Page 75 of The Last Guy On Earth
After ten minutes of searching for him, it seems like he’s nowhere in the arena. My last stop is the sharpening room, and there he is, standing at the sharpener, testing the edge of a blade with his thumb.
I stop short in the doorway. “What are you doing?”
He looks up calmly. “Sharpening my skates. You’ve heard of it?”
“You still do it yourself?”
“If you want something done right…” He tests the blade again and turns off the machine. “You looking for me?”
I glance at Banks, our young equipment guy. “Give us a minute?”
Wide-eyed, Banks slides out the door and closes it with a solid click.
“It’s about the game tonight,” I say, bracing myself.
Jethro looks calmer and more rested than I feel. He obviously got some sleep last night. Our Montreal rooms weren’t adjoining, thank God, but I’d spent the night tossing and turning, alternating between stress dreams about the game and sex dreams involving Jethro. Takes a rare man to mix those up on a single night, so I guess I’m special.
“Just tell me,” he says quietly.
I swallow. “We’re starting Walcott.”
“All right.” He tests the blade again.
“It’s not personal,” I blurt.
He glances up, and his expression hints at amusement. “Jesus, Clay. I know that. Not born yesterday.”
“Okay. Thank you.” I stand there awkwardly for another beat before I realize that’s all we need to discuss. “Um, see you later.”
He smiles and shakes his head, as if I’ve done something amusing. “Later.”
THIRTY-FIVE
Jethro
I’ve satout lots of games in my career. A season has eighty-two games, and starting goalies usually play fifty or sixty of them. They spend plenty of time on the bench.
But this game feels different. Like a harbinger for the rest of my life.
It’s kind of a dark thought, but luckily, I’ve got a hockey game to distract me and a damn good seat for it.
Montreal is a good team this year, and I’ve always liked playing here. The fans’ passionate shouting sounds better in French, especially since I can’t understand the shitty things they’re probably saying about us.
Our guys are playing well tonight, but so is Montreal. Kapski puts in some serious effort moving the puck down the ice, setting up scoring chances, but nothing quite lands like we need it to.
From my spot on the bench, I study Walcott’s every move. The kid’s posture is textbook perfect—shoulders square, glove held high, stick blade flat on the ice.
Between plays, there’s an unmistakable cockiness in the way he taps his posts, in the exaggerated way he stretches after eachwhistle. It’s the kind of swagger you’d expect from a rookie getting his first big start.
He makes his first save less than three minutes in. Good start for the kid. But Montreal keeps pressing, and our defense is scrambling.
After another few minutes, we finally get a decent offensive push. Stoney threads a beautiful pass to Newgate, who fires a rocket at Montreal’s net. Their goalie snags it out of the air, making it look easy. Like I once did.
“Nice try, boys!” I chrip. But I feel antsy, like I should be out there, too.
The game stays scoreless, but it’s not for lack of trying on Montreal’s part. They’re outshooting us two to one, and Walcott is starting to lose his swagger. He’s making the saves, but his rebound control is shaky. Our D-men are struggling to clear the puck.
“Tighten it up out there!” Clay barks from behind me. I glance back and catch his eye. He looks as tense as I feel.
