Page 41 of The Last Guy On Earth
This is exactly the kind of thing he isn’t supposed to be dwelling on, because nothing good can come from it.
Except now he’s suddenly dwelling on it. He gets another beer and tries to make conversation. He watches Duckson challenge Boyer to a game of darts.
All the usual smack talk goes over his head tonight as he keeps glancing at his phone, wondering where Clay is. He still hasn’t answered any texts. Which could mean one of two things.
Maybe Claydidtake a girl home to their apartment. That’s never happened before. It’s awfully easy to picture, though. Clay has that kind of nice-guy charm that puts women at ease.
He shouldn’t care. He really shouldn’t. And, yeah, if Clay is going to ignore his team and ignore his texts, he must be with a girl.
Unless it’s the second thing. Maybe he got into a car accident or some other awful bind.
Jethro puts down his beer and walks out of the bar. He gets into his junker and turns the key, listening to the rough engine warm up. Then he drives five miles back to the apartment building and parks beside Clay’s BMW.
Okay. Well. Clay did make it home. That’s good, right? So why does he suddenly feel ill?
With wary slowness, he gets out of the car, grabs his hockey bag out of the trunk, and walks up to the building. Lamp light filters from the blinds, which are always kept closed because… Because of what passersby might see if they glanced into the window on any given night.
So, yeah, there’s no way for him to see inside, and that’s why he’s standing here, key in hand, feeling uncomfortable in a dozen different ways.
Finally, he opens the door and steps inside. Clay’s hockey bag has been dropped unceremoniously by the front door, which is unusual. Jethro’s discomfort redoubles.
Clay suddenly emerges from the dark little corridor to their bedroom, alone and fully clothed.
“Hey!” Jethro says brightly, mood immediately brightening. “You didn’t come out to the bar. The guys were asking for you.”
Clay folds his arms across his chest, his face doing something complicated. “Yeah. Uh…” He looks down at his feet. “I got some news.”
“Oh.” Jethro mentally pivots, the way he’s had to do his whole life.
News is like that. You come home from kindergarten one day, and your dad is gone—all his clothes missing from the bedroom closet. Or the phone rings, and your mom has been arrested again.
That kind of shit flies at you whether you’re ready or not, but Jethro is still caught off guard, even when he should know better. “What news, man? Are you okay?”
Clay grabs some papers off the counter and thrusts them toward Jethro.
He takes them and reads the first couple of lines.
American Hockey League Standard Player’s Contract
This Agreement, made and entered into this date, by and between the Buffalo Blizzards LLC (hereinafter referred to as “Club”), and Clayton Powers (hereinafter referred to as “Player”)…
It takes a second to sink in. But then a current of joy sizzles through him, and he lets out an uncharacteristic whoop. “Holyshit, Clay!” He slaps the papers down on the counter and grabs his buddy by both shoulders. “You got called up?”
“Yeah,” Clay whispers hoarsely. “I’m supposed to drive out tomorrow.”
“Holy shit,” he says again. “I gotta do round two without you?”
“Seems like it.” Clay slowly lifts his eyes. They’re surprisingly heavy, given this news. “The fucked-up thing is that I don’t really want to leave.”
“What? Sure you do,” Jethro insists.
He’s riding high on this sudden change of fortune. Because Clay isn’t in a car wreck, and he’s not fucking some woman in their bedroom. He’s moving up in the world—exactly what Clay has been working towards.
And even if Jethro never expects it to happen for himself, he cares enough about Clay to be wildly happy.
Clay, though, is oddly silent and studying Jethro carefully at close range.
Jethro’s hands are still parked on his roommate’s shoulders. He gives them a squeeze, even though he suddenly has the sinking feeling that he’s failing some sort of test.
