the joke. “We just need a Jee-sus. I volunteer to be Judas!”
“You know what Druggy, sometimes I think that you got your nickname because you might really be into drugs,” Mitch countered. Günther Drögemüller got his nickname as a shortening of his long unwieldy Hessunlander surname. “What have you been taking?”
“Nothing!” Druggy feigned innocence, incongruous with his bad boy looks, long greasy hair, and moustachioed face. “The food here, I will eat.” He then changed topic. “Why couldn’t the others come?”
“Kids,” Hnappdal said. “The guys with children are spending time with them this New Year.” Kevin, Carlo, Émile Semeril, Robby, Květoslav Hrnčíř, and Michel-Laurent Le Flore all had children and declined the invitation, saying they wanted to be with their families in the New Year.
“How about J.D.?” Bulky asked about their nineteen-year-old starting goaltender, Joseph-Dominique Bethomier. “He doesn’t have a child, does he?”
“Bulky, li’l J.D. is literally the child!” Druggy commented gleefully. “He’s our wonder kid!”
“Where is Paul?” Besty asked, referring to defenceman Paul-Patrick Peresson. “He used to have near-perfect attendance in team gatherings. Surprising he missed this one.”
Bavon leaned towards Besty, their alternate captain, and said audibly: “He’s got a lovelife now.”
Baldr Gudmundseth, who sat beside Finn, whispered in Finn’s ear: “See, Finn, this is why you go to team gatherings like this… they will talk about you when you’re not around!”
Saintes
“Way to go guys!” Brice-Kévin Beaudoin, captain of the ARS Saintes ice hockey team, told his team after the game. They had just defeated their visitors Chevaliers de Côme in the open-air outdoor ice hockey game at their home city, 5-2. “What a great way to start the year!”
Unlike the football league in Saintonge, ice hockey didn’t have a Christmas-New Year break. After all, winter was a great time to play a sport like ice hockey. The game they just played was the marquee game for the new year, in which two teams would play an outdoor regular season game in the morning of the New Year. It was a tradition in the Ligue des Jarlais since 1982, a move by the league to popularise the sport. This time, it was played at the Forain de Saintes, the Saintes City Fairgrounds, which was specifically converted into a rink.
“You know what, we Santonians have a belief,” defenceman Bavon de Grimbergen told his teammates, half of which were of foreign descent, “that whatever you do during New Year’s Day, you will be doing for the rest of the year. THAT MEANS WE KEEP WINNING BABY!!”
The dressing room erupted in cheers.
“This was indeed a great start,” fellow defenceman and alternate captain Gottsveinn ‘Robby’ Robberstad agreed, flinging a “season’s puck” up in the air and catching it again. Many ice hockey teams, such as ARS Saintes, had a post-game tradition in which one player who holds the “season’s puck” would speak and comment on the good things they did on the game. The player would then pass the “season’s puck” to the player who he thought made a lot of difference in the game, win or lose. That player will in turn speak and comment in the next game. That day, the holder of the “season’s puck” was Robby, who got it because of his tenacious defence in last week’s post-Christmas game against Val Bléone HG.
“We scored five!” Robby declared. “Of course, we obviously did a lot of great things today that’s why we won… li’l J.D. made a lot of saves, the Baldrs for one goal each, Alex for that great dive in the second period… You just have to be careful Alex that you’re not diving into a pool of water, you’re diving into solid ice!”
The team laughed. Defenceman Alessandro dal Cengio made a crucial block in the second period by diving forward to put his body in front of the racing puck. “You’re not a goalie,” Robby teased the Predicean-Santonian. “Are you sure you’re a defenceman? You’re giving J.D. a run for his money.”
“Just kidding,” Robby told them. “We defencemen have to do what we gotta do.” Robby then got back to business. He stood up and paced across the room. “But between the goals of Carlo, Druggy, and Bulky, there’s this one guy that made it all possible: Finn.”
Finnsteinn Ramsland looked up from his corner, surprised that his name was called. “What?”
“It’s tradition,” Robby told Finn as he gave him the puck and gave him a pat in the back. “You don’t have that in Comminges?”
“Oh yeah, we had this thing too.”
“Finn, you assisted in all three goals of Carlo, Druggy, and Bulky, so the season’s puck goes to you.”
