Page 113 of The Last Guy On Earth
A few people chuckle.
“Thanks.” I drop down next to him. “But whatever chair you have to sit in to turn bi, I already sat in it back when I was a youngster.”
Newgate is silent for a second. Then, when he realizes I’m not kidding, he laughs. And several curious heads turn in my direction.
A moment later, the second period starts, and all those heads turn back to the game.
I don’t know why it took so long in hockey for a player’s sexuality to stop mattering. But somehow it has. Because in this room, at this moment, the outcome of the Eastern Conference final is more interesting than whether or not I’m attracted to dudes.
When the cookie platter comes my way, I take one. And I make a silent toast to progress.
And then I watch Detroit lose 3-1 to Carolina.
FIFTY
Clay
JUNE
The practice rinkoutside Raleigh is already loud, but when Murph blows an ear-splitting whistle, I actually wince.
“Let’s go!” he cries, skating over to the face-off circle to start the scrimmage. “We’ve only got a half hour!”
“Coach,” Liana says from my right side. “You have a call with the venue in twenty minutes.”
“Thank you.”
“Coach?” the head trainer says from my left side. “I need fifteen minutes after practice.”
“All right, Kevin. Schedule it with Liana.”
And so on. My life is happening in a higher gear than I even thought possible.
Last night we lost game one at one a.m. during the third overtime. My guys fought like warriors. Hale only gave up three goals in a five-hour game, and the last one was only the result of a really unlucky bounce.
We’re already exhausted. I let everybody sleep in until noon, and then we all bussed out to a practice rink for a strategy session and a practice.
Murph drops the puck again, and I focus on the scrimmage. Per my instructions, we’re running a few new defensive plays. But the point of this practice is to shake out our nerves.
I could feel it in the video room earlier—a thrum of staticky energy. Players hunching forward in their chairs to get closer to the screen. Sharp eyes. Tapping feet. They’re all a little spooked by leveling up to the finals. And so am I, if I’m honest.
There’s exactly one man in the organization who isn’t jittery, though. And that man is Jethro Hale. He’s like a rock in the middle of a roaring river, calmly making notes on his pad during meetings and fending off attacks during practice.
Even now, as his teammates skitter around him in hyperdrive, he’s hunkered down in the net and stopping everything that flies his way.
“Hale looks really solid,” Demski says from the bench.
“Agreed,” I say tightly.
“Gotta say he’s been great with Walcott, too.”
“Really?” I can’t imagine that Jethro has much patience for the twenty-something blowhard.
“Totally. Hale is like the alpha dog who sets the mood for the pack. He isn’t panicking, so nobody around him feels the need to panic, either.”
“I wish that would rub off on me,” I mutter. But then I want to kick myself, becauserubbing offis something Jethro and I do with some frequency.
Like last night. We’re both on the club floor of the Raleigh hotel. Our rooms don’t adjoin, but they’re across the hall from each other. And it’s pretty easy to walk three paces into one room instead of another.
