Page 71 of The Last Guy On Earth
“I’m sure you do,” I say with no small amount of smugness. We went three rounds last night. I wasn’t sure my thirty-seven-year-old body could manage a feat like that anymore. But it turns out that with Clay, anything is possible.
He doesn’t smile. The walls are already going up as he slides out of bed and pads naked into the bathroom, his hair wild, his phone in hand.
Reluctant to head over to my own room, I stare at the ornate plasterwork on the ceiling. A morning sports podcast comes on, echoing off the shower tiles. The chatter feels like a shield.
We can’t do this again, he’d said. I can’t argue with him about it. I can’t be the reason he loses his job. And while it’s tempting to lie here and force him to deal with me again, I’m not going to beg for his attention. I still have my pride. So I slide out of bed and go back into my own room without a word.
My body feels pleasantly used as I walk into the shower for a quick rinse. A little sexual exhaustion is both unfamiliar and nice. It feels like my soul was cleansed all the way down.
Still, I wonder whether Clay will avoid me like a disease for the rest of the season.
That wouldn’t be worth it.
Although it sure was fun.
When I show up to our team breakfast forty minutes later, several players look up from their cups of coffee to give me troubled looks. One of the rookies actually crosses himself.
For a second, Clay’s paranoia catches up with me. Why are they staring? Where is Clay?
I spot him at a table in the corner, ensconced between the GM and Coach Murphy. He doesn’t look up from the conversation.
The ugly truth hits me—my hideous performance last night has everyone spooked. Like I might be contagious. Or, more practically, that I might do the same in Montreal tomorrow night.
I fill a plate and find a seat at the table with Kapski, who’s too good a captain to scowl at me, and Stoney, who rarely scowls at anyone.
“Hale,” Stoney says. “I need something from you.”
“Is it a scoreless game?” I salt my eggs. “Take a number.”
“You never gave me anything for the vision board,” he complains. “I need a picture fromeveryone.”
I snort. “Just grab that shot of twenty-seven-year-old me eating Fruit Loops out of the Cup and call it good.”
“Buddy, we can’t live in the past,” he says loftily. “We need to be forward-thinking.”
“Stoney,” argues Kapski, putting down his toast. “Every photo on your board was taken in the past. That’s how time works.”
He frowns. “Maybe draw me something. That would be special.”
“I don’t draw,” I grunt, trying to drown myself in my coffee mug.
When I feel eyes on me, I glance up and spot Clay watching me from across the room. Our gazes lock for a split second, and I wish I could rewind the morning to the moment I woke up at peace in his bed.
He quickly looks away, and I go back to my eggs.
The bus leaves an hour later for a practice rink outside Toronto. After that, we review tape for tomorrow’s game, and I have a Zoom meeting with the goalie coach. Together, we painstakingly review every single error I made during last night’s horror show.
Fun times.
At four, we board the jet to Montreal. After we reach cruising altitude, I lean back in my chair and close my eyes to catch up on some extra sleep. A guy my age can’t stay up all night having sex without repercussions.
“Hale?”
My eyes fly open to find Dr. Baker standing over me. “Uh-oh,” I say. “Are you looking for me?”
He beckons. “Let’s have a chat.”
“Hell,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt. “I was going to nap.”