The team cheered again as Finn stood up. Carlo Palmieri, Günther ‘Druggy’ Drögemüller, and Alexander ‘Bulky’ Boelcke all came to Finn to give a fraternal hug.
“Thanks guys,” Finn said with a slight grin. “Let’s keep winning.”
* * *
“Hey Finn,” Baldr Gudmundseth approached Finn after almost everyone had finished packing up. “Do you have anything to do this afternoon?”
Finn zipped his bag close. “Just going out to eat lunch.”
“That’s convenient!” Baldr ‘Goody’ Gudmundseth said happily. “Hnappdal and I are organising an impromptu late New Year’s lunch with some of our teammates who don’t have family commitments. Wanna come?”
Finn thought for a bit. Having no family, he didn’t have any family commitments. He was actually just planning to get takeaway lunch from the Prydanian food stall at Sainte-Carine metro station. He would then go home and eat the lunch in front of TV.
It would probably be nice to join the lunch to get to know his teammates, Finn thought. But this was Baldr Gudmundseth. His guard automatically came up. “No thanks,” he replied curtly.
“Aww that’s sad,” Baldr frowned. Finn could see genuine disappointment in Baldr’s face. “We would be glad to have you. Maybe next time then.”
As Baldr turned to leave, Finn picked up his gym bag and slung it over his shoulder. He’d be in this team for the next half a year. He couldn’t turn down all invites. Maybe he should just try this out.
“Baldr!” Finn called out. “I’ll come.”
Baldr’s eyes widened with joy. “Yay!” He gestured for Finn to follow. “Come with me, Hnappdal is driving his big van.”
* * *
The group settled for La Colline de l’Abbaye, a small boutique restaurant operated by the only abbey-convent located within the city of Saintes, the Abbaye de Notre-Dame-de-Saintonge.
“Have you been here, Finn?” Thibault-Étienne ‘Brock’ Brocquevielle asked as they disembarked from the vans that brought them there.
“No,” Finn answered.
“This is a restaurant operated by the Abbey of Our Lady of Saintonge,” Brock explained. “This is one of their income-generating ventures to make money for the operations of the abbey and sustain the operations of their orphanage.”
“I see.”
“I’m not sure whether you’re familiar with the sight of nuns back in Prydania, but don’t be surprised if you see nuns inside. But don’t expect that the servers or cooks will be the nuns,” Brock chuckled as he led his teammates into the historic 18th-century brick building that used to serve as an inn. “They also use this as a place for on-the-job training to prepare their wards for the job market. Some of the children who grew up in the orphanage also ended up working here.”
Finn nodded. He knew how it was to become orphaned and afraid. Being orphaned and afraid in a foreign country… must’ve been even worse. In some respects, that described him too.
Baldr Hnappdal put an arm over Finn’s shoulder. “So glad you could be with us today.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” Finn replied. It was a generic answer.
“Hope you enjoy,” Hnappdal patted Finn’s back as he pressed the button on his key fob to lock his car.
The group was ushered through the packed dining area and into a private dining room. “Did you even make a reservation, Hnappdal?” Bulky asked.
Hnappdal unzipped his ARS Saintes hoodie and placed it on the backrest of the chair he wanted to sit on. “Haha, no.”
As the server closed the door behind them to get the menus, Hnappdal spilled the reason why they were able to get good seats. “Brock’s grand-aunt is the convent’s Mother Superior.”
“Huh, didn’t know that,” Bulky chuckled.
“This isn’t really public seating,” Brock admitted. “This is the private room for the nuns to eat if they wanted to eat here.”
“I thought they aren’t supposed to get out of their cells.”
“That’s a popular misconception,” Brock explained, knowing that Alexander Boelcke was of Hessunlander descent and may not be that familiar with the workings of the Santonian National Church. “In general, we have cloistered nuns and non-cloistered nuns. The cloistered nuns are the ones who don’t leave their cells or convent or interact with the public. They are usually found in monasteries. The non-cloistered nuns are allowed to interact with the public. This abbey is not a monastery, the nuns here are not cloistered.”
“The food here may be more delicious because they prayed over it first,” Hnappdal jested. Brock shot Hnappdal an annoyed look. So did the two other ethnic Santonians in the group, Bavon de Grimbergen and Jonathan ‘Mitch’ Michenaud.
“Sorry,” Hnappdal apologised for his irreverence.
