Page 34 of Sure Shot
Speak of the devil. Coach taps a stick against the boards to get our attention, and I skate off toward the blue line to restart the drill.
“Arrogant fuck,” Castro says under his breath as he skates by.
“Dumbass,” I hiss.
Castro has skills, though. He’s young and fast, but he’s been on this same team for all three of his years in the Show. My unusual style of play has broken his little puppy brain, and he isn’t taking it well.
There’s a long list of good reasons why Brooklyn wanted me here. I have a lot of experience. Coach Worthington needed some of that. He also needed a D-man who played a different game than O’Doul and young Anton Bayer. It all makes sense on paper.
Although Coach was also hoping to get a share of the calm demeanor and leadership that I brought to the team in Dallas. But that guy? He’s left the building. Somewhere between the Dallas/Fort Worth airport and the Brooklyn Navy Yards, I forgot how to be Uncle Tank. My reservoir of patience and advice is dried out completely. I can barely keep my own shit together, let alone handle someone else’s drama.
So here we are, sweating like pigs, running the same play for the ten-thousandth time. We’re supposed to be fine-tuning our game against Philadelphia, but you can’t fine-tune a car that’s lying in wreckage all over the front yard. For two hours it’s been just like this—total chaos.
At this point I’m praying Philadelphia gets lost on the way to the stadium. It’s the only chance we have of maintaining our dignity on Tuesday.
We run the drill again, and this time Castro takes no chances, passing to Drake instead of me. But Drake is blocked by Anton, and the puck is stripped, anyway.
“Fuck a duck,” Castro grumbles.
I skate back to the blue line and pray for an end to this torture.
When the end of practice finally arrives, I make a beeline for the rubber matting beyond the practice rink. Unfortunately, several reporters do the same thing, and I find myself face to face with the difficult Miranda Wager and her infernal microphone.
They don’t pay her to be nice, I remind myself as I paste on a smile. “Hey there, Ms. Wager. How are you?”
“Excellent. Can we say the same for you? Looked a little hairy out there today.”
“Settling in takes time,” I say mildly.
“How’s Brooklyn so far?” she asks. “Have you found an apartment? The Brooklyn guys are known to take in strays. They’re a friendly bunch, aren’t they?”
That question is pure Miranda. She’s digging for a story about former rivals struggling to become teammates. Nobody has offered me a bedroom, but that doesn’t mean anything. “So friendly. But I’m headed home to such a beautiful hotel that I may never leave.”
This morning I was surprised to receive a series of messages from my agent’s assistant. She’d found me a better hotel room a lot closer to the practice facility. She’s sending a car to help me move from one hotel to another, and she’s booked me a massage, too.
Honestly, it’s all a little odd. I wonder if Bess yelled at Kassman for ignoring me.
“How are your old friends in Dallas faring without you?” Miranda asks. She’s still smiling, of course, while she twists the knife.
“I’m sure they’re getting their skates under them as well. Shame about that loss to Boston.”
As soon as I say it, I realize my mistake. I can’t mention Dallas’s struggles. If I’m a boring interview, Miranda won’t use the footage. I really don’t need any publicity right now. Not until I can prove myself.
The team publicist obviously agrees with me. She’s wringing her hands behind Miranda Wager, begging me with her eyes to cut things short.
But Miranda isn’t done with me. “Your ex-captain says he’s looking forward to your January matchup, and that there’s no way Brooklyn can win. He’s calling for a three-point differential on the scoreboard. What do you say to that?”
I tip my head back and laugh out loud.Fucking Palacio. “Here’s what I think, Miranda—hockey is fifty percent skill and fifty percent smack talk. Personally, I don’t see the point of predicting a point spread on a game that’s still months away. But maybe that’s just a little quirk of mine.”
She gives me another smile, so I brace myself. “Bart Palacio also predicted the matchup to be rougher than usual. He said lingering tensions will probably flare up on the ice. Do you know which tensions he’s referring to?”
A flush creeps up my neck as I force myself to hold her gaze. “I wouldn’t have a clue, sorry,” I say in the calmest voice I can muster.
“Didn’t the two of you fight?” she asks, holding her phone up to record whatever I say.
“Well, this might be tough to believe, but my teammate and I did not see eye to eye during every minute of the last seven years. Like all people who work closely together, we fought occasionally. You can write whatever you want, though. I know it’s tough to get a good story out of one lousy practice. But if you want to see Brooklyn evolve into a new kind of fighting machine, you stick around.”
I’m feeling damn proud of this answer when Miranda levels me with one last question. “Do you have any insight into Juliet Palacio’s reasons for hiring a divorce attorney yesterday?”
