Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(27)

“The TV,” she says. “I’m not dead.” But you might be, her eyes threaten.

She gives me a little shove, and I allow myself to be pushed off her body. I grab my briefs off the floor and head for the bathroom so she can talk to her business partner in peace.

“That really was the TV,” I hear her say. “Believe whatever you want. I appreciate your concern, though.”

I can no longer hear the phone, but I’m certain Eric Bayer is laughing.

When I leave five minutes later, I make sure to steal a kiss. I make it a good one, because I need her to realize that she and I aren’t over.





Unfortunately, my new teammates aren’t as happy to see me as Bess was.

In the heat of a drill, I swing around to catch a pass, but there is no puck flying toward me. Instead, Jason Castro is on his ass on the ice, looking pissed-off, while Ivo skates away with the puck looking pleased with himself.

The whistle is loud and shrill. “Again!” yells the assistant coach.

“What the fuck was that?” Castro spits, getting up.

“You tell me,” I grumble. “If you got the pass off, I would have scored.”

“Really, Sure Shot?” he scoffs, using my old nickname. “You can’t get the pass if you’re outta position! The blue line is that way.” He jerks a thumb toward a spot behind him.

“I was open and ready. It’s not my fault you can’t find my stick with a compass and a map.”

“Because you’re in the wrong fucking place!”

“Not hardly,” I snap. “Get a clue. I’m not here to do things the same way you’ve always done them. And I wouldn’t be standing here if Coach didn’t think your playbook needed a few fresh pages.”

Speak of the devil. Coach taps a stick against the boards to get our attention, and I skate off toward the blue line to restart the drill.

“Arrogant fuck,” Castro says under his breath as he skates by.

“Dumbass,” I hiss.

Castro has skills, though. He’s young and fast, but he’s been on this same team for all three of his years in the Show. My unusual style of play has broken his little puppy brain, and he isn’t taking it well.

There’s a long list of good reasons why Brooklyn wanted me here. I have a lot of experience. Coach Worthington needed some of that. He also needed a D-man who played a different game than O’Doul and young Anton Bayer. It all makes sense on paper.

Although Coach was also hoping to get a share of the calm demeanor and leadership that I brought to the team in Dallas. But that guy? He’s left the building. Somewhere between the Dallas/Fort Worth airport and the Brooklyn Navy Yards, I forgot how to be Uncle Tank. My reservoir of patience and advice is dried out completely. I can barely keep my own shit together, let alone handle someone else’s drama.

So here we are, sweating like pigs, running the same play for the ten-thousandth time. We’re supposed to be fine-tuning our game against Philadelphia, but you can’t fine-tune a car that’s lying in wreckage all over the front yard. For two hours it’s been just like this—total chaos.

At this point I’m praying Philadelphia gets lost on the way to the stadium. It’s the only chance we have of maintaining our dignity on Tuesday.

We run the drill again, and this time Castro takes no chances, passing to Drake instead of me. But Drake is blocked by Anton, and the puck is stripped, anyway.

“Fuck a duck,” Castro grumbles.

I skate back to the blue line and pray for an end to this torture.

When the end of practice finally arrives, I make a beeline for the rubber matting beyond the practice rink. Unfortunately, several reporters do the same thing, and I find myself face to face with the difficult Miranda Wager and her infernal microphone.

They don’t pay her to be nice, I remind myself as I paste on a smile. “Hey there, Ms. Wager. How are you?”

“Excellent. Can we say the same for you? Looked a little hairy out there today.”

“Settling in takes time,” I say mildly.

“How’s Brooklyn so far?” she asks. “Have you found an apartment? The Brooklyn guys are known to take in strays. They’re a friendly bunch, aren’t they?”

That question is pure Miranda. She’s digging for a story about former rivals struggling to become teammates. Nobody has offered me a bedroom, but that doesn’t mean anything. “So friendly. But I’m headed home to such a beautiful hotel that I may never leave.”

This morning I was surprised to receive a series of messages from my agent’s assistant. She’d found me a better hotel room a lot closer to the practice facility. She’s sending a car to help me move from one hotel to another, and she’s booked me a massage, too.

Honestly, it’s all a little odd. I wonder if Bess yelled at Kassman for ignoring me.

“How are your old friends in Dallas faring without you?” Miranda asks. She’s still smiling, of course, while she twists the knife.

“I’m sure they’re getting their skates under them as well. Shame about that loss to Boston.”

As soon as I say it, I realize my mistake. I can’t mention Dallas’s struggles. If I’m a boring interview, Miranda won’t use the footage. I really don’t need any publicity right now. Not until I can prove myself.