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It was a photo of Joey, grinning in a Mavericks hoodie while standing with the team mascot, Ricky the Raven, on the red carpet that had been put on the ice for the national anthem singer. He was clearly excited, giving a thumbs-up for the picture.
“Tell Sariah I said thanks,” I told Nash. “I owe her a trip to that salon she likes.”
With my usual three babysitters—Hadley, Sheridan, and Jolie—all out of commission, Sariah had offered to keep Joey today and tonight for the game. She worked in the Mavericks front office, so she’d brought him to the arena and he’d be seeing his first professional game tonight.
“She’s happy to do it,” Nash said. “Just don’t be surprised when he comes back wanting to listen to nothing but Taylor Swift.”
I couldn’t even force a smile. All I could think about was how much I wanted to walk into Coach Gizzard’s office and punch him in the face. He’d sabotaged things for me and Jolie, and not only was it unprofessional, but it meant he was a bigger dick than I’d realized before.
Someday I’d be able to tell him to kiss my ass. Someday soon, now that I’d been unofficially told I was getting my trade. I couldn’t wait to flip Gizzard the bird on my way out of here.
“What’s going on with you, man?” Nash asked, sitting down next to me.
He was my friend, but it was all I could do not to tell him to fuck off. I wanted to be alone with my misery.
“Nothing I want to talk about,” I said.
“So a certain redhead, then.”
I exhaled heavily, letting my head fall back to rest against the side of my locker. “Do you know what it means when someone says they don’t want to talk about something?”
“Yeah, I just don’t believe you.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Well, even if I wanted to talk about it, which I don’t, this isn’t the place.”
Nash lowered his voice. “Because ofIzzardgay?”
“Why are you such a fucking idiot? Everyone knows pig latin.”
“Just keeping the mood light, bro.”
My mood was about as light as a fucking tank, and I wanted to get back to the Eminem song I’d been listening to.
“So she dumped you,” Nash said.
Instead of responding, I put my headphones back on, pushed play on my playlist, and closed my eyes. It would be a hell of a long time before I wanted to talk to anyone about things with Jolie. Unless it was Jolie herself, who had to stop freezing me out at some point.
Hopefully.
* * *
“Look at your little mustache,Mikey boy. Did your balls finally drop?”
We were playing Vancouver, and Craig Masterson was the mouthiest dick on his team. He actually might have been the mouthiest dick in the entire league, come to think of it.
“You’re supposed to score, did anyone tell you that?” I said, deliberately bumping into him as we waited for play to resume. “You remember what it feels like to score?”
Masterson was on a major skid, and my shot had been a direct hit. He scowled at me and I grinned, determined to make him throw the first punch.
“That big net down there is where you’re supposed to put the puck,” I said. “You use that stick in your hand.”
“Eat shit, Boone,” he muttered. “You’re the fucking weak link in your line, and everyone knows it.”
His shot landed like a physical blow. It was true—Wes and Nash were both better players than me. But this wasn’t the right day to point it out, and Masterson sure as shit wasn’t the one to be doing it.
“You’re a has-been, man,” I said, skating over slowly to get in his face. “Time to take your arthritic knees to the nursing home and watch hockey on TV while you eat your pudding.”
“You want to fucking go?” he asked, his face reddening.
