Page 21

TWENTY-ONE

Clay

The team is in high spirits after the Trenton game, and I get suckered into paying for drinks in the hotel bar. One of my players has braced his iPad on the bar, replaying the Trenton vs. Trenton fight on a continuous loop while the bartender scowls.

Across the room, Stoney and one of the rookies are doing shots of top-shelf tequila, while my credit card gently weeps from behind the bar.

The fact is we’re the talk of the town, and we’re on a winning streak. I should be elated right now. Instead, I just keep shooting glances toward the entrance to the bar, watching for Jethro.

I really fucked up with him. I gave him a tongue-lashing the other night, because I was mortified that he’d seen me in a vulnerable moment. But a coach can’t do that.

If I wanted your help, I’d ask for it . He threw those words back at me tonight, and I totally deserved it.

Now he’s avoiding the bar, which isn’t a good move for a guy who still isn’t gelling with his teammates. So that’s probably my fault, too.

“Still not here,” says Murph, who’s suddenly at my elbow.

I turn to him so fast that pain stabs my neck. “Who are you looking for?”

“Hale.” Murph shrugs. “Same as you, right?”

Fuck. Am I that transparent? “I just wondered if he was going to put in some face time with his team.”

“Same,” Murph grumbles, handing me a fresh drink. “Does he think he’s too good for us? I already texted him my displeasure.”

Hell. I really need to apologize to Hale. “Thanks for the scotch,” I mutter, eager to get off the subject of Hale. Whenever his name comes up with the coaching staff, I can never figure out where to rest my gaze or my hands.

“You bought the scotch,” he says cheerily. “Figured you might as well drink some.”

I sigh. Then I take another sip.

“So what are we gonna do about Hale?” Murph asks. “He played like a rookie tonight.”

My answer is cautious. “The trade is still raw. We have to appreciate that it’s been disruptive to his life and obviously his game.”

“He’d better figure it out fast,” Murph says with a sigh. “This happens in hockey, right? And Liana is a miracle worker. I’m sure she’s getting the family situated. Although the week between Christmas and New Year’s is a weird time to move.”

“That’s right,” I agree. “A weird time.” I don’t add that everything is more complicated when it’s Hale. Everything.

“What’s up, gentlemen?” Kapski asks, sidling over to us.

“Not Jethro Hale,” Murphy snorts. “He should be here with the team. You seen him?”

Kapski frowns. “Nope. He didn’t sign autographs with us after the Brooklyn game, either. Does he not get that he should show his face?” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and taps the screen a few times, then lifts it to his ear.

I take another gulp of scotch. Isn’t there anything else we could be discussing? Another player? The shitty visitors’ dressing room in Trenton? Our golf handicaps?

“No pickup,” Kapski says. “The balls on that guy.”

I’m familiar with his balls , offers up my stupid brain.

“Welp.” I set my glass down. Somehow, it’s already close to empty. “I think I’m done for the night.” I tell Murph, “Cut the rest of the guys off in another half hour and make them go to bed. And be sure to get my credit card back.”

“Will do,” he says. “What’s left of it anyway.”

As I head for the elevator bank, I unpocket my phone and pull up the travel manifest. Hale is staying on the fourth floor, same as me.

On my way up in the elevator, I have a terrible thought. What if he picked up a woman? Maybe there’s a reason he’s too busy to come down to the bar.

My stomach bottoms out as I walk to room 407. Maybe this was a terrible idea.

When I pause at his door, I hear him talking on the other side. “I’m sorry this is so hard, Toby,” he says, sounding exhausted. “It’s not the scenario I would have chosen for us. But you can handle it. I know you can. It’s going to be okay.”

Oh hell . Talking his kid off a ledge isn’t a scenario I’d anticipated.

“Good night, buddy,” he says. “We’ll talk again tomorrow.” And then it’s quiet again.

I count to three and then knock. He won’t be happy to see me, but I need to do the right thing and apologize.

The door flies open. He must have been standing right on the other side. “Coach,” he says.

I give him a quick scan, noting he’s wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants.

“Something you needed to discuss?” he asks. “Or did you come by to tell the dinosaur to take a Centrum Silver and go to sleep early.”

I snort. Then I push past him into the room and close the door behind me.

“Look,” I say. “This will only take a second. I need to apologize to you on a couple of points—the first one being that you are not a fucking dinosaur.”

Goddamn stupid insult haunts me.

Goddamn his ripped abs, too, mocking me from a few feet away. And the happy trail running straight down from his navel.

