Page 2 of Power Play Daddies
After the meeting ends, he catches up with me in the hallway. “You okay?”
“Defineokay,” I say, half-laughing.
“You’re gonna do great,” he says, bumping my shoulder with his. “And for the record, I’ll cover for you if this whole hockey thing blows up in your face. Again.”
“Gee, thanks,” I reply, rolling my eyes.
Logan grins, his easy confidence making me feel just a little less like I’m drowning. “That’s what I’m here for. Now go pitch Ace before Janice sends me out to do another ‘Top Five Ways to Beat the Heat’ listicle.”
“Beats ‘Top Five Sex Positions You’re Doing Wrong,’” I deadpan.
“Touché.” He winks before heading toward his desk, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the sinking realization that this is it. My Hail Mary.
Time to make the call.
My thumb hovers over the call button one more time before I give in and press it. The phone rings twice, then dumps me straight to voicemail. This has to be the seventh time I’ve tried reaching him.
“Great,” I mutter, tucking my phone into my pocket. “Thanks for nothing, Ace.”
The late afternoon sun beats down on me as I walk home, kicking at a pebble on the sidewalk. By now, I’d hoped he’d at least text back with a half-assed excuse. But no. Nada.
I fish my keys out of my bag as I reach the door to my apartment. Just as I unlock it, a loudmeowgreets me from the other side.
“Hey, Slim.”
The tiny black kitten darts out like he’s been waiting for me all day. He’s not much of a cat, really. He’s more like a dog trapped in a feline body. When I crouch down, he bats at my hand with his paw before rubbing his head against it.
“You hungry, buddy?” I step inside, dropping my bag on the floor. Slim zigzags between my legs, almost tripping me in his excitement. “Okay, okay! Food first. I get it.”
I head to the kitchen, grabbing the half-empty bag of cat food from the counter. Slim practically dances on his hind legs, his tail whipping around. “You’re a bottomless pit, you know that?”
He chirps at me in reply, hopping up on the counter as if to supervise me.
“Off,” I say, nudging him gently back to the floor. “We talked about this. Counter’s a no-go.”
After pouring his food into the bowl, I give him a little scratch behind the ears. “Eat up, Slim Jim.”
The name still makes me grin. He was the runt of the litter at the shelter, scrawny and scrappy, with the saddest little meow I’d ever heard.
I grab a soda from the fridge and sit at the kitchen table for a minute, watching Slim demolish his dinner. “You’ve got no table manners, you know that?”
He doesn’t even pause, just flicks his tail in response.
After a quick shower, I change into my comfiest shorts and an oversized Miami Icemen T-shirt. It’s one I’ve owned for years now. It used to belong to my dad. It seems appropriate to wear it today when I can’t seem to avoid thinking about my old man.
Slim follows me to the couch, leaping up as soon as I sit down. He’s in my lap before I can even grab the remote.
“Damn, give me a second.” I shift him slightly so I can aim the remote at the TV. “Let’s see what’s on.”
The sports channel comes to life with a rerun of a game from last season—one of the Icemen’s. I recognize the lineup instantly: Callahan at center, Hayes on goal. I’ve watched this game before, but I don’t mind. It beats reality TV.
“You remember this one, Slim?” I ask, scratching under his chin. He purrs, stretching out until his paws dangle off my lap. “This is the one where Callahan pulls off that ridiculous backhand shot. You’re lucky you’ve got me for commentary.”
The announcer’s voice drones in the background, but I focus on the screen. The tension between players, the energy of the crowd, the precision of every pass—it’s the kind of thing that made me fall in love with sports in the first place.
Slim rolls onto his back, swiping at the air with his tiny claws.
“You think you could take Callahan in a fight?” I ask him. “He’s scrappy, but you’re feisty.”
