Page 8 of I'm Your Guy
After our ugly fight, Trenton traded me to Colorado. It was supposed to be a punishment for making the team look bad. Practically the whole world wanted to tell me how badly I’d fucked up.
Except the Colorado Cougars. Coach Powers had a different take, telling me, “You’re a talented player, DiCosta. You can do great things if you keep your head on straight. I’m happy we got you on the cheap, but you need to do me one special favor—no fighting on my ice.”
“Uh, no fighting anyone?” I’d had to clarify. This is hockey after all.
“Nope. Leave it to your teammates, unless it’s absolutely necessary. And under no circumstances will you throw the first punch,” he’d said. “I didn’t trade for you to gain a new enforcer. I want you focused as a skills player. Can you do that?”
“Yessir.” It had been an easy promise to make.
And I’ve kept it. It’s been two years since I took a fight. And I’ve been playing the best hockey of my life.
Meanwhile, my uncle got demoted. When I left Trenton, he’d been an assistant coach for the big-league team. But the franchise recently sent him down to the minors.
And my cousin? His stats are sliding, too.
“Look,” I tell Tate. “I know these guys better than you. There’s no way they have any interest in helping me repair my so-called reputation. You can’t trust them. The fact that I’m outperforming Marco means he’d rather sabotage me than help.”
Tate shrugs. “You’re the better player, and I believe you when you say you’re the better man. But when I google your name, the very first thing that comes up is an image of you punching your cousin in the face. Did you hear about the youth-sized jerseys?”
“What jerseys?”
“Exactly,” he says with a smug little smile. “Your jersey sells okay in adult sizes. But nobody buys one for their kid, because the fans think you’re a violent man who’d just as soon slug his cousin and his uncle.”
“Only when they deserve it.”
He rolls his eyes. “You’ve said that before, but you haven’t said why. Care to explain?”
“Fuck no.”
His expression goes dark. “Fine. But if you don’t do the puff piece, people will keep drawing their own conclusions about you. The internet is really good at making up shit that’s worse than the truth.”
“I don’t care what the internet thinks,” I lie.
He looks heavenward. “But your team does. It’s literally my job to worry about your reputation. Who cares if Vin and Marco are just being greedy? This photo is still a smart move for you. It’s called taking the high road.”
I groan.
“Think about it—you’re going to be in Trenton anyway. A photo takes ten minutes. Twenty, tops. Show the world a smiling hockey family. Change your image. Make your mom happy. That’s her family, too, right?”
Hell. Now he’s really hitting below the belt. My mom is the only reason I haven’t turned him down cold. “Yeah.” I clear my throat. “I’ll think about it.”
“You do that. Now go warm up.” He slaps me on the back, and that blinding smile comes back. “Have a great game, DiCosta.”
Yeah, thanks for nothing. Now I’m stressed out, and I’m ten minutes behind on my pre-game regimen.
Leaving him, I jog down the corridor and through the bowels of the stadium. There’s a row of exercise bikes set up outside the training room, and I’m relieved to see that my favorite one—second from the end—is still available.
Only I’ve made a crucial error. I left my earbuds in my car.
Fuck. Now I’m open to conversation, which is a thing I don’t enjoy before a game.
Sure enough, my teammate Hudson Newgate takes the bike next to mine, sets up his ride, and then asks me a damn question. “Settling into the new place yet? Like the neighborhood so far?”
“The neighborhood is great.” This is the only polite answer, because we’re neighbors now. The townhouse I just bought is directly across the street from Hudson’s.
It is a nice place, and Red Rock Circle is a desirable neighborhood. I got lucky. The seller was impatient to move, and I was in a hurry to close. Good deal for both of us.
“And the house?” he asks.