And most of all—goddamn what my first coach called my acute visual memory . Seeing him in front of me every day? Torture .

He folds his arms, and I try not to watch the muscles bunch in his chest. “Well. Spit it out so I can get back to worrying about my kid and his freak-out over going to a new school. Then you can go back to ignoring me.”

“I’m not ignoring you!” Then the three whiskies in my bloodstream make me add, “Like that’s even an option. If it was, I’d take it. Every time I’ve spoken to you, I’ve fucked up. And I realize I’m making it impossible for you to have a functional relationship with the team. And to, like, socialize with us.”

He blinks. “Nobody cares if I play darts with the rookies, Clay.”

“Not true.” I shake my head. “Kapski and Murph are hoping you start showing your face. Maybe some more interaction would…” I pause, because I don’t trust the whisky to give decent coaching advice to a struggling player.

“Would what?” he demands. “Would make me suck less? Maybe it wasn’t pretty, but we won the damn game. Why can’t that be enough?”

“Is that enough for you, though?” I demand, taking a step forward. “Is this how you want the season to go?”

“ No .” His expression darkens even further. “But I don’t get a fucking vote. Nobody asked what I wanted, did they? Not your GM, not my old coach, not my wreck of a sister. Nobody in the whole fucking world gives a flying crap how I wanted this season to go. But I’m doing my goddamned best anyway.”

He slams his jaw shut, and I note two things. One, that’s the most I’ve heard him say in a long, long time. And two, we are standing very close. I can see the flecks of gray in his green eyes. His breath warms my face as his bare chest rises and falls with poorly contained emotion.

“Are you okay?” I whisper, taking a step back.

He takes a step back, too. Looks away. Collects himself. “Yeah, Clay. I’m just trying to play some hockey and get through the day. I don’t know why you find it so hard to deal with me.”

“You don’t know? ” I laugh awkwardly. “Maybe we should put you through the concussion protocol, because nobody’s memory is that bad.”

He waves his hands around. “It’s been fifteen years since…” More hand waving. “Our whatever.”

“ Our whatever ,” I repeat slowly. “That’s the sum total of your memory of me. Got it.” I’m trying really hard not to get mad. But in order to actually get past our damn past, I need to acknowledge it. I need him to acknowledge it too, but I guess he’s incapable of doing that.

“Come on, man,” he says heavily. My frustration must be painted on my face. “I was a twenty-two-year-old bozo with the emotional range of a rubber band. You can’t still be holding a grudge.”

“A grudge ?” My voice goes high. “You make it sound like I’m hung up because you ate the last cookie in the jar. Or you borrowed my favorite socks without asking.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“Didn’t you? The problem is that I would have given you the cookie, the jar, and all the damn socks. I would have given you everything. Don’t try to tell me I dodged a bullet. I always thought you were worth it. That’s why I trusted you with my… with everything . But when it ended, you blocked my number.”

His eyes widen. “Shit, I did? ” He looks bewildered. As if he’d forgotten that detail. “God, I’m?—”

“No, don’t apologize,” I say quickly, holding up my hands in surrender. “I recognize that we didn’t have the same experience back then. I am not telling you how to feel. I’m just trying to explain—but not excuse—my nasty reaction to your turning up. It took me a long time to bounce back from our breakup. Because that’s what it was to me, okay? The end of something special.”

He looks so flustered that I’m worried he’ll bolt from the room. For both our sakes, I hurry to spit the rest of it out. “Again, it’s not on you. And I won’t bring it up again. But I’m sorry I was a dick the other night before the Brooklyn game. I’ve gone fifteen years without talking to anyone in hockey about…everything that happened. Because hockey doesn’t work that way. Isn’t that how you put it?”

“Shit,” he whispers, his eyes wide. “That sounds like something I’d say.”

“Yeah, and you weren’t wrong.” I take a gulp of air, fighting my way toward the finish line. “But after a decade and a half, one of my players finally gets his guy. So I’m having a really interesting week. If I took it out on you, I’m deeply sorry.”

He swallows. “Apology accepted.”

“Thank you,” I say stiffly. “Good win tonight. We’ll talk more about your game later. But I’m not sorry you’re on my team. You’re an extremely talented player. I’ve always admired you, and I still do. Thanks for letting me say all that.”

His head jerks with a nod of agreement. So I give him what’s intended to be a friendly wave, and I leave his room.

The sound of the door closing behind me is the sound of relief.