“So it’s going to be just us?” Alex asked, looking around. In attendance were Finn, Goody, Hnappdal, Brock, Bulky, Mitch, Bavon, Druggy, Brestir ‘Besty’ Fyldtkjaer, Timo ‘Bolt’ Boltmann, and Karlbjörn Slettebö. One Predicean-Santonian, three ethnic Santonians, three Hessunlander-Santonians, five Prydanian-Santonians; twelve people, almost half of their roster. “Good turnout though.”
“Just one more we can have the Last Supper,” Druggy joked. The ethnic Santonians gave Druggy an irritated stare.
“What?” Druggy ignored the Santonians and continued the joke. “We just need a Jee-sus. I volunteer to be Judas!”
“You know what Druggy, sometimes I think that you got your nickname because you might really be into drugs,” Mitch countered. Günther Drögemüller got his nickname as a shortening of his long unwieldy Hessunlander surname. “What have you been taking?”
“Nothing!” Druggy feigned innocence, incongruous with his bad boy looks, long greasy hair, and moustachioed face. “The food here, I will eat.” He then changed topic. “Why couldn’t the others come?”
“Kids,” Hnappdal said. “The guys with children are spending time with them this New Year.” Kevin, Carlo, Émile Semeril, Robby, Květoslav Hrnčíř, and Michel-Laurent Le Flore all had children and declined the invitation, saying they wanted to be with their families in the New Year.
“How about J.D.?” Bulky asked about their nineteen-year-old starting goaltender, Joseph-Dominique Bethomier. “He doesn’t have a child, does he?”
“Bulky, li’l J.D. is literally the child!” Druggy commented gleefully. “He’s our wonder kid!”
“Where is Paul?” Besty asked, referring to defenceman Paul-Patrick Peresson. “He used to have near-perfect attendance in team gatherings. Surprising he missed this one.”
Bavon leaned towards Besty, their alternate captain, and said audibly: “He’s got a lovelife now.”
Baldr Gudmundseth, who sat beside Finn, whispered in Finn’s ear: “See, Finn, this is why you go to team gatherings like this… they will talk about you when you’re not around!”
- Discord
- kyle.kyle
4 Jan 2022
Sainte-Carine, Saintes
Not a few heads turned as Brice-Kévin Beaudoin slowly drove his red 2021 Pégase Caméléon convertible through the one-lane Rue Sainte-Carine. The neighbourhood of Sainte-Carine is a predominantly middle-class area; expensive fancy cars like a Caméléon would be rare around these parts. It marked him as an outsider.
“Tourner à droite sur la Voie Griffarin,” instructed the automated female voice of the turn-by-turn navigation app Maze. Kévin duly complied and turned right onto a narrow cobblestoned street one block away from the Sainte-Carine metro station.
At the end of the short and narrow Voie Griffarin is what seemed to be a 19th century three-storey brick building with a central courtyard. Voie Griffarin led directly into the courtyard, but an elaborate steel gate under the intricate stone arch separated the courtyard and its garden from the cobblestoned street.
The gate was partially ajar as two women in their sixties, carrying tote bags, entered the courtyard. They noticed Kévin’s car and craned their necks to look at the fancy car; they were not the first ones to do it in the past ten minutes. The women immediately closed the gate as soon they were in, but took some time before they stopped staring at Kévin’s car.
Kévin’s gaze turned to the column supporting the arch, the start of the external wall of the building. The building’s name and address were on a red fading plaque bearing the coat-of-arms of the City of Saintes: Immeuble Griffarin, Voie Griffarin 1, Sainte-Carine.
He was at the right address.
Underneath the plaque was a sign telling drivers that cars are not allowed inside the courtyard. Maybe that’s why the old ladies were staring at him. They were telling him that he couldn’t come inside.
The sign said that one could park on the dead-end side alley fronting the building. Kévin looked to his left and spotted an empty parking spot.
After parking, Kévin stepped out of the car and gazed at the building. This place wasn’t bad for subsidised housing. The neighbourhood of Sainte-Carine had numerous housing complexes like these that were owned by the city of Saintes. Contrary to how it looked like, Immeuble Griffarin was built in the 1920s and was designed to blend into the surrounding old quartiers of Sainte-Carine. As part of the more than a century-old Logements Habitables programme, the housing was meant to be affordable, hygienic, beautiful, and durable. To Kévin, this wasn’t a bad place to live in.
