Page 73 of The Last Guy On Earth
“She got into some trouble during the spring term of my junior year. I left school for two weeks to move her out of a bad situation. I missed some midterms.”
“That sounds like a tough spot,” he says. “You’ve been bailing her out your whole life, huh?”
I rub my forehead. “Some people just aren’t built to survive this world. She’s one of them. It doesn’t matter. I dug myself a hole, and when my drafting organization offered me a contract in Busker, I felt like I had to take it. If I waited, they’d find some other goaltender. And I might have lost my scholarship anyway.”
Doc Baker nods thoughtfully. “So you took the contract and made the most of it. Barely a full year later, you made it to the big leagues.”
“Yeah, I did okay. Especially since I was just a kid who didn’t know his ass from his elbow.”
“With a great survival instinct,” he says. “Nobody survives like you, right? Three championships is almost unheard of. Still healthy at thirty-seven. Would you say it’s still fun?”
“Of course.”
“Okay, but what else is there for you?” he asks. “If you went back to school next week, what would you study?”
“Sports management,” I say immediately. I’ve always been interested in the way teams function.
“Cool,” he says. “And hobbies? What else—orwhoelse—in your life deserves more attention?”
“Um…” I immediately picture Clay in his kitchen, making cupcakes with Toby. And then I picture him underneath me on the bed…
Doc Baker watches me, waiting.
“Um,” I repeat. “I don’t know. I’ve been kind of busy.”
“I know,” he says quietly. “But that may be why it’s so hard for you to unfuck your game—because it matters too much. It’s all you’ve got.”
Clay told me largely the same thing last night. But this conversation is exhausting. “I don’t see how this is going to help me shut out Montreal tomorrow.”
He nods. “It might not. And what happens if you get benched tomorrow in Montreal?”
My gut shifts uncomfortably. “Then I get benched. It happens. I’ll just have to sit there and watch that smug rookie start his first big-league game.”
“That will suck,” he says bluntly. “And you’ll move past it. But that’s easier to do when you have more going on in your life than trying to prove to the Detroit organization that they’re a bunch of idiots.”
I hate it when he can see inside my brain. I hate it so much.
“So,” he continues, “I want you to try to really dig in and think about what else is on the Jethro Hale vision board. Adegree in sports management, maybe. A new hobby. A new relationship.”
“Nowthat’sunlikely,” I grumble, picturing Clay’s hustle into the shower this morning. He made it very clear that we weren’t going to be a thing.
“You say that,” he says in a chipper voice. “But I want you to visualize it anyway. I don’t care about photos and glue, unless you’re into that. Imagine yourself outside the stress of hockey. Outside your current obligations. Can you do that for me?”
“Sure,” I agree, because it might get me out of this room faster.
“Great. I’ll ask you to report back next week.”
I get up in a hurry. “See you then.”Unless the GM trades my ass before then, I mentally add.
THIRTY-FOUR
Clay
“I voteto start Walcott in the net tonight,” Demski says through my laptop’s speaker. “That’s our best shot.”
I’ve braced myself for hearing this, but my stomach riots. “Take me through your thinking.”
“Hale is obviously cracking under the pressure.” He takes a swig of chocolate milk. “Putting the cocky kid in the net tonight is not ideal. But I think it’s the best call. Nothing against Hale, but he needs a mental break.”
