Olivia and Charlotte’s argument intensifies, and Carter has to stop playing so he can mediate.
“You’re a good puck handler,” I tell Eli.
“I am?”
“Yeah, you’ve got good instincts, too.”
“Do I have good instincts?”Coop asks, pronouncing itin sinks.
“You’ve got good energy.”
“Want to race to the net?”he asks.
“I’ll race you,” Isaac says.
“Can I go play with the pig?”Eli asks me.
“Sure.You don’t have to stay out here.”
He grins and races off, leaving me, Bash, and Leo.
“Does this mean we can go watch football?”Bash asks.
“I think so,” Leo says.
I look at my wristwatch.“I have to go, actually.”
“Got a date tonight?”Bash asks.
“No.”
“He’s probably just tired of your shit,” Leo says.
“I have an appointment.”
“You getting your balls waxed?”Bash asks.
“Yep.Your mom’s tired of choking on my pubes.”
I glance over my shoulder, relieved to see that Coop and Isaac are having another race, so we’re out of their hearing range.
“I’ll see you guys.”I give Leo my hockey stick, waving at Carter and then at Isaac and Coop.
My six-year-old Chevy Trailblazer is slow to start after sitting out in the cold for several hours.My vehicle provides endless joke fodder for my teammates, but it gets me from here to there.Even when I was making great money during my year in Tampa, I didn’t buy a new car.
I was trying to prove myself then, as a twenty-eight-year-old coming from the Swedish league.There are differences between the leagues, the biggest adjustment being how much more physical the game is in the US.
I was taught the game by a coach who was a former US player, though, so my game’s always been physical.Everything was going well in Tampa until my shoulder was broken in two places.
Now here I am, three years older and on another prove-it year after extensive rehab.This is my last shot.
When I walk through the front doors of the Grand Madison, the hotel I live at, the woman at the front desk flashes me a smile.I nod and keep my head down on the walk to the elevator.I’m already cutting it close on getting back to my room in time for my call with my agent; I don’t want to stop and talk to anyone.
It’s a quick ride up to the third floor, where I walk down the hall and around two corners before reaching Room 332.
I swipe the key card and walk into the room, scowling.It smells sweaty and stagnant, like the inside of an old hockey bag.But my bed’s made and my clean laundry is stacked on it.
I don’t even have time to take a piss before my phone rings, a photo of me and my agent, Art Marx, popping up on the screen.We were having dinner in Manhattan’s Chinatown, and he was still four hours away from a case of food poisoning that made him call his attorney from the hospital’s emergency room to be sure his ex-wife was officially out of his will.He cried and told me he was sure he was either going to shit or puke out some essential body parts.
