Page 38 of Sure Shot
Tank: Speaking of agents, is it possible you spoke to mine?
Bess: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Tank: Uh-huh. So it’s just a coincidence that Kassman’s assistant decided to move my hotel, book me a spa massage, and then send me a fruit basket and… The last thing is just weird.
Bess: You needed a hotel change. And fruit baskets are nice. Everyone likes fruit. And baskets. But what is the weird thing? I’m worried.
Tank: A bouquet of mylar balloons. They have uplifting sayings on them. Like “We’re your number one fan.”
Bess: BALLOONS? WTF. Is Henry trolling me? That’s weird and not very environmentally responsible.
Tank: So you pushed him to do this?
Bess: Henry and I text from time to time. We might have texted the other day.
Tank: I see how it is. But you don’t have to worry about me, okay? I’m fine.
Bess: Come on. The new hotel kicks ass, right? Have you tried those croissants at the desk?
Tank: They’re glorious. Still. I’m a big boy. You verified it yourself many times.
Bess: But never again.
Tank: Uh-huh. You said I’m your kryptonite. And I know how kryptonite works.
Bess: ?
Tank: Proximity. And now we’re in the same neighborhood.
Bess: Go take a nap, Tank. Beat Philadelphia.
Tank: Later baby.
Bess: Later.
Tank: Later is better than never. See?
She doesn’t reply, and I toss the phone aside. But texting with Bess was fun. And I’m already plotting how to get another chance to show her my big hunk of kryptonite.
* * *
Five hours later, I’m feeling more like the Hulk than Superman. There’s two minutes left on the clock, and we’re losing 1-0 to Philadelphia. Our offense is not creating enough scoring chances. They’re too patient, which drives me up a tree.
Worse—the first line still can’t find me when I’m open. After a week of intense practice, they’re still completely confused by my style of play. When I’m open at the top of the circle, I’m somehow invisible to Castro, Campeau, and Drake.
“Coulda turned that into a goal,” I growl at Castro before a third-period faceoff. “You have two shoulders. Check the right side once in a while.”
“Who died and made you a forward?” the young wing spits. “Stay in your own lane.”
Ugh. It’s not like I don’t understand the problem. They’re young, and their captain is a different kind of D-man. O’Doul’s a shut-down defenseman—a wall of “no.” He’s always behind the blue line, ready to stop whatever comes his way.
I’m not that guy. I’m an agent of chaos. I had twice as many points as O’Doul last year, and that’s what this team needs—flexibility on the blue line. The GM and the coach thought so, anyway. That’s the reason I’m here.
This logic has evaded my young teammates. They win the faceoff, dragging the puck toward the corner, and then passing it tidily amongst each other.
I move up, harassing the opponent and opening myself up for a shot. Again. No dice. Drake passes to Castro, instead. His angle is a hair’s breadth off, and we get stripped.
It’s the perfect storm. An opposing D-man tangles up Campeau in a blatantly illegal hit. There’s no whistle. Castro lunges after his opponent but can’t get there fast enough.
