Page 24 of Thrown for a Loop
“That’s not how we’ll do this,” he says. “You get the next one.”
She bites her lip and turns her big brown eyes on him again. “All right. It’s a deal.”
Chapter 9
Present Day
People I don’t hear from over the next twenty-four hours: Moreau, who skipped the session he’d booked with me. Or Chase Merritt.
People I hear from instead: my mother, who sends over a list of terrible job openings, all in cities far from New York. And my ex, who still thinks there’s a chance I’ll join a Las Vegas skating revue.
Things are not going well. And every time I close my eyes, I flash back to three ugly words on a piece of paper.Go home, bitch.
But I won’t. I’m too stubborn.
Instead, I put in some quality hours in my new cubicle on the fourth floor. I watch game tape and fill my notebook with personalized lesson plans for every player. And I mentally rehearse what I’ll say to Chase when I see him again.
Hi, Chase, let’s start over. I’m sorry I got you fired from a job ten years ago. But that only happened because I fell for you like the coyote in a Road Runner cartoon—swiftly, and with terrible consequences. After our train wreck, I spent the next year crying in my room after skating practice, wondering why you wouldn’t take my calls.
So how about we call a truce? Now please sign up for your one-on-one coaching session. If you don’t, I could get fired frommyjob.
Meanwhile, maybe we can figure out why one of the best skaters I’ve evermet is skating like shit this season. What is up with those acceleration issues? Do you have an injury that’s not in your file?
It’s a work in progress.
When I leave the Legends’ HQ at six thirty, the place is a ghost town. The players are away at another game. This one is close to home, though—just across the river in New Jersey. They’re playing one of their closest rivals, and I’d really like to watch.
Except I’m too broke to buy a TV or pay for cable. Luckily, this is Manhattan, and I’ve scouted out a sports bar on Eighth Avenue a few blocks from my apartment. It’s called Highlights, and from the doorway, I can see they have the Legends game on two different screens, and aGo Legends!banner visible above the bar.
They also have a fourteen-dollar burger that I can probably afford.
Inside, I find that most of the tables are taken, and the crowd is amped up for the game. There’s a loud group of beer-bellied men in Legends jerseys in a giant circular booth. As I steer past them, one of them catcalls me. “Nice jacket, honey! Wanna see my hat trick?” Ignoring him, I look for a barstool with a good view of the TV and hang my Legends jacket on the back of it.
A bearded bartender with kind eyes sets a coaster down on the bar in front of me. “Here for the game?”
“Absolutely.” I put my notebook down on the bar. “And a burger, too.”
“Let me grab you a menu.”
Liking this place already, I order a beer and a burger and flip open my notebook. The game is only in its fifth minute, so I haven’t missed much.
Trenton isn’t a great team, and we’re favored to win. I settle in, scribbling notes whenever they occur to me. Tremaine looks sharp. I wonder if he’s been practicing the technique we went over. It’ssomething to watch for. The TV camera doesn’t often linger where I’d like it, but the replays are handy.
As the game grinds on, I eat my burger with one hand and scribble with the other.
“Hey,” intrudes a male voice to my side. “Are you joining a fantasy hockey league or something?”
A flick of my eyes to the right shows me a guy about my age, wearing a blue Legends jersey and a backward baseball cap. “Or something,” I mutter in a voice that doesn’t invite a follow-up.
“So you probably need some tips, yeah? Lotta decent players on this team. Not great, but passable.”
“Good to know.” I scribble a quick note about the goalie.Reduce inside edge drag?
I’m also watching Tyler Jackson, a player I’ll be seeing tomorrow. I want to work with him on lateral acceleration.
“God, this guy,” my neighbor mutters. “So overrated. I mean, sure, he blocks shots, but that’s just because he’s too slow to get out of the way. You see how he just camps out in front of the net? It’s like he’s got no idea what to do with the puck. He’s got no offensive game at all. But no, he’s just standing there like a pylon.”
I sigh inwardly. T.J., as they call him, is known for his willingness to block shots and do the dirty work that often goes unnoticed by the armchair quarterbacks in Eighth Avenue bars.
