Page 9 of The Last Guy On Earth
Except this time, itwasme, and their stares are making me twitch.
“Well?” I bark. “Where do you want me?”
Clay glances around the room until his gaze lands on a half-empty stall. “Banks!” he shouts.
An equipment guy comes scurrying in from another room. “Coach?”
“Set up Mr. Hale in Cockrell’s old spot, please.”
“Will do, sir.” The young man hurries over to tidy up a stall next to Andrey Volkov, their primary goalie.
I head over to that spot and set down my bag. There’s probably something I should be saying right now that would lighten the moment, but I don’t know what that is.
Clay would know, my brain offers up unhelpfully. He was the talker. The charmer. I’ve always been terrible at conversation.
Luckily, the team captain—veteran player Ted Kapski—crosses the room to shake my hand. “Hi. Welcome to the team. I’m sure you’re as surprised to be here as we are to see you. But it’s an honor, man.”
I shake his hand, but I don’t feel all that honored. “Thanks,” I say gruffly. “Merry Christmas to me.”
“This really fucks up the Secret Santa chain,” another player mutters. It’s Davey Stoneman, one of their star forwards.
Kapski gives him an elbow to the ribs. “Dude, seriously?”
“I love my rituals,” Stoneman says sourly. “But I’ll prolly love not having to shoot past Hale next time we play Detroit. So welcome, man.”
“Thanks,” I say stiffly.
“Where are you staying?” Kapski asks. “The holidays are a rough time for a trade.”
“You’re telling me.” I rub my temples. “My family is taking it hard. I’m in a hotel in Denver for a few nights. The team found us a condo. It’s empty, though. I gotta get some beds and stuff before my dad brings my kid out here.”
A defenseman rises to cross the room. “Hey, I got a furniture guy for you. He did my whole place in a few weeks. Looks great, too. You want the name?”
“Absofuckinglutely. Give me all the names. Or—better yet—wake me up from this nightmare.”
There’s an uneasy chuckle. But I don’t know how to fake how I feel, and I don’t see why I should try.
“You know you’ve got to suit up, right?” Kapski says. “They didn’t call up a third stringer to back up Volkov tonight.”
“Yeah. Sure. I’ll get on that. Right after my breakdown.”
Another awkward chuckle.
“Let’s find you a jersey,” Kapski says. “And I’ll give you the nickel tour.”
“And after the game, we’ll take you out and get you drunk,” Stoneman offers. “Something to look forward to.”
“Sounds good,” I lie, because I don’t even drink. “Let’s do it.”
SIX
Fifteen Years Ago
DECEMBER
“Any progress?”Clay’s sister asks on their weekly phone call.
“A little,” he grumbles, wiping down the kitchen counter with the hand that’s not holding the phone. “We won a couple games this week, but the team is still a train wreck. No morale. Weird tension between the coach and the captain.”
