Page 22 of The Last Guy On Earth
“Oh yeah?” That doesn’t sound good. “What kind of announcement?”
He drops his voice. “One of our players is sitting for an interview that goes live on Christmas Day. So what I’m about to tell you is strictly embargoed until then.”
“Uh, okay?” Sounds like a lot of drama for a player interview.
“One of your new teammates came out as bisexual to the organization last year. Now he’s engaged to a man, and they’re going public with their relationship.”
I give a slow blink. That isn’t something you hear every day in hockey. “Which, uh, teammate?” I ask.
Tate frowns, as if I’ve disappointed him. “Hudson Newgate. The organization has known about this for months. Your teammates are all cool with it.”
The subtext is very clear. I better be really damn cool with it, too.
“Sure. Of course.” I give him a quick nod.But big whoop, PR guy. Who on this busisn’tbisexual? Did you know I’ve seen your coach naked?
It’d be almost worth it to see the look on Tate’s face.
Almost.
ELEVEN
Clay
Fourteen hoursafter our victory against St. Louis, I’m standing in the grocery store, questioning all my life choices.
First, Christmas is two days away, so the store is packed. Second, I’m embarrassed to admit that three days off work feels like too many.
I suppose I could have flown home to Boston to eat Christmas dinner at my parents’ table. But my sister Kaitlyn won’t be there this year, because she wants to hang out with her boyfriend—a cardiologist at the hospital where she works in Seattle.
So here I am, wandering the aisles, trying to figure out what to cook to cheer myself up. The problem is that everything I put in my cart reminds me of cooking for Jethro. The yams remind me of the time I made him roasted sweet potato fries with paprika. And the broccoli reminds me that he used to like a version with garlic and butter and breadcrumbs.
In the condiment aisle, my eye is drawn to a jar of onion jam, which I haven’t bought for years. But there’s a flatbread I used to make with bacon, onion jam, and feta cheese.
And now I’m hungry for flatbread with bacon, onion jam, and feta cheese. So the jar finds its way into my cart, too.
It takes me half an hour to make it through the aisles, and then I make a tactical mistake by deciding to cook seared tuna for dinner. The seafood counter is crammed full of shoppers trying to purchase their seven fishes for Christmas Eve dinner.
I take a number and try to be patient. It’s not like I have anywhere to be or anyone waiting at home for me. But it’s crowded, and a little old lady bumps me with a surprisingly sharp elbow. When I take a step to get out of her strike zone, I accidentally bump another little old lady.
“Excuse me!” I say immediately. “So sorry.”
She turns to me with an arch look. “Don’t apologize for bumping into me, Coach. But I think you owe me an explanation for that midseason goalie trade. And make it a good one, because you haven’t put Hale in front of the net yet. Makes me worry there’s some issue with him. Is it his hip?”
Being grilled on my coaching decisions happens often enough when I’m recognized around Boulder and Denver, but I’m a little surprised by her vehemence. My fame isn’t the same as the breathless hero worship the players get from fans. It’s more akin to being a high school principal when he’s out in the wild—everyone wants to lodge a complaint.
“Well?” she demands.
“Everything is fine, ma’am. We have to let Mr. Hale get his bearings here in Colorado so he can concentrate on his game.” Luckily, my number gets called next, and I can excuse myself to ask the fishmonger for a nice tuna steak.
“That’s an endangered species, you know,” my critic sniffs.
“Yes, ma’am.” I don’t explain that a guy who always eats alone doesn’t murder very many tuna. Or that I’d decided on fish for tonight, because it’s one of the few things I never cooked for Jethro back in the day.
After wishing her a happy holiday, I take the tuna and finish shopping.
When I arrive back at my condo development, I find that someone has helped himself to my private parking spot. The squatter drives an ancient minivan with Texas plates. I can see why it happened—the parking lot is jammed. Other people have families who visit over Christmas.
I spend a few seconds wondering if I’m a big enough jerk to call security and complain. But then I think of the potential gossip headline—Coach Earning 2.5 Million a Year Tows Single Mom’s Car Before Christmas.
