Page 46 of The Last Guy On Earth
“Something you needed to discuss?” he asks. “Or did you come by to tell the dinosaur to take a Centrum Silver and go to sleep early.”
I snort. Then I push past him into the room and close the door behind me.
“Look,” I say. “This will only take a second. I need to apologize to you on a couple of points—the first one being that you are not a fucking dinosaur.”
Goddamn stupid insult haunts me.
Goddamn his ripped abs, too, mocking me from a few feet away. And the happy trail running straight down from his navel.
And most of all—goddamn what my first coach called myacute visual memory. Seeing him in front of me every day?Torture.
He folds his arms, and I try not to watch the muscles bunch in his chest. “Well. Spit it out so I can get back to worrying about my kid and his freak-out over going to a new school. Then you can go back to ignoring me.”
“I’m notignoringyou!” Then the three whiskies in my bloodstream make me add, “Like that’s even an option. If it was, I’d take it. Every time I’ve spoken to you, I’ve fucked up. And I realize I’m making it impossible for you to have a functional relationship with the team. And to, like, socialize with us.”
He blinks. “Nobody cares if I play darts with the rookies, Clay.”
“Not true.” I shake my head. “Kapski and Murph are hoping you start showing your face. Maybe some more interaction would…” I pause, because I don’t trust the whisky to give decent coaching advice to a struggling player.
“Would what?” he demands. “Would make me suck less? Maybe it wasn’t pretty, but we won the damn game. Why can’t that be enough?”
“Is that enough for you, though?” I demand, taking a step forward. “Is this how you want the season to go?”
“No.” His expression darkens even further. “But I don’t get a fucking vote. Nobody asked what I wanted, did they? Not your GM, not my old coach, not my wreck of a sister. Nobody in thewhole fucking worldgives a flying crap how I wanted this season to go. But I’m doing my goddamned best anyway.”
He slams his jaw shut, and I note two things. One, that’s the most I’ve heard him say in a long, long time. And two, we are standing very close. I can see the flecks of gray in his green eyes. His breath warms my face as his bare chest rises and falls with poorly contained emotion.
“Are you okay?” I whisper, taking a step back.
He takes a step back, too. Looks away. Collects himself. “Yeah, Clay. I’m just trying to play some hockey and get through the day. I don’t know why you find it so hard to deal with me.”
“You don’tknow?” I laugh awkwardly. “Maybe we should put you through the concussion protocol, because nobody’s memory is that bad.”
He waves his hands around. “It’s been fifteen years since…” More hand waving. “Our whatever.”
“Ourwhatever,” I repeat slowly. “That’s the sum total of your memory of me. Got it.” I’m trying really hard not to get mad. But in order to actually get past our damn past, I need to acknowledge it. I need him to acknowledge it too, but I guess he’s incapable of doing that.
“Come on, man,” he says heavily. My frustration must be painted on my face. “I was a twenty-two-year-old bozo with the emotional range of a rubber band. You can’t still be holding a grudge.”
“Agrudge?” My voice goes high. “You make it sound like I’m hung up because you ate the last cookie in the jar. Or you borrowed my favorite socks without asking.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“Didn’t you? The problem is that I would have given you the cookie, the jar, and all the damn socks. I would have given you everything. Don’t try to tell me I dodged a bullet. I always thought you were worth it. That’s why I trusted you with my… witheverything. But when it ended, you blocked my number.”
His eyes widen. “Shit, Idid?” He looks bewildered. As if he’d forgotten that detail. “God, I’m?—”
“No, don’t apologize,” I say quickly, holding up my hands in surrender. “I recognize that we didn’t have the same experience back then. I am not telling you how to feel. I’m just trying to explain—but not excuse—my nasty reaction to your turning up. It took me a long time to bounce back from our breakup. Because that’s what itwasto me, okay? The end of something special.”
He looks so flustered that I’m worried he’ll bolt from the room. For both our sakes, I hurry to spit the rest of it out. “Again, it’s not on you. And I won’t bring it up again. But I’m sorry I was a dick the other night before the Brooklyn game. I’ve gone fifteen years without talking to anyone in hockey about…everything that happened. Because hockey doesn’t work that way. Isn’t that how you put it?”
“Shit,” he whispers, his eyes wide. “That sounds like something I’d say.”
“Yeah, and you weren’t wrong.” I take a gulp of air, fighting my way toward the finish line. “But after a decade and a half, one of my players finally gets his guy. So I’m having a really interesting week. If I took it out on you, I’m deeply sorry.”
He swallows. “Apology accepted.”
“Thank you,” I say stiffly. “Good win tonight. We’ll talk more about your game later. But I’m not sorry you’re on my team. You’re an extremely talented player. I’ve always admired you, and I still do. Thanks for letting me say all that.”
