Page 41 of I'm Your Guy
It’s going to be a disaster. And nobody else seems to have any idea.
I push my plate away.
When the lunch meeting is over, I flag down Tate in the lobby.
“DiCosta!” he says with a jocular slap to my back. “Let’s talk about your PR stuff, shall we?”
“Not so fast. I’m actually worried about the timing of Newgate’s announcement.”
Because the universe hates me, Newgate appears beside me. And he looks pissed. “Yo, DiCosta. Do you have a problem with my announcement? Or with me?”
Oh my fucking God. “I do not have a problem with you.”
“Sounds like you got a problem with something,” Tate says darkly. “How about you leave the PR to me?”
“Guys,” I try again. They need to understand what’s at stake. “Trenton is a rough crowd. That organization is a bunch of angry assholes.”
Tate glowers. “I understand that you have some history with that team. But Newgate is going to be Newgate whether they like it or not. If they’re badly behaved, it just makes them look bad.”
I throw up my hands. “Fine. You have it all figured out. I’m just a guy who’s trying to make your life difficult. But then don’t count on me doing that fucking photo shoot in Trenton.”
His frown deepens. “Why? That makes you look like an asshole.”
“Then maybe I am one,” I snap.
Their jaws drop as I turn and walk away.
* * *
I’m in a dark place when game time rolls around.
Luckily, Newgate and I aren’t paired together, which is good, because I can barely look him in the eye. I didn’t mean to go off on him, but I don’t plan on explaining myself, either.
I’m rattled, and my game goes to shit. And just to make things worse, there’s a guy I know from summer hockey on the opponent’s team. A friend of Marco’s from our high school years.
This isn’t unusual. When you’ve been playing a while, there’s always a familiar face or two on the other team. This guy—Dutka—has recently clawed his way up from the minor leagues, I guess.
Unfortunately, he decides to take a little trip down memory lane. “You still a pussy?” he chirps as we fight for the puck in the corner.
I don’t bother to reply, but I don’t win the puck either, and the sound of his grating laugh as he skates away makes me want to choke him.
The next time we’re face to face, he tries again. “Heard you don’t fight anymore. Too shy? That’s fucking lame.”
“Bite me, dumbass.” That’s the best I can do as we tussle over the puck.
I win it this time. But he gives me a stick to the kidneys for my trouble. The ref doesn’t notice.
The game is tied up by the third period, and my teammates look tired and demoralized. Dutka decides to make a blatant hit on Stoneman, who doesn’t even have the puck.
Maddeningly, the refs don’t call it, and Dutka gives me a smirk meant to rile me up.
Unfortunately, it works. My patience is hanging by a thread when we meet again before the next faceoff.
“Marco said to say hi,” he jeers. “‘Give the little cocksucker a kiss,’ he said.”
It’s not a very original taunt. I’ve heard worse. But hearing my cousin’s name come from Dutka’s ugly mouth gets my nerves jangling. Like there’s nothing I can do to ever get him out of my life.
Then the asshole opens his mouth one more time. “They told the press you got traded for fighting your teammates. But the guys in Trenton say that’s not why.”