Except that the person he was visiting could actually afford something nicer. Why the guy had to settle for subsidised housing was puzzling to Kévin.
Kévin grabbed the lunch bag from the passenger seat, closed the door, and locked his car.
“Bonjour, mesdames,” Kévin greeted the old ladies as he passed by the courtyard. The ladies, still holding their tote bags, were still clearly spying on him.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” replied one of the old ladies, wearing a fuschia flowing flowery dress.
Kévin noticed the baguettes sticking out of their tote bags and surmised they might have been out shopping for groceries or buying food from the boulangerie. “Came from shopping?”
“Oui,” answered the other lady, clad in a white dress fit for a church service.
Kévin felt a bit underdressed being with the ladies. Was there some sort of dress code inside what he thought to be a middle-class housing estate? Kévin was simply dressed, wearing a red-and-white printed Santonian national ice hockey team shirt, forest green cargo pants, and charcoal black LeFort canvas sneakers. He looked around to see whether there was anybody else in the courtyard to confirm if there was some sort of dress code. There wasn’t anyone else; it was just him and these two ladies in the courtyard’s well-trimmed garden paths.
“You are not from here, aren’t you?” Fuschia dress said.
“Yes, mesdames,” Kévin answered. “I am here to visit a friend.”
Kévin then thought it was a good idea to introduce himself. “I’m Kévin,” he said as he extended his hand for a shake.
The ladies took his hand. “You look familiar, but I cannot place where I saw you,” fuschia dress said. Meanwhile, her companion introduced them both. “I am Simone,” white dress said before pointing to fuschia dress, “and this is my wife, Florence.”
A lesbian couple! An elderly lesbian couple at that! Kévin didn’t expect them to be a couple. He thought they were just friends. Kévin wisely shut his mouth and instead smiled. “Nice to meet you! Do you live here?”
“Yes, we live here,” Florence answered. “Simone is the president of the residents' association.”
“That’s why we know you aren’t from here,” Simone added, “also that car.”
The way Simone said the word made Kévin blush. “I – ”
Simone chuckled. “No need to explain. Big boys like you need your big toys. I sense that you can afford it. By the way, who are you looking for here?”
“I’m looking for Finnsteinn Ramsland, he lives at unit 8?”
“Ah our new neighbour!” Florence grinned. “We just live the next door to him.” Florence’s grin turned to some sort of a frown. “He keeps to himself.”
“Very quiet and reserved guy,” Simone added. “You know him?”
“Yes, mesdames,” Kévin answered, “we work together.”
“Ah I see,” Florence nodded. “What do you do for work? Finnsteinn never told us anything.”
Kévin clutched the lunch bag tighter. It seemed that Finn kept to himself not only on the team, but off-ice as well.
“We are ice hockey players…”
Florence gasped a bit as she realised who they were talking to. Why didn’t she immediately recognise the guy? She had seen him on the news and on TV many times. “Kévin Beaudoin? The national ice hockey player!?” Florence turned to her wife. “Simone, we had met a celebrity!”
Sainte-Carine, Saintes
Not a few heads turned as Brice-Kévin Beaudoin slowly drove his red 2021 Pégase Caméléon convertible through the one-lane Rue Sainte-Carine. The neighbourhood of Sainte-Carine is a predominantly middle-class area; expensive fancy cars like a Caméléon would be rare around these parts. It marked him as an outsider.
“Tourner à droite sur la Voie Griffarin,” instructed the automated female voice of the turn-by-turn navigation app Maze. Kévin duly complied and turned right onto a narrow cobblestoned street one block away from the Sainte-Carine metro station.
At the end of the short and narrow Voie Griffarin is what seemed to be a 19th century three-storey brick building with a central courtyard. Voie Griffarin led directly into the courtyard, but an elaborate steel gate under the intricate stone arch separated the courtyard and its garden from the cobblestoned street.
The gate was partially ajar as two women in their sixties, carrying tote bags, entered the courtyard. They noticed Kévin’s car and craned their necks to look at the fancy car; they were not the first ones to do it in the past ten minutes. The women immediately closed the gate as soon they were in, but took some time before they stopped staring at Kévin’s car.
