Page 92 of Pipe Dreams
Beacon listened to all of this chatter with half an ear. No matter what anyone said, when a series went to game seven, the odds were still fifty-fifty. He didn’t need Elsa’s new math tutor to know that.
Still, it didn’t feel good.
At the briefing the morning after their loss, Coach Worthington practically had smoke coming out of his ears. “Let’s go over the footage again,” he said a million times. He talked plays and habits and formations until every player went glassy-eyed.
After a light workout in the weight room, he walked home to pack for yet another trip to Detroit. On the way he tried Lauren on his Katt Phone.
She answered on the second ring. “Hi there.”
“Hi yourself. Missing you like crazy right now.” He hadn’t sought solace in her bed after their most recent loss, but it sure had been tempting. They texted into the wee hours instead.
“How’s morale?”
“It’s not great. How’s Manhattan?”
“The usual. It’s Sunday, though. So I’m working at home instead of at my desk.”
“Ah. Wish I were there.”
“Soon,” she said, reminding him that the play-offs—no matter how exhausting—didn’t last forever.
“I got a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Any chance you’re coming to Detroit for game seven? A guy can dream.”
She laughed. “I’m not traveling with the team, if that’s what you’re asking. That’s Becca’s job again.”
“They sell plane tickets at the airport, though. I’ve heard that’s a thing. Can I buy you one?”
“Do I get an hour to think about it? I need to look at tomorrow’s schedule and see what I can rearrange.”
“Of course. And, honey—if it’s really not good timing, you can say so. I just miss you.”
“I miss you, too. And I love to watch you play.”
“Take a look and let me know. Either way, we’ll get our chance soon.”
“If you guys make it to the Stanley Cup final, wild horses won’t keep me away.”
“I love you,” he said. He was just going to keep saying that forever, and he wanted her to know it.
“I love you, too. Now let me get some work done and I’ll call you later.”
His feet had reached Willow Street, so he let himself in. He heard pop music from the second floor and NPR in the kitchen. Mike headed for the kitchen and a glass of water, startling Hans, who looked up from the kitchen table with a sheepish expression. He clutched his phone in one hand, the screen lit.
“What’s the matter, bud?” Seemed like nobody in his life was happy this week.
Hans shoved his phone into his shirt pocket. “Nothing.”
“Is it auditions? Or is Justin the problem?”
Hans laughed and shook his head. “Neither. Just poor timing.”
“I’m the king of poor timing,” he reminded the babysitter. “What’s the matter?”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to add stress to your week.”
