Page 39 of Sure Shot
Our other defenseman—Anton Bayer, aka “Baby Bayer”—is perfectly positioned. But it’s a three-man rush, and there’s only so much he and the goalie can do. None of us can get there in time, and Philadelphia capitalizes on the chaos, lighting the lamp a split second before the buzzer goes off.
“Les fuckés!” Campeau shouts. His face is full of thunder. The guys on the bench all look miserable.
As we leave the ice, Castro looks like a bomb about to go off. That dude won’t even look at me. His scowl leads us off the ice and down the chute to the locker room, past a dozen sports writers trying to make a big story out of a single early-season game.
“Tankiewicz, how’d it go?” one of them calls toward me.
“We’ll get there!” I say cheerfully. Although I’d rather knee him in the nuts.
God, I need a shower and a drink. I strip off my sweaty gear and grab a towel. But then—because it’s so much fun to be the new guy—I head in the wrong direction. I end up in the crowded anteroom instead of the showers, clutching a towel around my ass like an idiot.
Then it gets worse. Castro is standing there, head down, grumbling to a trainer. And what do I hear? “So fucking useless as a defenseman. I mean, the guy is so useless his own wife didn’t want him anymore.”
Anger rears up inside me. I reach out and grab the edge of his jersey, turning his body so he can see I’m standing right here. “Excuse me? You got issues to talk about, you do me the courtesy of saying it to myface.”
Honestly, I couldn’t have picked a worse time or place to behave aggressively to a fellow teammate. A dozen heads swivel. Half of them are journalists. And one of them is a certain red-headed agent with the prettiest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Her mouth drops open in shock, and she stomps toward me.
“Are youinsane?” Bess hisses. “Get your mitts off my player.”
I drop my hand like a guilty child.
“Is this the story you want to read on the blogs tomorrow?” She somehow manages to yell at me in a sotto voice. It must be something you learn at agent school. “‘Veteran Player Manhandles Younger Forward’? Are you fuckingcrazy?”
“Bess,” Castro grunts. “Stop it.”
She lets out a growl of outrage. “Don’t escalate this, Jason.”
“Shh. I won’t.” He puts a casual hand on her shoulder. “I was a dick first.”
“What?” she squeaks. “How big a dick?”
Castro’s brown eyes meet mine, and they look guilty. “Extra-large.” He sighs. “The showers are around there—behind the trainer’s table. Grab one before they’re full.”
I’m so angry I could explode. But I finally do the smart thing. I turn around and go.
Thirteen
Your Number One Fan
Bess
“Good God,”I whisper under my breath. Even as I watch Tank disappear, my anger remains in the red zone.
I have a temper, too, but it doesn’t show up very often. Teammate-on-teammate aggression makes me insane, and when Tank’s hand yanked Jason Castro’s jersey, I’d seen red.
It’s my job to fight for my players. I don’t mind playing the heavy. It’s always better for an agent to yell in the locker room than for an athlete to do the same. Plus, people have been stereotyping me as the “fiery redhead” since I was small. I lean into this reputation sometimes, because you have to use what God has given you.
Butthisis why I can’t sleep with a player. This isexactlywhy. There’s no room in my life for divided loyalties.
“I was a dick,” Castro repeats quietly. “I’m lucky he didn’t punch me.”
“Why?” I breathe. “What the hell did you say?”
Castro looks down at his skates. “I was venting, because that game sucked the big one. I said that Tank was so useless even his wife didn’t need him anymore.”
My heart squeezes. “Jason,” I whisper. “That’s so cruel. What if you broke up with Heidi and your teammatesmockedyou about it?”
“I know,” he says through gritted teeth. “I never meant for him to hear it.”
