Page 13 of Hard Hitter
“How’d the press take it?” Nathan asked by way of a greeting.
“Lotsof questions,” Georgia said. “There’s going to be speculation.”
“Take what?” Becca asked, voicing the same question that was on Ari’s mind.
“O’Doul was scratched at the last minute,” Tom said. “The trainers want him rested. That’s our story and we’re sticking to it.”
Oh, boy, Ari thought, staring down at the ice. The players were lining up for the national anthem now. She couldn’t even remember a night when O’Doul had been scratched before. The only time she’d known him to sit out games was that brief span when he was on the injured list while his wrist was healing.
She didn’t know him all that well. But she knew enough to say he wasnotgoing to like it.
THREE
FRIDAY, MARCH 11TH
Standings: 4th place in the Metropolitan Division
16 Regular Season Games to Go
Aday later, stepping off the bus in front of their Detroit hotel, O’Doul had to admit that his hip was better. But not his attitude.
They’d fuckingscratchedhim last night at the last minute. “We need to rest you,” Coach Worthington had said. “I need you to play a long postseason. Can’t do that if you’re injured.”
Needless to say, he had not agreed with this decision. He hated the way it looked—like he needed rest, like an old fart. His team had struggled without him, too. They should have owned that game against D.C. But by the end of the third period, it was a 2– 2 tie. And then a lucky shot in the overtime period by the opponent’s rookie lost the Bruisers the game.
No gold star.
“We got an overtime point out of it,” Coach had said last night, sounding uncharacteristically sanguine for someonewho had slipped in the standings. Since Boston had won their game the same night, the Kattenberger model now had their play-offs chances slipping to 73 percent.
O’Doul knew the numbers would have gone the other way if he’d played.
He wore a grimace while he waited beside his teammates for their luggage to be offloaded from the bus’s storage hold. His hip didn’t hurt, but his ego sure did.
The new backup goalie, Zac Sullivan, was horsing around on the sidewalk, trying to steal Bayer’s bottle of Gatorade out of the side of his duffel without getting caught. It was all fun and games until the guy almost crashed into a woman pushing a stroller.
“Whoa! Sorry ma’am,” he said, backing off.
She gave him an evil look and pushed her baby quickly past the group of hockey players.
“Twenty bucks, man,” O’Doul said. “Pay up.”
“What? Why?” the goalie argued.
“For almost mowing down that kid. Jimbo?” O’Doul said, pointing at the young man on the travel ops team. “Sully owes you twenty.”
“Got it,” Jimbo said, pulling a pad out of his back pocket. The team called these slips of paper “parking tickets,” and O’Doul assessed them anytime somebody was out of line. He gave out parking tickets for petty offenses like leaving a mess in the locker room or making the team look bad. At the end of every season, the whole kitty went to charity. Last year they gave over ten grand to a Brooklyn homeless shelter.
“Want to get some barbecue for lunch?” Trevi asked O’Doul. “The Katt Phone says there’s a good ribs joint nearby.”
“I’m in,” Castro volunteered.
“I wish,” O’Doul said. “I have to get a fucking massage.”
Castro exchanged a glance with Trevi. “And the problem is...?” Castro asked.
“Eh,” O’Doul said, hating the sound of irritation in his voice. “Not my favorite way to spend an hour.”
“I’ll take it!” Trevi volunteered. “I like it when Ari does that thing to the base of my skull. With her thumbs?” He held up his hands and wiggled his thumbs like a loon.
