Page 112 of The Last Guy On Earth
His fiancé waves from a dining table that’s spread with food. “Come make yourself a plate, Jethro.”
“I made the cornbread,” a little girl says. She’s about Toby’s age, I guess, although I’m not great with kids’ ages. “Nice finish last night. Especially that last save.”
“Thanks, kid. I’m feeling pretty good about it myself.”
She gives me a big smile.
I make myself a bowl of chili with chips on the side, and chat with Gavin while keeping an eye on the game.
“Who were you close to in Detroit?” he asks me, nodding toward the screen. “I know how rough it is getting traded.”
I glance toward the screen as if I need a reminder of who’s actually on that team. “You know…toward the end I had a lot going on at home. It kind of took me out of the mix with those guys.”
My team captain wasn’t all that understanding about it. I remember having to blow off an early season practice to fill outsome paperwork for Shelby, so she could get into that treatment program.
“I need to know you’re serious about hockey,” the twenty-five-year-old captain had said to me. Like I hadn’t been serious about hockey since he was learning his times tables.
The truth is that most of my friends had already retired, and I didn’t feel as much respect for the new crew as I used to. Maybe that was their fault.
Or maybe it was mine.Hell.
“Fuck ’em, then,” Gavin says cheerily. “Whether they go down tonight, or go down next week, they’re going down.”
“Works for me,” I agree, because I want to see the head coach weep on TV.
The first period ends at a 1-1 tie, though, and I go into the kitchen to put my plate in the dishwasher and get another soda.
When I return, the room is filling up with even more hockey players, including “The Wall” Walcott, who’s standing awkwardly against the stairway banister, holding a beer and looking sheepish.
“Look who it is,” I say, slapping him on the shoulder. “You must have gotten a phone call this morning.” I’d imagined they’d call him up again. During the playoffs, a team can carry a bigger roster, so they probably put a couple of goalies on high alert.
“Yeah,” he says slowly. “I was kinda surprised after how the last game went for me. Thought they’d leave me in the minors forever after that.” His face reddens. “I came here tonight looking for you, though.”
“How come?” I ask, my eyes flicking toward the TV screen to check that the second period hasn’t started yet.
“Wanna apologize,” he says. “I was such a dick before. You’re, like, a legend, and I thought I had to be…” He swallows hard. “…overconfident just to make it through the day. Then I bombedanyway. And now it’s permanent. My first start in the NHL will always be a blooper reel.”
Somehow, I manage not to laugh. “Buddy, listen up. We’ve all got that blooper reel. And if you plan on making a career in hockey, you’re going to do a whole lot more stupid shit. I made a lot of dumb mistakes, some of them in front of twenty thousand people. That’s part of the job. Why should you be any different?”
He reddens further. “Thanks. I appreciate that. I want to earn it, you know?”
“Then maybe try a little less bluster and a little more humility. It won’t make the hockey any easier, but when stupid shit happens, it’s easier to recover from it.”
He nods. “Yeah, I’m getting that.”
The front door flies open and Carter steps inside, holding a platter. “Greetings! I come bearing cookies!”
A cheer goes up from the crowd in front of the TV, and Jordyn lets out a happy shriek. “Ooh, what kind?”
“They’re M&M cookies, but I only used blue M&Ms because go Cougars.”
Behind him DiCosta appears, chuckling and shaking his head. He nudges Carter into the room and closes the door behind them. “I don’t know who’s going to eat the rest of those M&Ms.”
“We can eat them during the off season,” his boyfriend says. “Here, kids.” He passes the platter into the scrum of hockey players.
I could be watching the game in the comfort of my quiet condo with my pick of the furniture. But it feels important to be here in the mix, so I step through the crowd, looking for a place to sit.
“Here, man,” Newgate says, moving his ass over a couple feet. “You can share this thing with me.” He indicates a beanbag chair that he’s leaning on. “It won’t turn you bi, I promise.”
