Page 123 of The Last Guy On Earth
Is this what greatness looks like?I ask myself in the mirror in the arena’s restroom.
It will have to do.
I make another nervous lap past the stretching mats, and then through the trainers’ room, where Jethro is having his ankle taped. “Something wrong with your ankle?” I bark.
Both the trainer and Jethro look up at me with pitying glances. “Nothing new, Coach,” Kevin Tang says. “Just his usual soreness, magnified somewhat by all the action he’s seeing.”
“But I like action,” Jethro says with a teasing lilt. “Planning on a clean sheet tonight, boss.”
I give him a glare that implies I’m too strung out to be thinking about anything but hockey.
“Coach? A word?”
I whirl to find Tate standing there, a frown on his face. My chest goes tight because the PR guy wouldn’t interrupt me before a game if it weren’t important. “Sure,” I say a beat too late. “In my office.”
The fifty-pace walk into my little office seems to take all year. What could the issue be? A breaking story about…?
I start to sweat as I close the door. “What’s the issue?”
“A journalist is asking for quotes on an obnoxious little piece he’s running.”
Suddenly I’m lightheaded.
FIFTY-FIVE
Jethro
From my seaton the trainer’s table, I see Tate approach Clay. I can’t hear exactly what’s said, but Clay goes white. And then they both disappear.
My stomach dives. There’s no reason to believe that someone is running a story about me and Clay. But that’s where my mind goes anyway. And if it happens to be true, then everything Clay worried about will come to pass. The narrative will make a sudden shift from success to scandal.
I spend a long couple of minutes in the dressing room before Clay reappears, his mouth tight. “Hey Coach?” I call, flagging him down. “You got a second?”
His gaze finds me, and he gives a quick jerk of his chin. I set down the stick I’m taping and hurry after him into the equipment room. “What’s the matter?” I blurt out the second I step over the threshold.
He leans against the sharpening table, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Just a nasty story brewing about Pierre’s overdose. Tate had to warn me in case I’m asked about him tonight.”
My jaw unclenches. “Oh.”
“I had that same reaction,” Clay says quietly. “For a second, I worried about…”
“Yeah,” I agree quickly. “Same.”
He gives his head a shake. “Go win this game, Jetty. That’s all that matters tonight.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze on his way out the door.
But I don’t move for a moment. I take a deep breath. And then another one. It’s hard to admit when you’ve been selfish. But it’s true. We can’t go on like this, waiting for disaster to strike.
Clay was right. Something has to give.
But the clock doesn’t give a damn about my little midlife crisis. It’s time to put my skates on. Then come the pre-game rituals. On-ice warmups. The national anthem. The whole nine yards. This is the soundtrack of my life.
The arena is so packed it’s shaking. And when the announcer does the starting lineup, player by player, the crowd swells with a cheer after every name.
Usually, I tune this part out. When we’re moments away from the start of the game, I like to use this time to think about the challenge to come.
But not tonight. I feel a prickle of awareness as the echoing voice cries, “Number 31, Jethro Hale!”
I lift an arm and wave to the crowd. It’s an uncommonly enthusiastic gesture for me. Toby’s out there somewhere watching with my dad. And maybe my sister is watching from the prison TV room.
