Page 36 of The Last Guy On Earth
Jethro shivers. It only takes another moment until he relaxes under the gentle touch of fingertips running along his scalp, and Clay’s thumb stroking the sensitive skin at the back of his neck.
He knows this can’t last forever. It really can’t.
But maybe just a little while longer.
SIXTEEN
Jethro
The Uber ridefrom my hotel to the arena shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, but when the driver starts muttering to herself, I look up from my phone and realize it might take a while to approach the back entrance.
More than a dozen news trucks cluster in the drive circle, their satellite dishes reaching toward the sky like ugly metallic flowers. And there’s a row of crowd-control barricades set up in front of the arena that aren’t usually there.
When I see a group of people waving signs, my stomach drops. But then I read them and blink.DROVE TEN HOURS, NEED TWO TICKETS!
Those people aren’t picketing, they’re pre-gaming. It’s like a strange little tailgate party, and the price of admission is at least one item of clothing in rainbow colors.
“Not sure I can get any closer than this,” the driver grumbles, waving at a sawhorse guarded by a couple of cops. “You okay here?”
“Uh, sure.” I could probably flash my team ID and get the car past the next pinch point, but there’s no need. “Thanks.”
“De nada,” she says, and I feel a weird prickle at the base of my skull. I grab my gym bag and leave the car behind, threading past some bystanders and heading for the players’ entrance.
“Excuse me,” a policeman says. “You got ID?”
I pull it out of my pocket and hand it over.
He checks the ID and then looks me up and down in my game day suit. “Wait. You’re the new goalie?”
“Yeah.”
He hands back my ID. “You gonna play ever?”
“I’ve been wondering that myself.”
He doesn’t even smile. “Stay sharp. I’m counting on some playoffs action this year.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Inside, I make my way to my stall, noticing immediately that there’s a skittish energy in the room. Tate is buzzing around like a nervous bee, his phone glued to his hand.
There’s a special warmup jersey set out for me, and I hold it up for inspection. It’s rainbow tie-dye in riotous colors.
Volkov, who will be in the net again tonight, weighs in from the bench next to mine. “Very bright,” he says. “Like a unicorn vomit on jersey. But, hey, if Newgate have kink for this, I wear it.”
Across the room, Newgate gives him the finger, and everyone snickers.
For the hundredth time in a week, I feel like I’ve stepped into someone else’s reality. If you had told me at twenty-two that I’d be standing in an NHL dressing room listening to a Russian goaltender gently ribbing his queer teammate about a rainbow jersey, I would never have believed it.
I change into my workout gear as Tate makes another nervous lap of the room. “StubHub seats are up to fifteen hundred bucks,” he says gleefully.
“You know what this means, right?” Clay’s voice booms suddenly from the doorway. His hair is freshly cut, he’s wearing a very sharp suit, and his tie is a tasteful blue with subtle rainbow stripes on it. “You boys have got to win this game. Can’t make a big splash in the news cycle and then hand Brooklyn two points on the road.” He rubs his hands together. And then his gaze sweeps the room, making eye contact with every player.
Every player except for me.
Yeah. Okay. I’m probably the last person he wants to think about today. Or ever.
I slide out of the room and head for the alcove where there are mats on the floor for stretching. My pregame routine used to take a half hour, but now I’m up to about forty-five minutes. It doesn’t matter whether I expect to play or not. Staying this limber at thirty-seven requires a lot of effort.
