Page 97 of Thrown for a Loop
Inside my Legends jacket I’m starting to sweat. I glance at the hockey players and nod toward the escalators. “Why don’t you all go on up? Get a few laps in.”
“We’re good,” Chase says calmly.
Oh my God.I need to extract myself from this situation, but Idon’t know how. Bruce always said he loved me, but he’d boss me around in the next breath. My marriage had a power imbalance that I never figured out how to correct, and I doubt I’ll solve that in the next sixty seconds.
Or wait. Maybe I can.
“Bruce, thank you for stopping by,” I say sweetly. “But you’re released from duty as my agent.” Then I take a step to the side.
“What?” my ex barks, moving to block me again. “Zoe—”
“Bro,” Chase says, sliding between the two of us. “I think you just got fired.”
Bruce makes a sputtering noise. But I know an opening when I see it. I scoot once more toward the turnstile and badge in.
DeLuca is right behind me, while Tremaine hangs back a moment with Chase.
“Zoe! Come back and—” Bruce calls.
“Dude,” Tremaine says. “The lady said no.”
Bruce is many deplorable things, but he is not stupid. A split second later he’s striding across the lobby toward the doors. And a second after that, he disappears onto the street outside.
I watch him go. My face is burning up, but I feel lighter already.
Chase and Tremaine badge in before I recover myself, and DeLuca gently nudges me toward the escalator. The other players follow after I step on.
“He seems nice,” Chase says dryly.
I gulp. “God, I should have fired him a long time ago.”
“Why didn’tcha?” DeLuca wants to know.
“Because…” God, it’s a good question. “Because I’m a has-been in skating, and everyone told me that nobody else would take me on.”
Everyone being Bruce and my mother.
“A bad agent is worse than no agent,” Tremaine says. “Isn’t that what Bess always says?”
“It’s true for husbands, too,” I point out.
“Wait…” Tremaine’s jaw unhinges. “Youmarriedthat prick?”
“Weren’t you ever young and dumb?” I mumble. This isn’t helping my image.
“I was!” DeLuca says, raising his hand. “My rookie year I got so wasted after my first NHL shutout that I barfed all over the GM’s assistant.”
“You threw up on Darcy?” Tremaine yelps.
“No—the woman who had the job before her. But she was besties with the travel lady, and theystilllose my luggage more often than yours.”
The small talk relaxes me by, oh, about 4 percent. So I’m still a basket case when I step off the escalator and jog toward the locker corridor. “On that rink in eight minutes, boys!” I call over my shoulder.
“Aye, aye, Coach!” DeLuca returns as they head for the players’ dressing room.
I drop my coat in my locker without even checking for nasty notes. And then I dash into the equipment room, where Bernie is working at the grinder. “Morning, Coach!” he says. “Yours are right there.” He nods in the direction of one of the dozens of wooden cubbies built into the wall. “Did ’em last night.”
“Thank you!” I flash him a smile, grab my hockey skates, and light out of there.
