Page 24 of Zero Pucks Given
Grayson skated off the ice and onto the bench, gesturing animatedly. He put his head together with one player, giving him encouragement, before turning to another. He pointed out on the ice and said something fierce, with a powerful intensity in his eyes. He looked like a leader.
“And that’s a five-minute major penalty!” the announcer said excitedly. “The Surge needed that break. They have to take advantage of the opportunity to score on this power play.”
I didn’t watch much hockey, but I knew that a power play was when a team had to play with one fewer man. The Surge had six players on the ice, while the other team only had five.
Grayson immediately went up to the coach and tapped him on the chest. The two of them spoke for a moment, then the coach gestured to the ice. Grayson shoved his mouth guard back into his mouth, then sprinted back onto the ice.
The camera stayed on him as the game resumed. I leaned forward on the couch, transfixed by the scene. Grayson looked sointense, like an animal that was hunting for its dinner. A teammate passed him the puck, and he deftly weaved between two defenders before passing to another Surge player, who immediately shot at the goal. The puck was a black blur, impossible to track until it hit the back of the net.
“GOAL!” the announcer cried.
I realized I’d been tensing all my muscles while watching the play. I leaned back and relaxed. I didn’t really like hockey, I reminded myself. It was just more interesting when I had a personal stake in the result. The better the Surge did, the more ratings they received, which meant more views for my videos.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
“That’s a power play goal for rookie Mason Calder, with an assist from the captain, Grayson Steele,” the announcer said. “And you have to wonder what the captain said to the young rookie right before the play.”
“Whatever it was,” the other announcer replied, “it worked. That’swhy he wears the C on his jersey.”
I watched the players celebrate together in a huddle, then I muted the TV and returned to editing videos. The period ended a few minutes later, the players exiting the ice to head down to the locker room. The broadcast went to commercials.
I had just gotten into a good groove on my work when I got a text message. It was from an unknown number, but it was immediately obvious who the sender was.
Grayson: What are you wearing for our date tomorrow?
I felt a tingle of surprise, and excitement. Was he really texting me right now, in the middle of the game?
I considered ignoring him, but curiosity got the better of me.
Me: How did you get my number?
Grayson: Magic.
Grayson: The marketing department gave me your info. What are you wearing tomorrow?
Me: Why do you need to know what I’m wearing?
Grayson: Can you just answer my question without getting all defensive?
Me: Sorry, I always act defensive around selfish assholes who spent our entire last date insulting me.
Grayson: For fuck’s sake.
Grayson: Bob the Marketing Dipshit wants us to coordinate our outfits. Our wardrobe department has topick out my clothes.
Me: You have an entire department dedicated to dressing you? What are you, a toddler?
Grayson: You have no idea. Any time I’m at a public event, everything I wear is chosen for me. From my shoes to my shirt. Literally everything is sponsored. We have an official team necktie, if you can believe it. I get fined if I wear any other brand.
Me: Don’t you have a game to play right now?
Grayson: It’s intermission. And I’ve got an army of interns breathing down my neck about this because apparently you’re ducking Bob’s calls.
Me: Because I’m busy. Bob the Marketing Dipshit, as you so eloquently called him, is annoying.
Grayson: Hey, look at that. We finally agree on something.
Me: I’m probably going to wear a pair of low-rise jeans and my Tim Duncan jersey. Is that good enough, or do you need to know what bra and underwear I plan on wearing, too?
