Page 23 of Rookie Move
It took Leo a beat to realize he was being addressed. “Hey.”
“Bring me a water, would you?”
Seriously? “Sure thing,” Leo said. But then he took his sweet time. In slow motion, he turned around, locating aspoon and a carton of yogurt. He wouldn’t eat a real meal this close to game time.
When he was good and ready he crossed the kitchen to open the beverage refrigerator. “Does our captain prefer the still water or the bubbles with his cuisine?”
O’Doul snorted. “Just chuck me a bottle of the plain stuff.”
Leo took out two, then walked over to offer one to O’Doul. “Here, man. Sorry about that bullshit at the press conference yesterday. I’m not usually a loose cannon.” He locked eyes with the man and waited to see what the captain would say.
The guy studied him, giving nothing away. Leo was pretty good at reading people, but O’Doul was a tough nut to crack. He seemed to blow hot and cold on everyone. “Thanks,” he said, taking the bottle and twisting it open. Whether the gratitude referred to the water or the apology, he didn’t say. And then the captain looked past him, watching someone else come through the door. “Bayer! How’s the shoulder feel?”
Dismissed. Ah, well. He’d tried.
Leo took a seat at one of the tables. But as he ate, he listened to the conversations around him. The most interesting part was the discussion of Bayer’s injury.
“Got a massage after warm-ups, but it’s still a little sore. The trainer wants me to sit out another game,” Bayer complained. “But I don’t need it. We both talked to Coach, but I don’t know what the new guy’ll decide.”
A silence fell over the room as all the smack talk died. While Leo had probably the worst case of new-guy anxiety, the truth was that every guy here would be a little on edge today. A new coach could shake things up in ways that wouldn’t be appreciated.
O’Doul looked at his watch. “I say we hit the soccer early.” He stood up. “Let’s go.”
To a man, everyone stood up and followed him out. So Leo pounded the rest of his water and brought up the rear of the procession. The parade of hockey players threadedthe length of the hallway until O’Doul pushed through a door marked LOADING DOCK. By the time Leo got through it, the guys were already forming a circle on the concrete floor. The room was cavernous and cold, due to a set of garage doors lining one side. But Leo felt his spirits lift as he stepped into the circle of men, each of them dressed identically to him in Bruisers warm-up gear. He felt the age-old tug of being on a team, with a common goal and a common enemy.
And elimination soccer was a blast, anyway.
“Heads up, boys,” O’Doul said with a grin. Then he dropped the ball to his sneaker and popped it across the circle to Bayer. Who headed it to Silas. Who kicked it to Beacon, the starting goalie.
Who went for it with a knee. And missed.
“Aww!” the men yelled together.
“I’m savin’ it for later!” the goalie protested, but he backed out of the circle with a smile.
Leo gave over his consciousness to this silly pursuit. He headed the ball to O’Doul the first time it came to him. He managed a good knee bump the next time. The rules of elimination soccer were simple: the ball doesn’t touch the floor. And smack talk is a hundred percent legal, and encouraged.
Players in the circle dwindled down to four. There was only Leo, O’Doul, Bayer, and Silas. Leo felt loose and ready to play, whether it was hockey or this silly warm-up game. He’d take it.
O’Doul kicked to Silas who headed it toward the space between Leo and O’Doul.
“Got it,” O’Doul yelled, so Leo let him take the shot. The captain only got there in time to bump the ball with his shoulder toward Leo.
The heavy trajectory of the ball meant that Leo couldn’t get an ordinary kick in. But he got a knee under it, boosting that sucker into the air, sending it sailing across the circle, but too high for Bayer to get a head on it.
“Fuck.” Bayer chuckled. Instead of letting it go, though,he backed up three big paces and sort of slid his body onto the concrete floor for a bicycle kick.
It almost worked. Almost. But the ball sailed over the tip of his sneaker. And on his way down, Bayer’s foot collided with a forklift that was parked against the loading dock wall. “Arrrgh!” Bayer yelled, and Leo couldn’t tell if the sound came from frustration or pain. Either way, Bayer rolled away from the machinery and up onto his feet. “Thanks a fuck ton, rookie.”
“Yeah, sorry,” he said, knowing it wasn’t really his fault that Bayer’s toe collided with heavy machinery. But he was the new guy, and therefore honor bound to take crap from the veterans. He trotted off to collect the ball, which had rolled toward the door, unattended.
As Leo nabbed the ball off the floor, a pair of dress shoes stepped into his line of vision. He stood up to find Coach Worthington standing in the doorway, a clipboard in his hands. “Evening, Coach,” Leo said, spinning the ball on his finger.
Worthington stepped past him to greet the team. “Evening, hooligans,” he said with a smile. “Are you ready to have a big night?”
Leo’s teammates turned toward the coach’s voice like flowers toward the sun. Karl Worthington was well-liked in hockey. While he was known to be occasionally gruff, he could also be magnetic and inspiring.
Coach grinned at them for a moment, taking everyone in. “I know we don’t know each other so well yet. But I can already see you’re a team who’s going to do great things heading into the postseason. Let me tell you a little story about new coaches.
