Page 19 of The Last Guy On Earth
Am I?It shouldn’t be a tricky question. I’ve spent my whole career in pursuit of the Cup, and I’ve had success beyond my wildest dreams. But the last forty-eight hours have aged me about a decade. My focus is shot, and my heart feels broken. It’s not exactly the headspace of a champion.
“You know, I had a thought,” says Stoney quietly. “Wouldn’t it be sweet revenge if we made it further in the playoffs than your old team?”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “Fuck those guys.”
He grins.
I lean back in my plush seat and wonder if another championship is even possible for me at this juncture.
If it is, then I have work to do.
If it’s not, then what am I even doing here?
“Hey—where’re you going?” Stoney asks as I unbuckle my seatbelt and lift my coffee mug off the tray table. “I got vacation pictures from Mexico, too.”
“Hold that thought.” I get up and scan the rows of seats for Clay. No—forCoach Powers. I don’t spot him anywhere, so I carry my mug toward the rear of the aircraft, peering into each row of seats.
“More coffee, sir?” asks a male flight attendant when I reach the galley. “I’m Harley, by the way. And you are?”
“Jethro. And yeah. I’d love some.”
“Black, right?” He takes the cup.
“If you don’t mind. And does Coach have an office back here?”
Harley gestures toward a door. “Right there.” He returns my refilled coffee cup. “Ask Coach if he wants a cup? I haven’t seen him yet today.”
“Will do.” I walk to the narrow door. I don’t hear any voices on the other side, so I tap lightly with one finger. There’s a muffled sound in response—maybe a “come in.” I can’t tell.
Regardless, I’m on a mission. I open the door and find Clay in a cramped space that’s set up like an office. He’s alone, and he’s peeling his face from the surface of the table in front of him. When he gazes sleepily up at me, it’s almost like stepping back in time. His eyes are soft and unfocused, the way he always looked first thing in the morning.
His eyes narrow when they focus on me in the doorway, and I pick up on a few interesting details. Like the imprint from the edge of his spiral notebook that’s carved into his cheek.
Of course, I laugh, because that shit is funny.
Clay gives his head a shake, and scrubs at his face. “Something you need?” he growls, his voice thick with sleep.
I swallow my laughter as best I can. “Well, yeah, I wanted a word. But hold on.” I lean out into the narrow hallway. “Harley, I think Coach could use some coffee.”
The flight attendant hustles to press another mug into my hand, and I look down into the cup. The coffee has a heavy splash of cream in it—the way Clay always drank it. He was a bit of a hedonist. Cream in his coffee. Expensive cheese. Red wine, the glass propped onto his naked chest…
Okay, whoops.The fireproof vault creaked open for a second there.
Mentally shoving those memories back into the dark where they belong, I set the mug in front of Clay before easing the door shut. Then I slide onto the booth-like seat across the table from him.
And, whoa, it’s a small room, so we’re super close together now. I’m getting a first-row view of his cool blue eyes, the same ones that used to squeeze shut with pleasure whenever I put my tongue…
Shit.
Across the table from me, Clay’s expression is stony as he takes a sip of coffee. “Well?” he says grumpily. “This is your meeting. What’s the issue?”
“You should play me in St. Louis,” I say, because there’s no point in making small talk. After all these years, my skills haven’t improved. “If you leave me on the bench, it looks like you’re not sure about the trade.”
Clay takes a slow sip and then grimaces. “Problem is, Hale, I don’t give a fuck what other people think.”
Maybe I should have stayed in my seat next to Stoney.
“And seriously,” he continues, “is the starting lineup negotiable in Detroit? Because in Colorado it isn’t. There’s no suggestion box for how I start my players.”
