Page 51 of The Last Guy On Earth
But it’s the kind of text he’d regret in the morning, no matter how true it is. So he backspaces over that, too. He blocks Clay’s number, so he won’t be tempted to send it anyway. It’s better to be callous than stupid.
And pining for Clay is stupid.
So he just won’t.
He falls asleep clutching the flask in one hand and the phone in the other.
TWENTY-FOUR
Clay
FEBRUARY
Once we getthrough the holidays, our schedule is packed with important games. I’m living at the rink, but honestly, I love this time of year. The leader board is starting to firm up, but there’s still plenty of opportunity for a team who wants it bad.
The Cougars do. We’re riding in the number-two slot in our division, and my players are healthy. Both Kapski and Stoney are on pace to score more goals this season than they ever have before. Our penalty minutes are down, and our shooting stats are up. Ask anyone, and they’ll tell you that we’re on a roll.
Except, of course, for Jethro Hale, as every sportswriter likes to point out. His stats haven’t improved, even though we’ve given him opportunities and he’s working hard. He shows up to the rink early every day and is often the last to leave. He works out with the goalie coach and makes every video meeting.
He’s even showing his face at the bar on the road, always nursing an NA beer and playing a little pool before heading upstairs. I can’t fault him for not trying.
Still, his stats are crap. His save percentage hovers below ninety percent, and I’m running out of ideas, so I’ve calleda Monday morning private meeting with goalie coach Bernie Demski and the GM.
On my way up the stairs to Demski’s office, a voice stops me. “Coach!” It’s Stoneman. “Got a minute?”
“Sure, Stoney.” I pause, one hand on the banister. “What’s on your mind?”
He waves a big manila envelope in the air. “I need you to make a contribution to the Cougars’ vision board.”
“Our…sorry?”
He squints at me like I might be a little slow. “Our team vision board. I’m putting together a huge collage of everything we want to achieve as a team—every image that uplifts us. Every goal. It’s a way of opening your mind to all the best possibilities. Because if you can’t picture what you want, then it can’t come true.”
“Okay…” This is the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard, and I’m trying to think of something positive to say. “Sounds a little simple. We’ve all got the same goal. Won’t every player just give you the same photo of the Cup?”
Stoney gives me a look that suggests I’ve disappointed him. Then he shakes the envelope. “Nah, Coach. I’ll bet I get a buncha shots of the Cup, sure. But first of all, when you walk past the board every day, that means something. It spins a little energy directly into your soul, or something. I saw a video on TikTok.”
“Hmm,” I offer warily. “Okay. What’s the harm?”
He grins. “Knew you were cool, Coach. Get back to me by tomorrow, yeah?” He gives the envelope another shake and turns away.
I think about this project for another two seconds, and then call him back. “Hey, Stoney?”
He turns around. “You got something for me already?”
“Uh, no. But make sure you don’t, um, decorate the dressing room with porn, okay? Just be mindful when you sort those photos.” I point at the envelope.
His eyes narrow, and he gives the envelope a suspicious glance. But then his smile brightens. “Don’t worry. Imma edit that shit. It’s going to be a masterpiece.”
I head up the stairs, shaking my head. But I guess I shouldn’t care if Stoney wants to focus on some woo woo. It’s better than drugs, right?
Upstairs, I find Bernie Demski in his office, eating a post-practice granola bar and drinking a carton of chocolate milk. At seventy-two, Demski is the oldest member of our coaching staff, with a shock of white hair and bushy eyebrows that make him look perpetually surprised. He’s been in hockey longer than I’ve been alive, and his expertise is unmatched.
Using two knuckles, I knock on the door frame. “Ready for us?”
“Course.” He beckons toward the visitor’s chair. “Want a chocolate milk? I got more.” He gestures toward his mini fridge.
“No thanks.” I’m a self-confessed food snob, and I couldn’t choke that stuff down if I tried.