Kévin’s gaze turned to the column supporting the arch, the start of the external wall of the building. The building’s name and address were on a red fading plaque bearing the coat-of-arms of the City of Saintes: Immeuble Griffarin, Voie Griffarin 1, Sainte-Carine.
He was at the right address.
Underneath the plaque was a sign telling drivers that cars are not allowed inside the courtyard. Maybe that’s why the old ladies were staring at him. They were telling him that he couldn’t come inside.
The sign said that one could park on the dead-end side alley fronting the building. Kévin looked to his left and spotted an empty parking spot.
After parking, Kévin stepped out of the car and gazed at the building. This place wasn’t bad for subsidised housing. The neighbourhood of Sainte-Carine had numerous housing complexes like these that were owned by the city of Saintes. Contrary to how it looked like, Immeuble Griffarin was built in the 1920s and was designed to blend into the surrounding old quartiers of Sainte-Carine. As part of the more than a century-old Logements Habitables programme, the housing was meant to be affordable, hygienic, beautiful, and durable. To Kévin, this wasn’t a bad place to live in.
Except that the person he was visiting could actually afford something nicer. Why the guy had to settle for subsidised housing was puzzling to Kévin.
Kévin grabbed the lunch bag from the passenger seat, closed the door, and locked his car.
* * *
“Bonjour, mesdames,” Kévin greeted the old ladies as he passed by the courtyard. The ladies, still holding their tote bags, were still clearly spying on him.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” replied one of the old ladies, wearing a fuschia flowing flowery dress.
Kévin noticed the baguettes sticking out of their tote bags and surmised they might have been out shopping for groceries or buying food from the boulangerie. “Came from shopping?”
“Oui,” answered the other lady, clad in a white dress fit for a church service.
Kévin felt a bit underdressed being with the ladies. Was there some sort of dress code inside what he thought to be a middle-class housing estate? Kévin was simply dressed, wearing a red-and-white printed Santonian national ice hockey team shirt, forest green cargo pants, and charcoal black LeFort canvas sneakers. He looked around to see whether there was anybody else in the courtyard to confirm if there was some sort of dress code. There wasn’t anyone else; it was just him and these two ladies in the courtyard’s well-trimmed garden paths.
“You are not from here, aren’t you?” Fuschia dress said.
“Yes, mesdames,” Kévin answered. “I am here to visit a friend.”
Kévin then thought it was a good idea to introduce himself. “I’m Kévin,” he said as he extended his hand for a shake.
The ladies took his hand. “You look familiar, but I cannot place where I saw you,” fuschia dress said. Meanwhile, her companion introduced them both. “I am Simone,” white dress said before pointing to fuschia dress, “and this is my wife, Florence.”
A lesbian couple! An elderly lesbian couple at that! Kévin didn’t expect them to be a couple. He thought they were just friends. Kévin wisely shut his mouth and instead smiled. “Nice to meet you! Do you live here?”
“Yes, we live here,” Florence answered. “Simone is the president of the residents' association.”
“That’s why we know you aren’t from here,” Simone added, “also that car.”
The way Simone said the word made Kévin blush. “I – ”
Simone chuckled. “No need to explain. Big boys like you need your big toys. I sense that you can afford it. By the way, who are you looking for here?”
“I’m looking for Finnsteinn Ramsland, he lives at unit 8?”
“Ah our new neighbour!” Florence grinned. “We just live the next door to him.” Florence’s grin turned to some sort of a frown. “He keeps to himself.”
“Very quiet and reserved guy,” Simone added. “You know him?”
“Yes, mesdames,” Kévin answered, “we work together.”
“Ah I see,” Florence nodded. “What do you do for work? Finnsteinn never told us anything.”
Kévin clutched the lunch bag tighter. It seemed that Finn kept to himself not only on the team, but off-ice as well.
“We are ice hockey players…”
Florence gasped a bit as she realised who they were talking to. Why didn’t she immediately recognise the guy? She had seen him on the news and on TV many times. “Kévin Beaudoin? The national ice hockey player!?” Florence turned to her wife. “Simone, we had met a celebrity!”
