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“We’d be glad to have you,” Lane says.
I nod, and he leaves with the rest of the team.
Yeah, I guess I really should go.
As the captain, Lane’s been dropping hints and needling me to spend more time with the rest of the guys, and so has Coach. It probably won’t be long before the hints turn into outright demands to stop being such an anti-social bastard and spend more time with my teammates.
A beer doesn’t sound too bad right now, either.
Generally, I’m not a big drinker. I’ve actually only been drunk once, and I didn’t enjoy it. I don’t like not being in full control of myself. I don’t like the idea of doing and saying things that I know I wouldn’t do or say if I were fully sober.
But one lager or pilsner every now and then does help take the edge off.
Once I’m dressed, I leave the Brumehill practice facility intending to walk to Loser’s Luck Tavern in downtown Cedar Shade. But a call from my dad holds me up.
My stomach muscles tense when I pull the vibrating phone out of my pocket and see that it’s him calling. Conversations with my dad aren’t always pleasant.
Come to think of it, I’m not sure if they’re ever pleasant.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Getting a feel for the new team in practice?” he asks, not bothering to waste any time saying hi or to ask how I’m doing.
“Yeah,” I say. “They’re good. Better than Boston. This one kid, Carter Prescott,” I chuckle lightly thinking of that crazy backhand shot he made, “you should’ve seen the shot he got past me this?—”
My dad cuts me off. “Prescott? You let him score on you?”
My jaw tightens. “He’s good. And the shot …”
“He’s not even the best forward on the team. You’re letting Prescott score on you?” He lets out a deep sigh, laden with disappointment. “I hope you’re taking this opportunity seriously, Hudson. With you as the Black Bears’ new goalie, the talking heads in the media are saying that the team should go all the way to the Frozen Four this year. If that doesn’t happen, everyone’s going to assume it’s because you didn’t live up to the hype.”
“I am taking it seriously,” I bite back.
“I hope so. What are you doing now?”
“I’m about to go to meet the guys at a bar?—”
My father cuts me off again. “A bar? You know that alcohol consumption hampers athletic performance. Not to mention concentration. Which is a pretty important thing to have to make sure second-rate players like Carter Prescott aren’t scoring goals on you.”
Tension coils in my back. I open my mouth to tell my dad that me having one beer today with my teammates isn’t going to affect my concentration when the season starts a month from now, but he fills the silence before I can get a word out.
“Look, I have to go. Make sure you’re sticking to your training regimen and reviewing the footage I send you. Your first game of the season is against St. Michaels. They’re a hell of a team this year.”
“I know. I’ll …” I trail off, realizing that I’m talking into the void as he already ended the call.
Even though I know my dad’s full of shit about one beer one month from the beginning of the season meaning anything, I’m suddenly not even in the mood for it. And I’m definitely not in the mood to sit around with the guys while they all laugh and bullshit with each other all evening long.
I decide to just stop somewhere for an early dinner by myself.
“Alright, come on out!” I call down a narrow alleyway that’s nestled between a gas station and an auto repair shop at the north end of town.
I stand there for a minute, waiting for a response. I’m about to turn and walk away when I hear a rustling behind a trashcan in the middle of the alley.
That lets me know she’s here.
I take out the can of cat food from my grocery store bag and open it with the ring pull. I squat to set it on the ground.
“Not hungry?” I call out in the direction I heard the rustling. “I got the good stuff today.”
