Page 22 of The Home Grown
Maybe this is all one big joke to add to the shit storm I’m already in. Things happen that way, don’t they? Everything in threes. Which means there’s something else about to rear its ugly head.
I look at Hutch, still gaping at me, I quickly decide this is not something I want to get into right now. Not until I know it’s legit—and even then, I’ll have to consider if I want anyone finding out.
I can hear the guys now…‘Bettsy the fuck up’… ‘Bettsy’s done something crazy again’… ‘Typical, Bettsy’.
Hutch dips his head. “You don’t look good, mate. In fact, you look?—”
I force my best fake smile as I cut him off. “Nah. Everything’s fine.”
“Who was the girl then?”
“Just an old friend. She was just passing and wanted to say hi.”
“So why the…” He looks at the clock on the oven, “… early drink?”
I’m already primed with a reply. “Hair of the Dog. Keen to get rid of the hangover and this fucking headache. Hey … speaking of headaches, guess who Johnny has marked for the other defensive slot?”
I mentally pat myself on the back for diverting the conversation.
“Go on…” Hutch says.
“Langer.” I fix my eyes on the screen of the laptop and dance over the keyboard with my fingers, typing his name in.
Hutch winces. “Patrick Langdon? I guess that answers my next question…” He flicks a glance towards my laptop. “So, I guess you need to make sure you’re in a good place for prelims?”
“Yeah … he reckons Sean Knowles is in too, but let’s face it…”
Hutch scoffs, breaking my flow, before launching into a speech about keeping your enemies close, and I’m grateful for the distraction actually.
Before I left Johnny’s apartment earlier, Cap was adamant that I spend some time reviewing footage of Langer with an aim to understand his weaknesses, and now with Hutch watching me, I’m forced to do just that. I guess if Johnny asks, Hutch can vouch for me.
I pull up a clip from his most recent game and hit play, forcing myself to stare at the screen, hoping I can distract myself completely with the playback.
Focus on Langer, Betts. Focus.
“God, I didn’t realise how much of a goon he is,” Hutch says, peering at my screen.
Focus, Bettsy.
I observe the way he plays the puck, how he always plays further forward than his pairing, his blue-line presence on the forecheck, and how he …
“I think we’re married, Mike. And you knew about it…”
I study the way he works the corner—not overly a strong point for him, that’s for sure, and how he looks slow to pivot…
“I’ve had that document for eight years, Mike. Eight years…”
“—and that’s all you can do.” Hutch taps the screen, and I shake my head, trying to push Ellie’s voice away.
“Huh?”
“Have you been listening to anything I’ve been saying?” he says.
“I, uh … I think I need to take a lay down,” I say, snapping my laptop shut.
Hutch stares at me before nodding. “Look, mate. I know it’s stressful, but you’ll be great—you know you’re better than him, right?”
“I—thanks. It’s just a bit … I don’t know. I feel a bit stressed and overwhelmed, I guess. Maybe I need to take some time to myself, you know, clear my head a bit.”