- Discord
- kyle.kyle
4 Jan 2022
Sainte-Carine, Saintes
The elderly couple led Kévin to the door to Finnsteinn’s apartment. Kévin wondered why Finnsteinn lived in subsidised housing. Simone explained that the City of Saintes owned the housing stock and that people technically rent the units on long-term leases. Because of the high cost of living in the city of Saintes, Finnsteinn was just under the income cutoff to qualify for subsidised housing. Normally, single men earning under the ceiling would face long waiting times, but Finnsteinn had one factor working in his favour: he was an immigrant. Simone explained that rules for subsidised housing required a certain percentage of units to be occupied by immigrants or Santonians of immigrant descent, in order to prevent ghettoization.
“So Finnsteinn is the token Prydanian?” Kévin said in jest.
“Pretty much,” Simone said, chuckling. “The former occupant of this unit was also a Prydanian family. They returned to their homeland last year.”
“I see.”
“Finnsteinn told me that he’s still looking for non-subsidised housing so he could move out and someone needier could have it,” Simone related with a smile. “He rarely talks, but I can feel he’s a good guy.”
“It’s just difficult to find non-subsidised housing in Saintes right now,” Florence commented. “Most are expensive.”
“His situation was also kind of a social emergency,” Simone added. “His ‘work’ had him transferred from the Comminges to Saintes in a short time.”
Kévin mentally recalled that Finnsteinn was traded by CHG des Comminges to ARS Saintes six months ago. It was a quick decision, made without input from the players. Such was the regime with the Argentin laws now gone.
After saying farewell, the couple left Kévin, who knocked at Finnsteinn’s door. No immediate answer. He had sent a message to Finn yesterday that he will be coming. Finn knew Kévin was coming.
It took about three minutes for Finn to answer the door. Kévin raised his eyebrows at how Finn looked like. Finn looked like he just rose from bed, his blond hair dishevelled and sticking out in various directions. He was wearing a rumpled maroon CHG des Comminges hoodie and grey sweatpants.
“Wrong team to rep, Finn,” Kévin teased him.
Finn smiled sheepishly and rubbed his eyes. He really just woke up. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
“We’ll need to get you some Saintes hoodies. We have stuff similar to that,” Kévin told him. There were ARS Saintes versions of the hoodie that Finn was wearing. They were LeFort hoodies made of moisture-wicking Prêt-Sec* polyester. Fans could buy them at the LeFort stores and the team shops. Players could get some for free.
“Heh, thanks,” Finn muttered as he opened the door wider. “Come on in.”
Kévin entered Finn’s apartment and was confounded by what he saw. “Finn, how long had you been living here?”
“About six months,” Finn answered as he closed the door.
Kévin scanned the room as he put down the lunch bag on a foldable table that served as the coffee table in the middle of the room. Finn’s apartment looked like he had just moved in. There was no sofa, instead, there were foldable picnic chairs in the living room around the table where he put the lunch bag on. There was a Paresseux^ upholstered reclining chair tucked into a corner, facing a flat-screen television. The rest of the living room was bare; there were no paintings, pictures, or stuff hanging on the walls. Not even a wall calendar. It looked like someone had just moved in, sans the moving boxes.
Finn seemed to have recognised Kévin’s reaction. “I’m sorry for the mess, I still hadn’t fixed the place.”
“You should’ve told us you need help in fixing your new place… my wife is an interior designer,” Kévin offered. “You had been living like this all the time? You’re like camping in your own living room,” Kévin’s eyes widened. “How are you going to take women home if your house looks like this?”
Finn blushed a bit. “I… I don’t take women home.”
“You don’t have a girlfriend?”
“No,” Finn then avoided Kévin’s gaze and instead looked towards the direction of the curtainless window behind his team’s captain.
Instinctively, Kévin felt pity on Finn. This guy was hurting and he didn’t know why. His place looked something like what his wife calls a “depression nest”. Only difference is that the place was clean: no trash or dirty clothes lying around. Thing is, if Finn was depressed, it didn’t appear like it on the ice. Finn was competitive and full of energy when playing ice hockey.
“We’ll help you settle in!” Kévin said cheerily, trying to lighten up the mood. “I’ll tell the boys to help.”
‘Boys’ meant their teammates.
“Uh… that’s okay.”
“Have you ever had a housewarming party?”
Finn wagged his head.
“We’ll throw you one!"
“Uhh… no thanks.”
Kévin frowned as he placed a hand on Finn’s shoulder. “Finn, is there a problem?”
