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He was asking about Everleigh without asking about Everleigh. “I mean, our track record speaks for itself. The changes within the organization have been for the better, and the best is yet to come for this team.”
Years of interviews had armed me with the ability to answer backhanded questions in a positive way. And there was no way I was going to shit-talk Everleigh on National television.
“You heard it here.” The guy turned to face the camera, likely disappointed that I hadn’t given him a better sound bite. “The New York Thunder are a force to be reckoned with this season, after their five-three loss tonight to the Boston Lions.”
Asshole, I thought to myself as I walked away from the interview. When I got to the dressing room, the air felt thick with a potent mixture of anger and disappointment.
Coach had his back to me and was waving his arms wildly as he screamed at the team. Coach wasn’t a yeller – he had a deep voice that was naturally loud, so he didn’t have to resort to raising his voice at us. But that night, his voice echoed through the room like a bass drum, practically shaking the glass in the showers.
“What the fuck was that?” He spread his arms wide.
I had to make a wide berth to go around him to avoid getting accidentally slapped. Coach turned and his eyes flashed. “And you, Lockwood – I don’t have any words for you. You all…” he pointed to every player with his clipboard, “played like selfish assholes. Your days of trying to shine for the scouts are done. You’ve made it; you’re here. You were hired to play on a team. Do you hear that?” Coach kicked the recycling bin that sat in the middle of the room, and water bottles clattered across the rubberized floor.
Colton, our captain, nodded as Coach spoke, seeming to agree with everything Coach said.
Coach loosened his tie and ran his fingers through his hair. He was clearly frustrated. “I’ll see you at practice tomorrow. That’s right. You no longer have the day off. I want to see every single one of you on the ice at eight a.m. sharp.” He kicked at a water bottle that had rolled against the toe of his dress shoe and left the room, the heavy metal door slamming behind him.
Letting out a huge breath, Colton leaned against the concrete wall. He usually addressed the team after Coach, but today he didn’t even bother to stand up. “Come on, guys.” He leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor. “It’s like you all forgot how good we are. You need to trust your teammates to do their job.”
He glanced at me sideways and gave me a death glare. “And you, of all fucking people, Lockwood. The night before our opener, you’re out with a porn star? I mean, I really don’t care what any of you do in your personal lives, but trust me, when you graduate past the bunnies and the drinking, that’s how you level up your game. You’re all a bunch of…” He shook his head and stopped talking. He was a good captain, and the outburst was out of character. He stopped short before calling us names.
I wanted him to know the truth. I had no idea how late Smitty, Hammer, and Jamie had stayed out, or who the hell they’d gone home with. But telling Colton the truth meant that I didn’t have an excuse for my shitty performance.
Instead of clarifying things with Colton, I took a sip of my electrolyte water and untied my skates. Then I showered and slipped out the back door of the stadium. With my hat lowered over my eyes, I rushed to the station to take the train home.
Norman met me with a wagging tail and the two of us headed into the warm fall night for a walk. My career was in the shitter and my relationship was nonexistent, but Norman’s gait had improved and he had a youthful spring in his step. I decided to focus on him and the way his ears flapped when he walked. At least there was still one thing in my life that made me smile.
The newspaper man on the corner of my street was stocking his shelves with fresh magazines, and two familiar sets of eyes stared at me from the cover of one of the tabloids.
Mine and Norman’s.
The headline read: More trouble for the Thunder, and the photos were grainy yet clear enough to see mine and Paula’s faces, as she held onto my arm in one shot and Norman’s leash in the other. There were a few more shots from earlier in the evening when we’d been sitting in the pub. The byline was just as bad as the headline – Are any of the Thunder players serious about hockey? A red circle had been drawn on the date and time stamp on the photo.
I handed the newspaper guy a ten-dollar bill and then tossed the magazine into the trash can. Now I knew how Colton felt. Until he’d gotten together with Alison, the magazines had been all over his personal life like a shorthanded defenseman in the last twenty seconds of play. Now I understood how the media could warp reality to tell whatever story would sell. And it pissed me off.
Then it dawned on me. That’s what the baby-faced reporter had been referring to in his interview. And if the reporters knew about it…
I gulped.
That meant Everleigh knew.
I didn’t care about clearing the air with anyone, except her. My cell phone was in my apartment, and by the time we got home it was after midnight. I was going to send Everleigh a text explaining everything, but with the importance of what I had to say, I knew that I needed to talk to her on the phone. This wasn’t a text message conversation.
Dropping into bed, I set my alarm for the morning, but as tired and beat-up as my body felt, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned, winding myself up in the sheets. I wouldn’t be able to relax until Everleigh knew the truth.
SEVENTEEN
EVERLEIGH
My alarm was setfor five o’clock in the morning but I woke up before it went off. My home gym was still being painted, but I slipped into my workout clothes anyways and padded to the kitchen to make a smoothie. My housekeeper usually had my smoothie ready and sitting on the marble kitchen island, but she didn’t come in until seven. I opened and closed at least five different cupboards before I found the blender.
Armed with my smoothie, I hopped into my Range Rover, thankful that traffic was moving. The radio was tuned to a local sports station, but as soon as I heard the nasally newscaster mention the disastrous season opener for the Thunder, I flicked it off.
I’d been there; I knew what had happened. It had been a bloodbath. Players who were known for breakaways didn’t breakaway; players whose slap shots were renowned hadn’t even had the opportunity to wind up. It was like watching a team play together for the first time; not one who had just come off training camp.
It was a disaster, and heads were going to roll – maybe even mine. My father was flying in from LA this morning and had called an emergency lunch meeting with me. I was fully prepared to clear out my office.
Even during the game the night before, Alison had leaned over to me and asked if the team had food poisoning or something. They were playing that badly. I had slipped out of the stadium unnoticed by the press and collapsed into bed.
