Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(4)

There’s some wisdom in poaching a guy who helped cut off Brooklyn’s championship dreams a year ago. (And we’re told that he brings out the female ticketholders. Tankiewicz is famous for modeling the Jockers line of men’s briefs.) But does Tank have the right temperament for the job? Last season he blew his stack so often on the ice that Dallas fans had a name for his frequent outbursts, dubbing each incident a “Tank Spank.”

And if the rumors are true, Tank spanked his own captain late in the season. A scuffle between Tankiewicz and Bart Palacio may have been the impetus for Tank’s sudden trade across country.

Time will tell whether this risky trade pays off for Brooklyn. But either way, it’s going to be interesting.





Tank


“Welcome to Brooklyn.” The team’s yoga instructor reaches out a hand for me to shake.

“Thank you so much. It’s a pleasure to be here.” I’ve said that ten times in the last ten minutes.

Ariana’s grin says she knows I’m a liar. “I’m sure you remember me from this morning’s class.”

“How could I forget? My hamstrings will never forgive you.” I paste a pleasant smile on my face for the pretty lady who’s trying so hard to be nice to me. It’s not her fault that I’m at a party I never wanted to attend in a city I never asked to return to.

“In addition to making you sweat three mornings a week, I’m also the team massage therapist. We should meet in the next few days to discuss any muscular issues you’re experiencing, and to go over any therapies you require.”

“Thank you. I’ll make an appointment.” And now we’ve run out of things to say to each other. “This is a great party. Do you always kick off the season like this?”

“Every year,” Ariana says with a smile. “If I had this lawn, I’d throw a lot of parties, too.”

“Right? It’s so nice.” And it is nice, I suppose. It’s a perfect September evening, and we’re standing in the midst of a sumptuous lawn, surrounded on three sides by high walls. Rose bushes and ivy climb every stone surface. The fourth side of the lawn borders the mansion, where my new team’s owner resides with her billionaire husband.

It’s beautiful here, but I just want to go home. Except I can’t, because I don’t have one anymore.

Three months ago I’d been standing in my own damn yard in Texas. The season had just ended after a disappointing loss to L.A. My most pressing engagements were a golf outing with my teammates and a haircut.

Then my wife had said, “I think you should move out.”

And the hits just kept coming when my agent called a few weeks later. “Mark, sit down. I have to tell you something. You’ve been traded to Brooklyn,” he’d said. “Now get up again and get your things together.”

Worst summer vacation ever.

Patrick O’Doul—the captain of my new team—steps up and slings an arm around Ariana. “Everything okay over here?”

“Of course,” she says. “But if you see another tray of those crab fritters go by, feel free to flag them down for me.”

“Will do.” O’Doul wraps his arm even more tightly around Ariana. It’s a gesture that makes a loud statement. Me Tarzan. You asshole. Get away from Jane.

I hold back a frustrated groan. Okay, dude, message received. I hadn’t known that the yoga teacher and the captain were an item, but I’m not the kind of asshole who’d hit on a team employee.

Obviously, O’Doul has already made his assumptions. My shitty reputation precedes me. There’ve been nasty articles about me. The hockey blogs are spasming with gossip about my life and my sudden trade to Brooklyn.

It doesn’t help that I was traded from Dallas—the team Brooklyn hates most. None of it should matter when I’m wearing a Brooklyn jersey. But I haven’t proved myself yet. And if tomorrow’s practice goes as poorly as today’s did, it’s hard to say when I’ll get the chance.

The last three months have been a nightmare that I’m not allowed to wake up from. I know I’m supposed to keep a smile pasted on my face and just try harder. But I’m really just fucking tired. I never wanted to be the new guy in the city. Although this city isn’t exactly new to me. I’d been twenty-three the first time I got off a plane at JFK. I’d been a rookie, joining a team just across the river. Another rival of Brooklyn’s. I’ve basically spent my entire career on the two teams they loathe most.

“Have you found an apartment?” Ariana asks pleasantly.

“No, ma’am.” I sigh. “I’m in a hotel at the moment. I wanted to focus on training camp before I had to worry about permanent housing. People tell me that Brooklyn real estate is tricky.”

“It is. Have you met Heidi Jo?” Ariana beckons to a pretty blonde woman who’s been buzzing around the party. “She works with the GM. But more importantly, she’s really good at solving problems. She’ll know which real estate agent to use. Heidi! We need you over here.”

“You rang?” Heidi says, darting toward us. She’s a pretty thing, and young. “Hey! Mark ‘the Tank’ Tankiewicz! We met a long time ago at some shindig of my father’s.”

Now that she mentions it, I do have a vague recollection of the league commissioner’s daughter. “You were a teenager,” I recall. “Mouth full of braces.”