Page 90 of Tough Guy and the Show Off

As usual, questions start flying as soon as I step up to the podium in the press room.

“Travis, how do you like the Magic’s chances at the cup this year?”

“What do you owe the sudden turnaround in your game to?”

“Did your mid-season slump have anything to do with Beau Bozeman’s trade to Chicago?”

“What did you say to Vancouver’s goalie tonight that made him take a swing at you?”

I smile and wait for a lull so I can pick which questions I want to actually answer. I definitely won’t be tackling any of the ones about Beau. And I don’t think there’s any reason to tell them that I told Durand, the Beavers’ goalie, that he had pretty eyes just to piss him off when he wouldn’t stop mean mugging me from behind his mask.

I give all my stock answers about how the team is hungry to bring the cup back to Boston this year and how we’re all playing our asses off for it, which is true even though I don’t actually like our chances all that much. With Nilsson’s early season slump paired with the month it took me to get my shit together after Beau got traded, it’ll be a miracle if we make the playoffs this year. I run down the clock a little, bullshitting about a new diet and fitness routine that’s been giving my game a boost, while most of my thoughts stay firmly on that unread message on my phone.

“With only a month left of the regular season, are you in negotiations with the Magic to renew your contract?” One of the reporters near the back shouts the question, and my stomach flutters.

I keep my usual charming smile in place and chuckle.

“I can’t talk about any contract negotiations at this point, but I’ll just say that I’ve never made it a secret where my heart lies. I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure I’m where I belong next year, and hopefully for many years after that.” I look into the camera as I answer and wonder if Beau’s watching.

No, he won’t be. He’s got a game tonight too.

Coach steps up onto the stage next to me, which is my signal that I’ve done my time and can go. I don’t think I’ve ever sprinted out of the press room so fast in my life.

I grab my bag off the floor right outside the door and fish my phone out before I even hit the parking lot. As soon as I reach my car, I toss my gear into the back and finally click on the text notification as I slide into the driver’s seat.

MIKA: I’ve got some news… now remember this is completely unofficial and needs to stay quiet until your contract is up, but the Huskies ownership could barely keep from wetting themselves when I told them that you might be open to moving there.

My breath punches out of my lungs and I make a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob that gets caught in my throat.

SHOW: Seriously? They want me? You’re not fucking with me, right?

MIKA: I can’t stress how unofficial this is.

SHOW: I get it, but it’s for real, right?

I don’t usually need this much reassurance, but I’m so damn nervous that she’s going to tell me she’s joking or that I’m going to wake up on the ice and find out this was just a concussion dream. I pinch my thigh just to check, and the sting of it makes me laugh again in that almost-manic, tight throat kind of way.

MIKA: Yes. You’ve gotta play it cool though if you don’t want them to lowball you when it actually comes to negotiations though. As soon as your contract expires and you’re officially a free agent, I’ll have a sit-down with them. For now, keep playing like you’ve been playing and don’t cause any trouble.

SHOW: Never caused an ounce of trouble in my life.

MIKA: Why do I find that hard to believe?

SHOW: I think it’s my face. People always think I’m scheming.

MIKA: Now that I believe.

SHOW: Thanks again, and just let me know if there’s anything else I can do when the time comes to make it official. And, seriously, I don’t care if they come back with a lowball offer. I just need to be there, ok?

MIKA: You’re killing me, Showalter, but ok.

I let out a “Whoop” and punch the ceiling of my car as another laugh bubbles up from my chest. It’s not official, but it’s for real, so I think I can finally let myself get excited. I glance at the clock on my dashboard. Beau’s game was at the same time as ours tonight, so he’s probably just getting to his car too. I pull up his contact info on my phone to call him, but I stop myself before actually pressing the button. I don’t want to tell him over the phone. I want to see his face, and video chat isn’t enough.

Our next game isn’t until Friday; that gives me nearly forty-eight hours before I have to be back here. Sure, Coach will chew me out for missing practice tomorrow, but he won’t bench me, not when I’m on a hot streak.

I close Beau’s contact info and pull up an airline app instead. There’s a flight to Chicago leaving in less than two hours. I’ll have to haul ass to the airport and hope security is quick, but I can make it. It doesn’t even take me half a second to decide what I want to do. It’ll be the middle of the night when I get there, but something tells me Beau won’t mind the surprise. I book the ticket and peel out of the parking lot with my tires squealing.

THIRTY-SEVEN