Page 22 of Rookie Move
Leo sighed. “Yeah. It was a long time ago, though. If I’d kept my trap shut the other day, this picture wouldn’t have surfaced.”
“Where’d they get it?”
“Our high school yearbook, if you can believe it.”
“Dude,” Silas said, the word full of sympathy. “That shit should stay buried. I do not want to see my eighteen-year-old mug in the news.”
“Live and learn,” Leo grunted.
“Hope Coach doesn’t see it before he makes the lineup for tonight. ’Cause now you’re the guy who got his little girl on all the gossip blogs.”
Fuck. “I’m ready to play. Hope he doesn’t scratch me.”
“That’s the tune I’m singing every night, dude. And yet I’ve played four games all season.”
“I hear you.” Backup goalie was a tough gig, though. It wasn’t the same thing, and they both knew it.
“Did you cheat on this girl, or something?”
“Never,” Leo said quickly. “We were together a long time, until she cut me loose on graduation day.”
“Bummer.” Silas laughed.
Leo said nothing. That year had been so hard on the both of them, but it wasn’t something he should talk about. He hoped Georgia had healed as best she could, but it was her private business.
“Can you pull around the corner?” Silas asked the cabbie as the car slowed down. “We need the side entrance.”
A minute later they both got out, and Leo waved off the goalie’s ten dollar bill. “You can get the next one.” He paid the fare and pulled out his shiny new team ID.
“Afternoon, boys,” the security guard said as he waved them through. “Beat Tampa.”
“We will,” Silas said, although it was iffy whether either one of them would have a say in it. Leo followed the goalie down a set of stairs and through a bright hallway beneath the stadium. They came to a stop outside a locked door. “Try your ID,” Silas suggested. “See if it works.”
With a nervous chuckle, Leo held his card up to the scanner. The light flashed green and the door clicked open.
He was in. At least for today.
“Guess I’m your tour guide,” Silas said. “Treatment rooms and the stretching gym are all the way at the end of the hall. But the locker room is in here.” Leo followed Silas into an antechamber with traditional wooden lockers. “Coat goes here, and you can hang up your suit and change. Hey—they already gave you a spot.” He opened a locker that already bore a brass-framed nametag reading TREVI. Silas pointed out a pair of black shorts and a gray T-shirt with the Bruisers’ logo. “They’ve got you all set up with a training kit. I’m gonna change.” He moved down the row to his own locker.
After they both changed into warm-up gear—pads and jerseys would come later—Leo followed Silas into the next room, which was where it all really happened. The Bruisers’ owner had built a state-of-the-art oval dressing room,where every player had plenty of room for his gear and everyone could see and hear everyone else.
Once again, he found TREVI, #55 on a locker. All his pads were here—arranged by a team minion in his locker, which was beside Castro’s. And what’s more—a jersey hung from it. Purple, of course, with T R E V I stitched on in white. It was impossible not to stare at it. His whole life he’d been waiting for this.
“You can snap a picture,” Silas said. “I won’t tell.”
“Nah.” Leo’s little sister would want him to, but Leo was too superstitious. If he got to stick around, there’d be plenty of time to get that picture later. “Where is everyone?” They were the only two in the room.
“In the treatment rooms getting stretched and taped. And in the lounge getting a bite or a protein drink. Let’s go. It’s right back here.”
They went back the way they’d come and then a bit farther down the hall toward a door marked BRUISERS PLAYERS AND STAFF ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.
Silas pushed it open, calling, “Hey, ladies. What’s for eats?”
“Taco Tuesday!” O’Doul yelled. And sure enough, there was a spread of Mexican food on a kitchen counter at the far end of the lounge. In addition to the kitchen and dining tables, there was a carpeted area with leather sofas and a big-screen TV. A half dozen players were scattered around the room, snacking and talking to one another.
“It’s Saturday, dumb-ass.” Beringer, another veteran defenseman, pinched O’Doul’s ass and then plucked something off his plate and stuck it in his mouth.
“Get your own,” O’Doul complained, sidestepping him. He sat down in the center of a leather sofa that was just off to the side of the room. “Hey, rookie!”
