Page 38 of The Big Puck

“Sounds like a good idea. It’ll do them both good to see each other in the middle of the day.” She lowers her voice as the nurse wraps a blood pressure cuff on her arm. “Won’t do you any harm either.”

* * *

My grin reaches down to my toes as Krissy and I arrive at the rink for the team’s skate. I’d learned from Jason when they would be on the ice, so I bundle the baby in a sweater, hat, and gloves and wrap her in a blanket. Then we head inside through the employee door, where Jason told me to go.

My brother is under the impression I’m here to visit with him, so he gave my name to security to let me in. I should feel guilty, but I’ll make it up to him with his favorite cookies later.

Tina shows up, and then old man Gavonza accompanies the media in with plenty of photographers for all kinds of photos, official and otherwise.

“Let’s get some photographs,” Gavonza says, giving Spence a pointed look, “of the players.”

One man with an official-looking camera speaks up, “Coach Logan, how about one with you and your baby?”

“What a great idea,” Tina says. When she jumps into the frame as the photographer is getting ready to shoot, on the pretext of wiping drool from Krissy’s mouth, Spence looks distressed, so I jump in and run interference.

I whisper in Tina’s ear that she has a wet spot on the rear of her skirt, and she quickly backs away. Of course, I made sure there really was a wet spot made by drips from Krissy’s bottle.

I catch Spence’s eyes as Tina flinches and backs away, looking over her shoulder and swiping her hand nonchalantly over her rear. She turns pink when she feels the wet spot, and Spence scowls at me.

But low and behold a miracle unfolds in the form of one side of Spence’s previously frozen-frown mouth quirking upward unmistakably and sticking. He’s giving me a half-smile, and he’s not taking it back.

“You want to take Krissy, so I can talk to these folks?” He lasers me with an intensity that sends my heart into palpitations. My mouth stretches wide, and I can’t stop it though I probably know I look like a loon, like some clown character, or like I’m trying out for the part of Joker in a Batman movie.

Taking Krissy from him, I follow him to the media room, where a surprisingly large crowd of reporters and photographers assembles. From the wings, I watch him perform with a previously hidden grace and charm for the media as they fire questions at him.

After a few softball questions, the reporter from New England Sports speaks up. “Let’s talk about your one-year contract. It’s widely known that you’re filling in this year until Coach Smitty is available next season. How will that affect your ability to do the job and your motivation?”

Spence pauses a beat before answering, with no change in his expression. He must have been expecting this question because he’s ready for it. “Let’s face it; I’m like Rocky Balboa in Rocky I. I’m expected to fail, and everyone else thinks that’s okay. Except me. My motivation is to prove everyone wrong. Watch out for that surprise punch.” He cracks a self-deprecating smile, and everyone in the flock of sports media eats it up.

Spence introduces Jason and motions him to the podium.

Jason is asked all the usual questions, including how he feels about playing for an expansion team with iffy prospects.

“Iffy? No way. Like coach says, we’re going to surprise everyone.”

“What do you think about Coach Logan?”

“Coach is the boss. He’s already having an impact on my game. He helped me with a move I thought only Marchand could perform. Coach knew I had the chops and knew how I needed to tweak my technique. Everyone here’s great. We’ve got a great team, from the players to the coaches and all the staff. Top to bottom, we’re built to win.”

“You sound like you’ve drunk the Spencer Logan Kool-Aid,” the reporter says.

“Whatever Kool-Aid is—if Coach is serving it up, I’ll drink it.”

They laugh, and Jason steps aside as the microphones and cameras slide over en masse to the highly hyped phenom, Sabien Dumas, as he comes up to the podium, the French-Canadian wonder boy, whom they compare to Rocket Richard or the more recent soon-to-be hockey legend, Rafe Lemaire. I think it’s all premature, especially after watching film with Spence and his critical eye.

All in all, Sabien is pretty, I’ll give him that, with those long lashes, deep-set brown eyes, and longish dark hair that falls over his forehead in a sexy peekaboo style.

My critical eye jumps to the fact that he needs more meat on his bones. His body is undersized and immature, and his arrogant air gives me a clue that maybe more than his body needs maturing.

The media fawns, asking him softball questions like what he thinks of Portsmouth and has he had to fight off the women yet.

“No, man. I’m leaving that to the coach. He’s running interference for me.” He smirks like he’s thinking good luck with that, and the reporters finally move on to hockey questions.

“How do you see yourself fitting in? You figure to play on the first line this year?”

“Could be. Ask Coach about that. I’m definitely bringing talent and skills.”

“Sabien Dumas is going to be trouble, Krissy,” I whisper in her ear. She agrees. I can tell by the way she tugs on my hair. Sabien’s only a year younger than I am but much less mature.