Page 80 of The Last Guy On Earth
And also my own.
I get that.
She tried to harm herself. She told me that the reason she’s been such a wreck for so long is that she didn’t believe she was worth saving.
Oh fuck. That’s got to be hard to hear.
Yeah, like I could have told her I loved her, you know? Maybe it would have made a difference.
You were in over your head with her. If it’s any consolation, I knew you loved her. Even if you didn’t talk about her much. I knew you worried.
Well, thanks. She and I are gonna have to take things one day at a time I guess.
Hang in there.
I’m fine. If you’re that worried you can invite me over later.
You know I can’t.
Yeah, I do. If things were different though…
Maybe I’ve overstepped, because he doesn’t respond. I put my phone away and fall into the easy sleep of a guy who didn’t let anybody down tonight.
THIRTY-SIX
Clay
MARCH
“Pittsburgh hasa formidable first line and a strong PK team,” Murphy says from the front of the video room. “But when a team can rattle them, the defense usually falls apart. Watch this clip.”
The video begins to play again, and I have a pen poised over my notepad. But I haven’t actually written anything in a half hour except forBuy coffee podsandDrop off dry cleaning.
So far, March has been a blur of arena lights and coffee cups. Outside, the Colorado winter still has its icy grip on us. But inside the rink, things are heating up. We’re in the thick of it now—that late-season push where my guys are tired and sore but hungry. I see it in their eyes during these video meetings, but it’s most apparent on the rink when they dig deep for that extra burst of speed even when their muscles are screaming.
Glancing around the room, I take an inventory of our many blessings. Newgate’s on fire, racking up points like he’s got something to prove. Wheeler—taking notes with a gold pen—recently rehabbed a bout of bursitis faster than expected. And Volkov’s back isn’t giving him too much trouble lately.
In the corner, DiCosta still has a black eye. He’s taken more than his share of bruises, blocking shots with a reckless abandon that makes me wince and applaud at the same time.
Stoney looks a little sleepy, but only because he probably got up early to work out before practice. He’s dragged that vision board of his to every game we’ve played, in every city. It’s starting to look a little ragged in the corners, which feels like a metaphor for all of us.
And Hale... well, Hale’s been Hale. Solid most nights, brilliant on others, with only the occasional hiccup.
He turns his rugged chin in my direction, catching me staring at him. And I look away quickly, which is just as damning as if I’d kept staring.
Oops.I wish I could say this never happens. But it totally does.
A moment later, I get a message notification on my watch.
Something you need, Coach?
My face burns, and I don’t respond, because I won’t be the guy who’s texting during Murph’s video review.
A moment later, I get a new text. It’s a picture of a little kid suited up for hockey—skates and all—fast asleep on the bench.
This is me if Coach Murph doesn’t wrap it up soon.
I smirk before moving my eyes back to the video screen like a good boy.
