Page 64 of The Last Guy On Earth
“Hale,” I say, keeping my voice low and steady. “You’re done for the night. Walcott is going in.”
For a moment, I think he might actually argue. His eyes flash with pain. But then it’s gone, replaced by a dull acceptance that’s almost worse.
He nods once, sharply, and pushes past me to the bench.
Walcott heads out to the crease, looking radiant. It’s never easy coming in cold, especially not when you’re already down 6-0. I’d bet a hefty sum of money that every player on my team would rather slap that smile off his face than work with him.
But here’s the thing—the scoreboard doesn’t care. And with a wild-card goalie in the net, my boys have to shift their focus. They’ll have to protect him because he’s a young, untested punk with more gab than sense.
They’re professionals, so they do what must be done. The third period is much more stable. The D-men pull it together just enough to turn the gushing wound of our defensive strategy into a trickle. Then Stoney gets a goal off a breakaway, which lifts morale a little further.
Walcott makes several decent saves in a row before finally letting one in. But the pendulum has swung, so the setback doesn’t ruin us. Kapski gets us another goal two minutes before the merciful blare of the horn ends the game.
I’ve never been so grateful to hear a sound in my entire life.
The team is deathly quiet as they leave the ice and trudge back toward the visitors’ dressing room. Bess shoots me an evil glance in the corridor as I pass by, but she’s too smart to try to argue the substitution.
I did what I had to do, by pulling the only lever I had to pull.
In the dressing room, the silence is deafening. Jethro sits in his stall, still fully dressed except for his skates and helmet. He’s staring at the floor, and I know he’s replaying every goal, every mistake, in his mind.
I want to say something, anything. But I don’t. I can’t. Not here, not now. Not with the eyes of the team, the media, and what feels like the whole damn hockey world on us.
“God, that was sick!” Walcott says brightly into the silence. “Talk to The Wall, Toronto!”
Abruptly, Jethro stands, sending his helmet to the floor with an angry bang. There’s murder in his eyes.
Every head turns, and my head gives a brand-new throb as I brace myself for whatever is coming.
But he merely stomps out of the room toward the coat lockers. I hear a loud crash—the sound of a fist connecting with a locker door.
The whole room winces, except for Stoney, who explodes. “For fuck’s sake!” he yells at Walcott. “Your saves were solid, but you weren’t alone out there, dumbass. Get that into your head. And Iknowit was you who tried to manifest your dick pic onto my mood board.”
The rookie closes his mouth, thank God, but the damage is already done. Morale is in the basement. My headache pulses, a steady drumbeat of pain that matches the ache in my chest. I hope to God that Hale didn’t injure himself trying to take out his frustrations on a locker.
I’m failing him, I realize. If I were a better coach, maybe I would have known what to say. Maybe I could have avoided this debacle.
And forty-eight hours from now, in Montreal, if we play out this drama again? I might not survive it.
“Here you go, Coach.” Gabby from the travel team hands me a key folio. “Room 1810, a junior suite. Gold level! Looks like the Fairmont upgraded you.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking the key.
The Fairmont is a grand old place. One of the benefits of growing old in hockey is cashing in on travel perks; I’ve stayed in this hotel at least once a year for my entire career. They know me by now. In addition to the beautiful room on a high floor, I’ll probably find some gourmet snacks waiting for me.
As I take the elevator up to the suite, I’m thinking I’d trade away all the perks for a different outcome from tonight’s game.
I exit onto my floor with my carryon bag, sleepily studying the placards to determine how far I am from my room. I pass the Gold Lounge, which I’m way too tired to enjoy tonight and roll to a stop in front of 1810. There’s a chime for the elevator alcove, and I glance over my shoulder to see Hale stepping from a car.
His tired eyes narrow as he trudges to a stop in front of the door to 1808. “Are you lurking here in the hallway to give me pointers? I already know how badly I played tonight.”
“Just trying to get into my room.” I swipe the card in front of the key reader.
His frown lines deepen as the door unlatches. He pulls out an identical card and swipes into 1808. “Good night,” he says grumpily. He follows this with a mumbled, “If only.”
My room is as big and beautiful as I expected. There’s a fireplace on one wall and thick carpets underfoot. There’s a silver plate with three French macarons waiting beside a bottle of sparkling water.
There’s only one thing wrong—the adjoining door to Jethro’s room. It’s already hard to get any emotional distance from him, but now he’s on the other side of the damn wall.