Finn struggled to think. He had just woken up, his brain was still not running on full gear. Kévin was offering to help him settle in. Maybe he could accept that. The rest of the team, especially the Baldrs? Probably not.
“No, nothing,” Finn murmured. “it’s just that… I don’t know how long will I stay in Saintes, that’s why I hadn’t fixed the place…”
“You don’t like us?” Kévin asked, half-mockingly. “Our team liked you.”
“I know… it’s just that there’s no job security here.”
“Finn, if you keep thinking that, you’ll never get this place fixed.”
Kévin did indeed had a point. Finn was starting to warm up to the idea. “Kév, are you seriously offering to help me fix this place?”
“Yeah! My wife and I did it for Bulky and Paul for their new pads. The rest of the boys also came!”
Finn nodded. “Yes… but probably just you and your wife. No need for the entire team to come.”
“Okay. Can I invite some of the Prydanians over? Robby? Karlbjörn? The Baldrs?”
Not the Baldrs. “I don’t want to be an inconvenience the young ones…”
“So only Robby then.” Defenceman Gottsveinn ‘Robby’ Robberstad, a Prydanian-Santonian, was the team’s alternate captain.
Finn nodded weakly. He didn’t want to fight it anymore. Robby seemed to be friendly anyway. But Finn was worried about another thing: the cost. “How much – ”
“Ah, don’t think about it,” Kévin waved his hand dismissively. As Finn lived in subsidised housing, interior design is likely a luxury for his finances. “I’ll talk to my wife.” Kévin grinned, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye: “She demands a certain mode of payment from me.”
Finn tried to stifle a laugh at Kévin’s innuendo. He was starting to get comfortable with Kévin. His team’s captain seemed to genuinely care for him and for every player in the team. Finn had seen him defend his teammates and Prydanian-Santonians publicly. Kévin will probably be one to understand Finn.
“She’s also a good cook,” Kévin added as he picked up the lunch bag from the table. “She made this for us. Let’s go eat breakfast.”
*Prêt-Sec: similar to Dri-Fit
^Paresseux: similar to La-Z-Boy
Sainte-Carine, Saintes
The elderly couple led Kévin to the door to Finnsteinn’s apartment. Kévin wondered why Finnsteinn lived in subsidised housing. Simone explained that the City of Saintes owned the housing stock and that people technically rent the units on long-term leases. Because of the high cost of living in the city of Saintes, Finnsteinn was just under the income cutoff to qualify for subsidised housing. Normally, single men earning under the ceiling would face long waiting times, but Finnsteinn had one factor working in his favour: he was an immigrant. Simone explained that rules for subsidised housing required a certain percentage of units to be occupied by immigrants or Santonians of immigrant descent, in order to prevent ghettoization.
“So Finnsteinn is the token Prydanian?” Kévin said in jest.
“Pretty much,” Simone said, chuckling. “The former occupant of this unit was also a Prydanian family. They returned to their homeland last year.”
“I see.”
“Finnsteinn told me that he’s still looking for non-subsidised housing so he could move out and someone needier could have it,” Simone related with a smile. “He rarely talks, but I can feel he’s a good guy.”
“It’s just difficult to find non-subsidised housing in Saintes right now,” Florence commented. “Most are expensive.”
“His situation was also kind of a social emergency,” Simone added. “His ‘work’ had him transferred from the Comminges to Saintes in a short time.”
Kévin mentally recalled that Finnsteinn was traded by CHG des Comminges to ARS Saintes six months ago. It was a quick decision, made without input from the players. Such was the regime with the Argentin laws now gone.
After saying farewell, the couple left Kévin, who knocked at Finnsteinn’s door. No immediate answer. He had sent a message to Finn yesterday that he will be coming. Finn knew Kévin was coming.
It took about three minutes for Finn to answer the door. Kévin raised his eyebrows at how Finn looked like. Finn looked like he just rose from bed, his blond hair dishevelled and sticking out in various directions. He was wearing a rumpled maroon CHG des Comminges hoodie and grey sweatpants.
“Wrong team to rep, Finn,” Kévin teased him.
Finn smiled sheepishly and rubbed his eyes. He really just woke up. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
“We’ll need to get you some Saintes hoodies. We have stuff similar to that,” Kévin told him. There were ARS Saintes versions of the hoodie that Finn was wearing. They were LeFort hoodies made of moisture-wicking Prêt-Sec* polyester. Fans could buy them at the LeFort stores and the team shops. Players could get some for free.
