Page 49 of Body Check
Liza is not amused.
She offers me a hug before opening the bakery box. “Blue didn’t spit on these, did he? Or dump them on the sidewalk and then stick them back in this box like nothing ever happened?”
“Nope,” I answer. “They are perfectly safe to eat. I promise.”
“Good, because I’m starving,” she says, taking a bite. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that asshat,” she tells me, tilting her head in the direction of the stairs, since that’s where Blue was headed.
“Actually, he was pretty great. I know you two don’t always see eye-to-eye, but maybe you?—”
“Don’t even finish that sentence,” Liza warns. “Ugh. Let’s not even joke about that.”
20
Dutton
This week sucks. My dad’s still having a rough time of it, and that makes things hard on my mom, too. Since I’m so close, I try to stop by whenever I can, but every time I’ve visited this week, it’s been glaringly obvious that he still has a long road ahead. I know that according to the doctors, we could still be facing months of this, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let my cousin’s worries distract me from what’s really going on.
He was especially irritable when I swung by last night. Mom said evenings are worse, and I’m not sure if that’s because he’s so exhausted or what, but Mom and I agreed that my upcoming game is just too much for him at this point. Better safe than sorry, right? My immediate family might be small, and two-thirds of us might be a little on the grumpy side, but we’ve always been close. I’ve never doubted my parents’ love for me or their love for each other. It goes without saying that we’ll be there for him if there is something more serious going on, but it’s damn hard not to have any answers.
There are some rare cases where post-concussion syndrome can last this long or even longer, but there are usually other conditions at play, and none of those apply to my dad. He’s in hismid-fifties, this is his first concussion, and he doesn’t have any other health concerns. We’re stumped and frustrated, but we’ll make it through, and hopefully his next doctor’s appointment will provide some insight into what’s going on in his head.
In addition to the worry over my dad, I have to deal with the tension that’s plaguing our team—tension I caused. No, I never wanted to hide my relationship with Bridgette from her brother or anyone. But the fact is that it wouldn’t have been an issue if I hadn’t been a colossal prick to the guy for the last two years. In my slight defense, when I started fucking with him on the ice when we were freshmen on opposite teams, it was nothing personal. I saw a way to disarm my opponents a little by rattling one of their players. That’s just sports. It happens all the time. You take whatever advantage you can get, and how was I to know that the woman of my dreams would end up being related to the guy I frequently targeted on the ice? Beyond that, how could I ever have predicted that Blue and I would join this freaking team? If someone would have told me that a couple years back, I’d have laughed my ass off and called them a liar.
But here we all are.
Mickey and I are sporting matching black eyes, and I’m not surprised at all when Coach Novotny barks at us to get our asses in his office. Our head coach is looking at recruits this week, so I thought maybe we could fly under the radar, but I was wrong. Novotny is known for being calm and reserved, but the look he gives us when we file into his office makes it clear he’s not in the mood for our bullshit. I take one of the padded chairs across from his desk, and Mickey takes the other, not bothering to look at me. I tried talking to him last night after I got back from visiting my folks, but about two seconds into the conversation, I held my hands up and walked away. If I hadn’t, I’d probably have two black eyes right now.
“What the hell is going on with you two?” he asks, cutting straight to it. “We never expected you to be best friends, but we do expect you to be teammates, so would you care to explain why you both have busted knuckles and black eyes? And don’t even think about bullshitting me. This is not the week, and I don’t have the time to sit here and play guessing games. What the hell happened?”
Before I can speak up, Mickey opens his mouth. No surprise there, but his words catch me off guard a little.
“Wagner and I finally had it out. It’s been two years in the making, and we came to blows Saturday night. I’m not proud of letting my temper get the best of me, but the good thing is that we came to an understanding. Like you said, we’re sure as shit never gonna be friends, but for the sake of the team, we’ve called a truce. I can promise you our bullshit will not enter this building or affect the team any more than it already has.”
Christ. Is he flat out lying, or did I miss the part where we hugged it out? I school my expression and nod in agreement because I’ve got to admit, Mickey’s convincing as hell. The guy sitting next to me is still and calm. He’s in total control of his words and emotions. This is not the erratic, unpredictable player I once faced. I don’t know if he’s got new meds or if he’s just taking them like he’s supposed to. Or maybe he’s grown the fuck up. Whatever the reason, I’m glad for his composure because Coach Novotny’s eating it up like fucking candy.
“Wagner, is this true? Can you agree to get along with Mickey for the rest of the season? And all through next year? Because we need both of you, and unless you get called up,” he says, looking at me, “ or you get an offer you can’t pass up,” he adds, looking at Mickey, “you two are stuck with each other for two more years.”
The shock that registers on Mick’s face lodges somewhere in my brain. It’s uncomfortable, like a sharp, tiny little pebble in my shoe. Yes, I’ve thrown his lack of focus right in his faceon multiple occasions. And I’ve also been on his ass about how some guys would kill for the kind of talent he has. And I’ve made it clear that his talent amounts to diddly-fucking-shit if he’s inconsistent. But when Coach mentioned a potential call-up, the guy looked floored, like that wasn’t even on his radar.
How is that possible? Yeah, he’s a fucking nutjob sometimes, but he’s good. Really fucking good. Like, professional-level good. How does he not know this?
Christ. I haven’t just been an asshole. I’ve been a dick. A colossal one. I more than earned the nickname he gave me.
Fuck. Nothing I said was wrong, exactly, but it sure as fuck wasn’t helpful.
My brain is exploding, but I steel my features and answer my coach’s question. “Yes, sir. Like Mickey said, we hashed our shit and moved on.”
“You better hope you’re not lying to me,” Coach says, leveling both of us with just a look. “Because this isn’t about me, gentlemen. It’s not about Coach Baylor or Coach Vandaele. It’s about you and your teammates out in the locker room. You function as a unit or you don’t function at all. I don’t want to think that two of our strongest players are so egocentric that they’re willing to risk their season because they can’t play nice together. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir,” we say in unison.
Novotny dismisses us because he’s made his point.
We’re about ten feet from his office when Mickey turns to me with a hardened expression. His voice is low and cold when he speaks, and I can’t lie. This is a side of him I’ve never seen.
“Just so we’re clear, Wagner, I lied. There’s no fucking truce, and there won’t be. I don’t like you, and I never will. But for the sake of my team, I’ll deal with your ass in a professional capacity only. For the sake of my sister, I won’t punch you again. Unless you deserve it. Don’t fuck up. Don’t talk to me. Don’t tryto explain. And don’t you fucking dare hurt her.” His eyes are a darker green than Bridgette’s, but right now they’re practically glowing with anger. Having said his piece, he stalks away. It’s not like me to stay silent in a situation like this, but the last damn thing I need is for Coach to catch us.
Since Mickey’s making his way to the weight room, probably to blow off some steam, I make a split decision to head for the pool. My compression shorts will have to do because I’m not going back in that locker room to dig through my bag for swim gear. I need to process the thoughts in my head, and nothing helps me do that like a punishing workout. There’s always a lifeguard on duty here, since we share this pool with the rest of the athletes at BU. It’s fairly empty now except for a guy working on his breaststroke in lane eight, so I grab a few towels and set them on the pool deck. My usual routine starts with a few warm up laps and then some interval work. Hockey games are all about stopping and starting, so my training needs to mimic that.
