Page 52 of The Last Guy On Earth
Frank Mullen steps through the door. “Hey all. Sorry I’m late. What’s the update? How was practice today?”
“Close the door,” Demski says, and I thinkuh-oh.
“That bad, huh?” Frank closes the door with a firm click.
“Well…” He sighs. “Hale is still up in his head. Feel like I’ve tried everything. The skill is there, and he’s working hard. But the poor fucker can’t get out of his own way. I thought we’d be doing better by now.”
That’s been my impression, too. Although I’m playing him every third game or so. Volkov needs the rest, and sitting on the bench isn’t going to help Jethro get over himself.
Luckily it hasn’t hurt us too badly. Yet.
“Goddamn it,” Frank says, rubbing the center of his chest in a way that always makes me wonder if he should see a cardiologist. He glances at me, red-faced. “Gotta say, Powers, you kinda called this one.”
Oof. “It’s not like I’m happy about that,” I say quietly. “Hale has still got what it takes. It’s in there somewhere. All we can do is be patient.”
“Is it?” Frank throws his hands in the air. “I’d feel better if he’d show us even a glimpse of his old magic. Maybe drastic action is called for.”
My heart nearly stops. “What? Where would we scare up another goalie this late in the season?”
And Jethro would die if he could hear this conversation. I have to put the team first, sure, but we can’t swing our players around like boomerangs. That’s not how you build trust.
“You never know,” Frank says. “I could make some calls. And, yeah, we’d look like idiots. But only until we won the championship.”
I feel sick just talking about it.
“Kids, if I may?” Demski says drily. “You both need to slow your roll.”
“Why?” Frank demands.
Demski tosses his empty milk carton into the trash bin. “I think Hale is going to pull through. I really do. And if you replaced him, the next guy might choke up worse. Let’s not give every player in the conference the idea that there’s a revolving door in front of our net.”
“Good point,” I say a little too loudly.
“Professional athletes are like thoroughbreds,” the older man says. “Strong and fast, but occasionally skittish. Hale is a warrior. And, yeah, he’s taking a little more time to settle in than we anticipated. But it’s not a physical issue. His reflexes are stillsharp, and his range of motion is top notch. Which, by the way, I can’t say of Volkov this afternoon. I sent him to the trainers.”
“Why?” Frank barks.
“His lower back feels tweaky. Talk to the trainer. I think they might want to rest him a couple games.”
Hell. We all sit with this news a moment. Not that it’s surprising. Goalies are prone to lower-back stress because they combine constant crouching with sudden, violent movement. Volkov had the same issue last season, too.
“I don’t think Volkov’s issues are any more serious than last year,” Demski adds. “But talk to the medical staff. He might need a breather and some PT. And you’d rather heal him up now than during the playoffs.”
“All right,” Frank says, chastened. “Is Hale gonna hold it together for us? We’ll need a third stringer, too.”
“Where’s Hale right now?” I ask Demski.
“Probably still on the ice.” He shrugs. “I told the boys to call it quits, but he always stays behind to get a few more shots in.”
“Great work ethic,” Frank says, rising from his chair. “Too bad he can’t convert that into performance.”
“Maybe he can,” I say lightly. “Bernie’s right—this is no time to hit the panic button. Now if you’ll excuse me. I need to see that trainer. And then talk to Hale.”
I give them a salute and hurry out before Frank can make any more stupid suggestions.
TWENTY-FIVE
Jethro
