Page 54 of The Last Guy On Earth
“Accurate.” I snort. “That’s what happens when you’ve gotta learn a new team in a day.”
He shakes his head. “Your on-ice perception is excellent. The best I’ve ever known.”
Even at age thirty-seven, I’m not immune to a little praise. The compliment hits me right in the chest, and I swallow hard. “That’s a nice thing to say, Coach. Too bad it ain’t true lately.”
“No, it is, Jetty. You don’t trust the Cougars, and you don’t trust me. But those are obstacles you could play through. What’s blocking you is that you don’t trustyourself.”
“Bullshit,” I mumble. As if there were anyone I trust other than myself.
“I understand why,” he continues, ignoring my comment. “Detroit fucked you over. Toby is testing you to make sure you’re not going to abandon him, too. Your sister, your dad, a new team, your legacy… there’s a lot riding on you. It would screw with anyone’s head.”
“Look—isn’t this kind of thing Doc Baker’s job?” I lean over and brace my stick against my knee pads.
“Yeah, but…” He skates closer. “We don’t have a lot of time to unfuck your game, per Baker’s technical term. I’m pretty sure we’re going to rest Volkov for three games. Starting tomorrow night.”
Oh shit. “So you’re good and fucked? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
He leans over, too, matching my posture. We’re closer than we’ve been in a very long time, and I see sudden humor dancing behind his eyes. “This is our workplace,” he says primly. “We should avoid all discussion of gettinggood and fucked.”
I laugh, startled, as a bolt of heat shoots through my veins. I know he’s just being flip, but it’s just too easy to recall the days when we stripped each other’s clothes off and wrestled on the bed. The memory hits me like a heatwave, and the hot glance I give Clay is involuntary.
His eyes dart away, and I stand up straight and start gathering the pucks I’ve scattered with my stick. “Noted.”
A smile twitches at the corners of his mouth as he rises to his full height. I can’t help but notice a hundred small things about him. Like the way he’s wearing a close-fitting, ribbed T-shirt, with its long sleeves pushed up on his strong forearms. And the light sheen of sweat on his forehead from the effort he expended shelling me with pucks.
All these years later, he’s still blindingly handsome—maybe even more so than when we were young. And he’s still so goddamngood. He’s a good coach, and a good man, and patient with my miserable ass, even when I don’t deserve it.
He’s the whole package. And I’m the dumbass who blocked his number when I was young, just because he scared me so badly.
I was willing to give you everything.
Fuck. I’ve got to stop thinking about it. And I’d better start playing some great hockey this week, because I don’t want to fail Clay Powers. It’s bad enough that I did him wrong when we were young. I can’t tank his championship chances, too. I won’t be able to live with myself.
“Look, I can see you grinding your wheels already,” he says. “But this is just another three hockey games in your life. If youcan manage to be half as relaxed as you were a few minutes ago, it’s going to be fine.”
“Yeah, okay,” I grunt. “Don’t worry.”
“I won’t,” he says with way too much confidence. “I just wanted you to hear it from me. And I wanted to ask if there’s anything the organization can do to support you.”
“No,” I say quickly. “You’ve, uh, done plenty. I’m good. I got this. Thank you. I appreciate the chance.” I glance up and our eyes meet. For a moment, the professional facade slips. There’s something in his gaze, something that tells me he’s working really hard to treat me like every other player.
But then he blinks and turns away, skating toward the bench. “Get some rest, yeah? See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, watching him go. “Cheers.”
By the time I gather up all the pucks and make it to the showers, the only guy left in the dressing room is Stoney. He’s down on his hands and knees on the carpet. In front of him is a poster board and some rubber cement, the same materials Toby uses for school projects.
“Hey! Got a sec?” Stoney asks. “I need you to give me a photo for the vision board.”
“The what?” I strip off my sweaty clothes.
“A picture of something you want most.”
An image of Clay’s smile floats through my mind.
“I know it’s some woo-woo shit,” Stoney says, “but this girl I’m dating swears by it. I’m gonna post it on the wall where we’ll see it every day. Then the universe will, like, nudge things in our direction. It has something to do with magnets, I think.”
“Magnets,” I repeat as I head for the shower. If only the world worked that way.
