Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(33)

“That is a lie,” grumbles my mentor.

I follow her through a grand archway and into what appears to be a living room. Even though my senses are already pinging with worry, it’s a jolt to see a hospital bed set up in the center of the big room. A bigger surprise is the grey-faced, skinny shell of a man with an oxygen tube at his nose and a weak smile. “Hello, Bess. Long time no see.”

Pain and fear slice through me. It takes all my strength to force a smile. “It’s great to see you, slacker.”

“Sit, Bessie.” He waves feebly at a chair. “We have things to discuss.”

I walk over to the chair and sit down. It’s way too quiet in here. And I know I’m not going to like whatever Henry has to say.





Fourteen





Everyone but Aunt Gertie





Tank





Puckrakers Blog

“Brooklyn Opener Ends in Disappointment”

That sound you just heard was Brooklyn’s collective groan as the Bruisers failed to find the net during their entire home opener. Leo Trevi almost brought the magic on a breakaway during the second period, but the Philadelphia goalie made a highlight-reel save to deny him.

Only the brilliant netminding of Brooklyn’s Mike Beacon—and some skilled defense from captain O’Doul—kept the damage to just two goals. The offensive effort was haphazard at best, and unable to capitalize on new trade Mark Tankiewicz’s speed and maneuverability.

Things almost got ugly in the locker room afterward, when Tankiewicz’s famous temper flared up at a forward. It’s no wonder his teammates treat him like the Ebola virus when they’re on the ice together.

Maybe it’s too soon to call the Tankiewicz trade a disaster. But if the Tank can’t make some friends and influence people, it’s going to be a long season followed by a short flight for the veteran to some other team next year.





Practice lasts an eternity.

Or maybe it just seems that way, because Coach Worthington puts the same players together today—the same squad who lost together last night—and then spends two hours driving home all the ways our lack of communication lost the game.

“Don’t look for Tankiewicz to stay on the blue line,” he says. “He could be anywhere. Play the drill again.”

He must have said it a hundred times already, basically pointing out why I’m supposed to be a different kind of defenseman than their hero, O’Doul. I would feel vindicated if I weren’t so sweaty. And the irritation on the faces of all three forwards is pretty hard to miss.

I hate my life.

When we’re finally done, I don’t even try to make conversation with the exhausted men who’d endured that practice with me. I shower as fast as I can and then try to make my escape.

Unfortunately, I manage to leave the locker room area at the same time as Jason Castro.

“Hey,” he says gruffly, as we both head for the glass tunnel that leads toward the main lobby and the street.

“Hey,” is the only reply I can think of.

“If you’re free the night after next, we’re all putting together some furniture for Silas’s girlfriend. She’s moving in down the hall.”

I blink in surprise, because it sounds like he’s asking for my help. “The singer?” I ask after a beat.

“Right. She just bought Dave Beringer’s apartment. So we could use one more set of hands. Delilah’s buying pizza afterward.”

“Oh. Sure. I’ll bring some beer,” I stammer.

“You know the address? 220 Water Street. We’re meeting up at my place. Just tell the doorman that you’re there to help with the move.”

“You got it,” I say as we step out onto the street. “I won’t forget.” But I wonder if somebody made him invite me, like it’s a middle school birthday party.

He stops when we reach the sidewalk. “Look, I’m sorry about that crack I made last night. That was egregious, and I shouldn’t have taken my personal bullshit out on you.”

Once again I’m startled, because it almost sounds like he means it. “Dude, don’t worry about it. Especially because it was true. The wife has no use for me. Dallas, though? They should know better.”

“Jesus.” Castro chokes on his laughter. “What happened there? Did they fuck up their salary cap?”

“That’s only part of it,” I admit. “After last season, there was some unhealthy scapegoating. Palacio blamed everyone but his Aunt Gertie for losing that second-round game to L.A.”

Castro sneers. “Is he as big a tool as he seems?”

I open my mouth to deny it, but then I realize I don’t have to anymore. “Let’s just say that if he’s moving furniture and having pizza, I’m finding a reason I need to be anywhere else.”

“Bummer. And you were co-captains?”

“Sure. On ice it’s different, you know? You don’t have to like a guy to play well together.”

“Uh-huh.” He looks like he doesn’t believe me, though. He’s twenty-four or twenty-five, and Brooklyn is the only big-league team he’s ever played for. He doesn’t know any different.

I’ll have to remember that.