Page 83 of The Last Guy On Earth
Doc Baker, unflappable as always, asks a question. “Are there more photos of Hale or Coach? And was the photographer an old teammate of theirs?”
“Probably,” Tate says. “This is the poster’s profile.” He changes the tab, and we see the photographer’s home page. It’s titledBladzeOfGlory. “It’s all hockey stuff. He stopped posting ten years ago. You recognize him, Coach?”
I glance at the more recent thumbnails, and one of them is a selfie. I do, in fact, recognize the guy.Duckson. I haven’t thought of him for years. He was always throwing around the f-word.
“He’s an old teammate,” I say numbly. Then I get up and open the conference room door. “Liana!” I yodel. “Find Hale for me.”
I flip back to the old picture and stare at the screen. For the second time, the image hits me right in the gut. We look so fuckingyoung, our faces untroubled in sleep.
“Let’s not panic,” Tate says, watching me. “It just took me by surprise.”
The door opens a few moments later, and Jethro walks in. When he sees the odd collection of people in the room he frowns. “Something wrong? I was just coming up here to give you this.” He sets a small paper bag on the table.
“What is it?” I ask, trying to keep up with the conversation. I’m still reeling inside.
“Chocolate-covered pretzels. We made them for another bake sale. I found something Toby could make without a rescue operation. See?” He pulls a tin out of the bag and pops the top off it. It’s full of pretzels coated in dark chocolate with tiny blue sprinkles. “He did Cougar blue, for luck.”
Doc Baker reaches into the tin, takes a pretzel, and pops it into his mouth. “Oh, hell yes. These are great.”
“Thanks.” Jethro looks pleased with himself. “Now what did you need me for?”
Without a word, I turn Tate’s laptop to face him.
Jethro squints at the screen. And then helaughs. Not just an awkward chuckle, either. “Wow,” he says, grinning. “I bet Fuckson took this, right? That asshole. So predictable.”
The look I give him does a poor job of hiding my reaction.You think this is funny?
“What?” he demands. “This photo has been here…how long? Nobody cares. And didn’t you tell me once not to let the dumbest man in hockey ruin my day? Could swear that was you.”
“Yeah, but…”
Doc Baker’s and Tate’s heads swivel back and forth like spectators at a tennis match. They’re both clearly fascinated by this exchange.
“Butnothing,” Jethro says. “Since when do we care about randos posting shit on the internet? There’s a guy on Reddit who swears I had a nose job last season.” He touches his nose, which—like so many other players’—has a bump from being broken by a puck at some point in his career. “Relax, Clayzy.”
“Clayzy?” Doc Baker chuckles. “That’s a good one.”
“Old nickname,” I mumble. Then I reach for the laptop and scroll slowly through the other fifteen-year-old shots.
On some level I know Jethro’s right—this old picture doesn’t matter. But my heart is thumping anyway. I feel naked right now. Like anyone who looks at that photo will read my old heartbreak like a book.
Many of the other photos are poorly focused and poorly composed. Digital cameras just weren’t great back then, especially with a dingus like Duckson behind the lens.
But still, it’s like peering into the past. There’s our coach’s scowl. And our captain—Laytner—with his too-long hair and square jaw.
“Kinda curious…” Tate says slowly. “If you two were pals back in the day, then why does the whole team think you hate each other?”
The question sort of echoes against the walls of the conference room.
And I gulp.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Jethro
Clay goes still.But I know him well and sense the panic flaring behind his facade. His vibe reads trapped animal.
“We were teammates,” I offer. “And roommates for a short time. But not every friendship survives a season with the Busker Brutes and a cramped apartment.”
