Page 20 of The Last Guy On Earth
Hell. I catalog his features over the rim of my mug, and I see all the familiar signs of tension. The crease between his eyebrows. The tick in his movie-star jaw. The cool blue eyes. And an ache bleeds through my chest. How many times did we sit across a table from one another? Hundreds. And sometimes Clay was aggravated. But never at me. I was his port in the storm, and he was mine.
Those days are long gone. I can accept that, but the memories arereallyunhelpful.
And he’s waiting for me to say something.
“Look,” I say quietly. “I know you’re in charge. I’m not here to ruin your day or question your authority. And I know you hate my guts for some reason.”
His eyes widen in a flicker of surprise. But then he shuts it down and picks up his mug again. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t hate any player on the team.”
“Please. Neither one of us wanted this trade. You made that clear already.”
He scowls. “That was a mistake, and I apologized.”
“But you’re still punishing us both,” I argue. “If you bench me, you’ll look indecisive or out of step with your GM. I’ll look like used goods. And we’ll both look like losers.”
He sets down the mug with a thump. “Make no mistake—the only way to look like a loser is to lose games,” he says crisply. “Volkov is in the net tonight. You’ll get your shot the minute it makes sense for the team.”
“It wasonebad practice,” I point out. “And you avoided me like a bad disease.”
“I’m not avoiding you! I’m showing you some grace, so you can take a minute to get your head around this trade, move your family to Colorado, and adjust to the goddamn altitude before you have to face another team.”
“But I shut out St. Louis?—”
“—last season,” he grits out. “I can read a stat sheet, too. But I already said that this was not a negotiation. Because if I throw you in front of the net before you’re ready, and it goes shitty,thenhow smart are we both gonna look?”
I blink back at him, and for a second, I only see the fire in his familiar blue eyes. But then his words sink all the way in.
Heexpectsme to fail. He believes it.
I close my hand around my coffee mug and slide out of the booth. “Good talk.”
“Jetty…”
I glance quickly at him, and his face tells me that he’s just as surprised as I am that he used my old nickname.
“Sorry for the intrusion,Coach,” I say heavily. “You can go back to your nap.”
I spend the game on the bench, and it’s a real gong show. St. Louis plays like a pack of stray dogs. Sharp elbows, sharp tongues, and very little discipline.
“Christ,” the player beside me mutters. “They’re like a classroom full of kids who can’t hold it together the last hour before Christmas vacation.”
“Keep your heads, boys,” Coach says, pacing behind the bench. “We’re not solving this problem with penalty points. Play a smart game, win shiny prizes.”
From my seat on the end of the bench, I have to admit it’s good advice. Also, I have to admit that watching Clay beCoach Powersis fascinating. He’s a natural leader and always has been.
Except I wonder if he still lies awake at night, his neck muscles tight, wondering how to solve every little glitch in his team dynamics.
Yeah, I’d bet money on it.
Out on the ice, St. Louis is still up to their tricks. I watch their center take Stoney down in a blatantly illegal hit. The penalty is called, but only for two minutes, when it should have been a game disqualification.
The Colorado bench ispissed, especially a D-man named DiCosta. He’s a big guy with Mediterranean features and a scowl. His hands are curled into fists.
Clay clamps a hand over DiCosta’s shoulder pad. “Not your problem,” he says calmly. “Let Dougherty take the fight.”
I can tell that DiCosta wants to argue. And he wants to pound the offender into the ground.
“Not your problem,” Coach repeats, his voice a warning.
