"It's never the transmission."
The driver wipes his forehead with a handkerchief. I discreetly move twenty feet away and begin calling the transportation company. An hour later, the replacement vehicle arrives. The moment I see it, I know we're in trouble. The original vehicle had been designed for professional athletes. This one appears to have been designed for middle-school field trips and possibly livestock.
The driver counts heads. Then counts again. I already dislike where this is going. "There are twenty-two passenger seats." Silence. "We have twenty-three people." More silence.
Anthony slowly removes his sunglasses. "Interesting."
"No," I say immediately.
"I haven't even said anything yet."
"You were about to."
"I absolutely was.”
Trey steps forward before the situation can deteriorate further.
"Okay. We can figure this out."
Unfortunately, everyone immediately begins trying to figure it out. Suggestions are made. Mostare terrible. Lucas proposes rotating passengers every thirty minutes. Fuze suggests drawing straws. Knox suggests leaving Anthony behind. Anthony seems offended by how quickly everyone agrees.
I climb aboard the bus while the debate continues and immediately discover a second problem. Every seat has already been claimed. Players are spreading equipment bags across entire rows. Others are pretending to be asleep, despite the fact that we have not yet departed. I stop in the aisle. There are no seats left. Not one.
Every head turns toward me at once, and for one horrifying moment I seriously consider whether stepping into traffic on the side of Interstate 90 would be less embarrassing than whatever is about to happen next.
The conversation dies.
I have spent my entire professional career managing NHL players. I have never trusted any of them less than I do in this moment. "There has to be another solution," I say. Nobody responds. The silence is suspicious.
Then Anthony's eyes widen. "Oh."
I point at him. "No."
"Toni doesn't have a seat."
"I am aware."
Anthony looks delighted. Fuze immediately cracks up. Not because anything has happened. He can smell it coming. I hate him.
"What?" Trey asks.
Anthony points toward the back. Several heads swivel. Including mine. Max is sitting by himself in the only row nextto the emergency exit that has one seat instead of two. Of course, he is. The traitor. The absolute traitor. His expression is pure innocence. "No problem," he says. "Toni can sit with me."
Silence. The kind that happens when everyone witnesses something at once. I stare at him. "You cannot possibly be serious."
“You’re in a row with one seat.”
"Yes."
"And your proposed solution is that I sit on your lap for three hours."
"I am proposing an efficient transportation adjustment." The laughter begins immediately. Anthony folds in half. Lucas disappears in front of him. Knox is openly recording this on his phone.
"Delete that."
"No."
"Trey." The captain closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he somehow looks even more tired.
