Page 6 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
“Not interested.”
“It’s good PR, Stone. Show the fans you’re working hard, build some goodwill.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Having cameras in my face while I struggle through basic exercises isn’t exactly how I want to be remembered.”
“It’s how you’ll be remembered as a fighter, not just another injured player who disappeared.”
“Is that what people are saying?”
Tom hesitated, which told me everything. “Some sports radio chatter, nothing serious. But it would shut them up if?—”
“Fine. One interview. No locker room access, no filming at PT.”
“I’ll make it happen.” He sounded too pleased with himself. “And the fantasy camp appearance next month? Kids are counting on you, even if it’s just to sign some autographs from a chair.”
I closed my eyes, imagining dozens of hopeful faces asking when I’d be back on the ice, if I’d ever be the same player. Questions I couldn’t answer honestly, even to myself.
“I’ll be there.”
“That’s my guy. Rest up, keep grinding. I’ll email you the details for both events.”
The call ended, and I resisted the urge to throw my phone across the room. Instead, I limped to the wall of windows overlooking downtown Minneapolis. The city was disappearing under fresh snow, the early winter sunset painting everything in muted blues and purples.
My phone buzzed in my hand. The wrong number again. I’d almost forgotten.
Oh my god. I’m going to die of embarrassment right here in this hotel room. Please tell me you’re not my new boss or, worse, my great-aunt Mildred who just got her first smartphone. I’m so sorry! That was obviously meant for someone else. I’m blaming it on the combination of Minneapolis winter shock, displacement stress, and cheap hotel wine.
Despite everything, I found myself smiling again. There was something refreshingly authentic about the panicked rambling.
I settled onto my couch, propping my leg on the coffee table.
Not your boss or great-aunt Mildred, thankfully. Though I’m sure Aunt Mildred would be flattered. Hotel wine is always a dangerous proposition. What brings you to Minneapolis in January? Most people with functioning brain cells are heading south this time of year.
The response came quickly.
A spectacular combination of career ambition and poor weather research. I’m from Arizona. I knew Minnesota was cold, but there’s a difference between knowing something intellectually and experiencing your eyelashes freezing together. The taxi driver who brought me from the airport said something similar. Must be the consensus in Minneapolis that only crazy people move here in January.
I laughed out loud.
Arizona to Minnesota in January might qualify you for an insanity defense. Whatever job brought you here better be worth it.
I reached for the remote, turning on the sports channel with the volume low. The hockey highlights would be on soon, and watching my team struggle without me had become a masochistic ritual.
Another text arrived.
It is. Or will be, once I’m not homeless. Long story involving administrative incompetence and a hockey tournament that’s apparently commandeered every vacant room in the city. Hence the sad hotel wine and embarrassing misdirected texts. Silver lining: at least I’ve given a stranger a good laugh at my expense.
I turned off the TV before the highlights could start.
The hockey tournament would be the Winter Classic. And trust me, I’m laughing with you, not at you. We’ve all sent texts to the wrong person. Though yours was more entertaining than most.
I hesitated, then added:
So what’s Plan B for the housing situation? Building an igloo, Desert Survivor?
The response came quickly.
Desert Survivor? I like that. Better than “Idiot Who Moved to the Arctic Without Proper Research.” Plan B involved considerable pleading on housing forums. Miraculously, I found a sublet near campus. Meeting the owner’s friend later today to get keys. Fingers crossed it’s not a serial killer’s lair decorated with the bones of previous tenants.