“Heh, thanks,” Finn muttered as he opened the door wider. “Come on in.”
Kévin entered Finn’s apartment and was confounded by what he saw. “Finn, how long had you been living here?”
“About six months,” Finn answered as he closed the door.
Kévin scanned the room as he put down the lunch bag on a foldable table that served as the coffee table in the middle of the room. Finn’s apartment looked like he had just moved in. There was no sofa, instead, there were foldable picnic chairs in the living room around the table where he put the lunch bag on. There was a Paresseux^ upholstered reclining chair tucked into a corner, facing a flat-screen television. The rest of the living room was bare; there were no paintings, pictures, or stuff hanging on the walls. Not even a wall calendar. It looked like someone had just moved in, sans the moving boxes.
Finn seemed to have recognised Kévin’s reaction. “I’m sorry for the mess, I still hadn’t fixed the place.”
“You should’ve told us you need help in fixing your new place… my wife is an interior designer,” Kévin offered. “You had been living like this all the time? You’re like camping in your own living room,” Kévin’s eyes widened. “How are you going to take women home if your house looks like this?”
Finn blushed a bit. “I… I don’t take women home.”
“You don’t have a girlfriend?”
“No,” Finn then avoided Kévin’s gaze and instead looked towards the direction of the curtainless window behind his team’s captain.
Instinctively, Kévin felt pity on Finn. This guy was hurting and he didn’t know why. His place looked something like what his wife calls a “depression nest”. Only difference is that the place was clean: no trash or dirty clothes lying around. Thing is, if Finn was depressed, it didn’t appear like it on the ice. Finn was competitive and full of energy when playing ice hockey.
“We’ll help you settle in!” Kévin said cheerily, trying to lighten up the mood. “I’ll tell the boys to help.”
‘Boys’ meant their teammates.
“Uh… that’s okay.”
“Have you ever had a housewarming party?”
Finn wagged his head.
“We’ll throw you one!"
“Uhh… no thanks.”
Kévin frowned as he placed a hand on Finn’s shoulder. “Finn, is there a problem?”
Finn struggled to think. He had just woken up, his brain was still not running on full gear. Kévin was offering to help him settle in. Maybe he could accept that. The rest of the team, especially the Baldrs? Probably not.
“No, nothing,” Finn murmured. “it’s just that… I don’t know how long will I stay in Saintes, that’s why I hadn’t fixed the place…”
“You don’t like us?” Kévin asked, half-mockingly. “Our team liked you.”
“I know… it’s just that there’s no job security here.”
“Finn, if you keep thinking that, you’ll never get this place fixed.”
Kévin did indeed had a point. Finn was starting to warm up to the idea. “Kév, are you seriously offering to help me fix this place?”
“Yeah! My wife and I did it for Bulky and Paul for their new pads. The rest of the boys also came!”
Finn nodded. “Yes… but probably just you and your wife. No need for the entire team to come.”
“Okay. Can I invite some of the Prydanians over? Robby? Karlbjörn? The Baldrs?”
Not the Baldrs. “I don’t want to be an inconvenience the young ones…”
“So only Robby then.” Defenceman Gottsveinn ‘Robby’ Robberstad, a Prydanian-Santonian, was the team’s alternate captain.
Finn nodded weakly. He didn’t want to fight it anymore. Robby seemed to be friendly anyway. But Finn was worried about another thing: the cost. “How much – ”
“Ah, don’t think about it,” Kévin waved his hand dismissively. As Finn lived in subsidised housing, interior design is likely a luxury for his finances. “I’ll talk to my wife.” Kévin grinned, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye: “She demands a certain mode of payment from me.”
Finn tried to stifle a laugh at Kévin’s innuendo. He was starting to get comfortable with Kévin. His team’s captain seemed to genuinely care for him and for every player in the team. Finn had seen him defend his teammates and Prydanian-Santonians publicly. Kévin will probably be one to understand Finn.
“She’s also a good cook,” Kévin added as he picked up the lunch bag from the table. “She made this for us. Let’s go eat breakfast.”
*Prêt-Sec: similar to Dri-Fit
^Paresseux: similar to La-Z-Boy