Page 114 of The Last Guy On Earth
So Jethro walked into mine, and we spent fifteen minutes making each other come before we fell into a dead sleep for nine hours. Then we ate room service naked and started our prep for game two.
It’s stupid. It’s risky. But I don’t want to stop seeing him.
“Walcott is a changed man,” Demski says. “He put away his ego. Now he’s trying to make his contribution on the ice and not Snapchat.”
“That’s good to hear. Even if we don’t need to lean on him.”
Demski’s eyes are trained on Jethro, who’s casually manning his station, calling out defensive moves and keeping a lock on his end of the ice. “God willing we’re going to make magic, Coach. I got a good feeling.”
The next twenty-four hours roll over me like a Zamboni, and suddenly it’s time for game two. At ninety minutes before gametime, I’ve already answered four dozen questions, eaten six Tums, and sweated through two shirts.
We need this win so bad. We can’t give up two games’ worth of momentum.
The tension in the room is electric. Stoney’s vision board has been dragged to North Carolina, where it’s covering the opposing team’s logo in the middle of the rug. Nobody is laughing at that thing anymore. They’re too busy taping their sticks and stretching their hamstrings and saying their prayers.
Suddenly, Stoney bursts into the room in a panic. “Where’s the doc! Need him in the bathroom. Something’s wrong with Pierre!”
My heart takes an express elevator down to my guts.
The next ten minutes are the lowest point of my coaching career. We find Pierre huddled on the floor in front of a toilet, sweating and ranting in French. His pupils are blown, and his face is the color of a tomato.
I call 911, while Doc Whitesmith checks his vital signs. “What did you take?” he asks repeatedly.
“Qu’est-ce que t’as pris?” demands Boudreau, our other French-Canadian player.
But Pierre is not making sense.
Minutes later, the paramedics arrive, start an IV, and check his heart. Murph and I have a hurried argument about who’s going to the hospital with him.
“It can’t be you,” Murph growls. “I’ll go.”
Helplessly, I watch them leave. Then I walk directly into the equipment room and put my face against the cool tiles of the wall.
This is my fault. When the trainer tipped us off, I should have acted more forcefully.
“Coach?” Jethro sticks his head into the little room. “It’s chaos out here. You okay?”
“No,” I shout.
Jethro’s eyes widen. He steps into the room and closes the door. “Take a breath.”
I pick up a skate and hurl it at the metal storage shelves. The sound blasts through the confined space loud as a freight-train crash.
“Clay.” He backs me up against a rack of hockey sticks and puts his hands on my shoulders. “Settle.”
But my breaths are coming in gasps. “He told Kapski he’d stopped.”
“Yeah, he lied. Addicts do that.”
“Fuck!” The urge to smash something overtakes me again. But Jethro’s a step ahead of me and he grabs my hands.
“Get a grip,” he whispers. “And do it now. That guy is going to be okay.”
“You don’t know that.”
“He got immediate care. And the body can take a lot of punishment. Ask my sister.”
I suck in air. He’s got a point. And I don’t have time to throw a tantrum. “Okay, okay. Fuck.”
