Page 56 of The Last Guy On Earth
“Yeah,” he grunts.
“The Wall could go in,” chirps the new kid from the other end of the bench. “I’m ready.”
Hale’s gaze moves at a leisurely pace toward the youngster and then back to mine. Behind his mask, he smirks at me. “Like I said, I feel good.”
And whether or not it’s true, Jethro makes several crucial saves during the latter period of the game, and we make it through regulation time with 2-2 on the scoreboard. He eats a Snickers bar during the intermission before the extra period, while I praise everyone’s fortitude.
Then? We lose the game two minutes into sudden-death overtime, when Seattle scores with a flying saucer from the blue line. I curse as the lamp lights, and the fans moan their displeasure.
Hale, who missed the puck, sinks to his knees in front of the net, a sour look on his face.
“Fuck a duck,” Kapski says. “We got a consolation point. But I wanted better before we head out on the road.”
Didn’t we all. I make a mental note to check that the Tums bottle is in my suitcase. I think I’m going to need them.
In the dressing room, I give out a lot of back pats before heading to my little arena office to make some notes about the game. I’m only in there for a minute before Frank knocks on the door and steps inside.
“Hey,” the GM says gruffly. “Look, it’s time. I’m gonna make a few calls, just in case there’s another goalie on the block. Justto keep our options open.” He winces. “But I swear I won’t make any sudden moves without your buy-in.”
Fuck. For a long moment, I study his lined face and search my feelings. Am I livid right now because that’s a stupid idea? Or because I care too much about whether Jethro succeeds? “Frank, I don’t see how another trade makes sense right now.”
“It probably doesn’t.” He shrugs. “But I did this to us, so I owe it to the team to consider our options.”
I scrub a hand over my face and briefly wonder if I remembered to charge my neck massager. “Do what you have to do. But, for the love of God, don’t letanyonehear about it.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Jethro
Daytime games are weird.When I emerge from the arena, it’s five p.m. and the sky is still bright orange. But my body is so tired it could be midnight, and I drive back to Boulder in a daze.
That game sucked.
I sucked.
I’m just lucky the score wasn’t even more embarrassing.
You don’t trust yourself, Clay told me yesterday, and it’s hard to argue his point.
By the time I park at the condo complex, I’m fantasizing about a takeout dinner, a bad action movie, and an early bedtime. But as I unlock the front door, I hear the smoke alarm and Toby’s high-pitched voice.
“Uncle Jethro!” he yelps when I walk in the door. “Help!”
Dropping my gym bag to the floor, I sprint through our newly furnished living room and skid into the kitchen, expecting the worst. There’s no fire. Not that I can see, anyway. Toby and my dad stand at the kitchen island staring balefully down at a pan of burned cupcakes. There’s a wisp of smoke rising off the cakes’ blackened surfaces.
“Jesus Christ,” I swear, my heart in my throat. “I thought somebody was dying.”
“I am!” Toby wails. “I have to make three dozen cupcakes for the bake sale! Mom and I always made chocolate cupcakes, and Ipromised!” He looks up at me tearfully, and I feel my relaxing evening slipping away.
“The recipe just ain’t workin’ right,” my father says. “When the tops are done, they’re wet in the middle. This is our second batch.”
“What if we bought some at the store?” I check my watch.
Toby looks scandalized. “But that’scheating. And I don’t know why this won’t justwork.”
“Did you follow the recipe?” I ask.
Toby narrows his eyes. “This isn’t my first rodeo, Uncle Jethro. Mom and I made these all the time. I used the same recipe.” He points to the back of the Hershey’s Cocoa container, and something lurches inside my chest. I remember my mother making those cupcakes, too. She wasn’t always a dysfunctional mess. Just most of the time.
