Page 26 of Thrown for a Loop
It could be a plain old muscle strain, but the trainers wouldn’t let that go on indefinitely. And again, there’s nothing in his file.
Just one more possibility occurs to me. It’s just the glimmer of an idea, really. I’m mulling it over when I sense my neighbor staring at me. I feel it like a sunburn and not in a good way. “How’s your fantasy team shaping up? You gotta be careful which forwards you pick,” he volunteers. “Take Chase Merritt. He’s kinda sucking wind this season.”
I say nothing.
He doesn’t take the hint. “Merritt’s always looking for the highlight-reel goal instead of just getting pucks on net. The kid needs to simplify his game. Can’t skate for shit this season, either. If I were the coach, I’d bench him until he learns how to play the game the right way. He’s a winger, see, and—”
That’s when I snap. “Plays right wing, shoots left-handed, six feet two inches, blue eyes, a Gemini. Three-time all-star, hates mushrooms on pizza. I’m good, man. I’ve watched the Legends play before.”
There’s a deep silence to my right. Maybe that was bitchy, but it was effective.
Meanwhile, the bartender is struggling not to laugh out loud. I see his back shaking when he leans over the cooler.
But it’s plain to everyone—even the twit on the next barstool—that something has changed with Chase’s game. I’d like to be the one who figures out what.
I pull out my phone and open the browser, calling up last year’s production. When I compare it to this season’s, the result is grim. His detractors have a point.
Chase, buddy, we’ve got some work to do.
Chase’s stats go back for years, so a simple flick of my thumb brings me back in time to Chase’s first year in college—the year before we met. He was a superstar even then. And then after our summer he… Hmm. I zoom in and frown.
The same fall I spent crying in my bedroom didn’t go so well for him. His game stats look pitiful. And the next season he disappears from Minnesota and lands on a junior team in Wisconsin—but not until February, which is really strange.
What were you up to that year?
The bar gets loud again, so I put my phone down and watch the game. But it doesn’t go where these fans need it to. In the second period, the ref makes a dumb call against Alexei Petrov for tripping. He gets a penalty, which sets my neighbor off on a rant about power plays.
And then Trenton draws blood, getting lucky with a sloppy turnover and lighting the lamp. The Legends match it at the end of the period, but then Trenton scores again in the third.
At some point I forget to take notes. I’m just watching the drama play out as my team loses its collective mojo. Coach Fairweather ispacing behind the bench, red-faced, but nothing he’s trying seems to do much good.
Chase and the other veterans take long shifts, trying to turn the tide. And then suddenly Tremaine has a breakaway. The bar is electrified.
He passes to Chase. A beautiful pass.
Chase receives it, and I hold my breath, looking for the shot. Me and everyone in this bar. “Come on, Merry!” the guys in the big round booth yell.
But the defense is closing in. Or trying to. Chase can still pull this off if he pivots and shoots.
He almost succeeds. But he gets the shot off too late, and the goalie falls on it.
The bar lets out an angry groan. We’re down a goal, with ninety seconds on the clock. The chance is lost, and Chase is the face of our disappointment.
Cursing, I lean back in my seat and close my eyes.
He’s broken, Darcy said. But how?
The only silver lining to this loss is that my irritating neighbor settles up his tab. “You have a good night, miss,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say, giving him a quick smile now that he’s rising to leave.
But it proves a mistake. “Any chance I could get your number?”
Oh no you don’t.“Hey, I’d love to say yes,” I lie. “But I signed my divorce documents less than a month ago. I’m not dating for the rest of the decade.”
He has the good grace to wince. “I feel that on a deep level. Good night, then.”
After he goes, I ask the kindly bartender for my check.
