Page 58 of Sure Shot
Tank: Now there’s a plan I can get behind. Literally.
Bess: Indeed. Got to go now! Call starts in two minutes.
Tank: One more thing, hot stuff. Have you seen Henry again? I keep leaving voicemails, asking when I can visit. He texts me back, but I can’t get a phone call. I just want to talk to the old codger.
Bess: Same. I sent him a present but when I asked to visit he shot me down. Now go beat Florida.
Tank: Maybe you should send me a few motivational photographs to improve my game.
Bess: A good workout followed by a protein drink and then a nap would improve it more.
Tank: Says you.
Bess: I am a professional. I know things. Get some rest! I’ll be watching tonight.
Twenty
A Day Late and a Dollar Short
Tank
November
Slowly,I inch toward greatness. I grab an assist in our game against Chicago. And then another goal a week later.
But it’s a slog. And what’s worse? It’s ajob. I used to play hockey because I loved it and couldn’t imagine doing anything else.
I guess I still can’t imagine doing anything else. I’m too deep inside my own head, though. And on the nights when I can’t see Bess, I’m lonely.
As autumn drags on, I keep asking Henry Kassman when I can visit or at least call. He keeps saying, “Soon, but not today.” And I try not to care.
Then, on an unseasonably warm weekday, my phone rings as I’m walking away from a restaurant where I’d eaten a late lunch. When I answer, there he is.Finally.
“Tankiewicz,” Henry growls into my ear. “How are you, boy?”
I stop in my tracks on the sidewalk so I can listen a little more carefully. I didn’t know how much I needed to hear this man’s voice. “I’m okay, Henry. I’m doing fine for a guy whose life is still blowing up all over the place.”
“How was practice today?” he asks, taking a wheezy breath in between the words. The sound of it makes my chest tighten in sympathy.
“Fine,” I say quickly, wondering if he’s okay to talk on the phone.
“Fine,” he echoes. “Don’t give me that bullshit. Tell me the truth.”
I smile in spite of myself. “Practice? It was mediocre in parts and dreadful in others. Coach is still yelling at guys who can’t adapt to my style of play. And when I try to adapt to theirs, Coach yells at me instead.”
Kassman laughs, as if I’ve said something funny. “It’s early in the season, Tank.” He takes another audibly difficult breath. “I say this every year, because you’re always in need of hearing it. But you still have time.”
I make a grumpy noise, because I don’t really believe him. Every frustrated look on the coach’s face feels like another nail in my coffin. I need to impress that man or I’m going to be traded again.
“Got something for you,” Kassman wheezes. “Wasn’t sure how to put this, because I’ve never given a man his divorce decree before. But your papers are here and executed.”
Whoa. “It’s done?”
“Done,” he says.
“I don’t have to sign?”
“Nope. The judge signed, and that’s that. I’m gonna send ’em to you by courier I guess.”
