Page 122 of The Last Guy On Earth
“Is the food good?” he wants to know.
“Yeah, bud. But while we eat it, they play video of the other team and talk strategy. It’s not really about the food.”
“We’re getting hot chicken,” my father says, a hand on Toby’s head. “Buddy, wait for me by that plant?” He points at a potted tree by the check-in desk. “I just gotta talk to your uncle a minute.”
“Sure. Bye, Jethro.” He bops over to hug me again. “I’ll scream loud.”
“You do that.”
“Look,” my dad says after Toby scoots away. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask your permission about the trip to Michigan. I knowthat custody document has your name on it—but you weren’thome.”
“Yeah,” I say gruffly. “I know I haven’t been around.”
“I’m not judging,” my father adds. “You got a busy life. But so do we, and it’s not in Colorado. The boy needs Shelby.”
Does he, though? And does Shelby deserve him?“We’ll talk more when the series is over,” I say. “Promise.”
“Fine. We’ll be rooting for you.” He gives me a quick smile.
“Thanks, Dad. It means a lot.” I hold out my hand for a shake, but he grabs me into a quick, hard hug instead.
I’m so startled, I forget to say goodbye.
Upstairs, during Murph’s video review, I surreptitiously pull out my phone and message Clay.
Sorry my kid mugged you in the lobby.
Sorry I was so awkward.
You know, I noticed that.
I’ve literally never done a meet-the-family thing. I mean I still haven’t. But it made me think about it.
Toby’s already a fan. I’ll make sure he keeps his word about those cupcakes.
See that you do.
FIFTY-FOUR
Clay
We losegame five in front of Jethro’s family, my sister and her boyfriend, and a packed Carolina crowd. Simply put, my guys succumb to the pressure of the moment. They went into the first face-off looking rattled. Carolina scored first, and our guys never recovered.
Jethro, to his credit, didn’t get rattled until the third period. He held the score to a 2-2 tie until the last ten minutes of the game when he let in two flying saucers.
The series is 3-2 now. We’re still up. We can still close the deal with a single win. But we’re no longer on a roll.
Over the next seventy-two hours, I give more renditions of my “Shake it Off” speech than you’d hear at a Taylor Swift concert. “Let’s do this at home, boys! Let’s close the deal in our own barn, in front of our own fans. It’ll only be harder if we take this thing to game seven.”
And so on.
My sister and Raul fly to Colorado and set up camp in my guest room, which means I don’t see Jethro privately at all for a couple nights. I’m probably too busy, anyway. The only timeI take a break from hockey is to visit Pierre at his new Denver rehab facility and assure him that the team doesn’t hate him.
“We’re going to win this thing. You watch,” I tell him.
It’s all bluster. Suddenly it’s game night again, and I don’t feel ready. Surely I could have worked a little harder. Run through a few more plays. Analyzed a little more tape.
There’s no way to stop time. Stacks of news trucks park outside the arena again, I’m down to my last clean dress shirt, and there’s a stain on my lucky tie.
