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THIRTY-FOUR

Clay

“I vote to start Walcott in the net tonight,” Demski says through my laptop’s speaker. “That’s our best shot.”

I’ve braced myself for hearing this, but my stomach riots. “Take me through your thinking.”

“Hale is obviously cracking under the pressure.” He takes a swig of chocolate milk. “Putting the cocky kid in the net tonight is not ideal. But I think it’s the best call. Nothing against Hale, but he needs a mental break.”

It’s a damn good thing I packed my antacids. “So the idea is to rest him, not punish him,” I say slowly, trying out the idea.

“Exactly,” Demski agrees. “He’s got the yips, and that partly stems from trying to avoid this exact scenario. But the truth is you get benched, and nobody dies. If you play the rookie tonight, he won’t have to dread it anymore. We’ll be helping him hit the reset button.”

“We all need that sometimes,” says Murph. “I get it. But can the Walcott kid handle this? I don’t know what he’s capable of because he never shuts his mouth.”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Demski says. “This is important. You gotta change the conversation, guys. The definition of stupidity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.”

It’s not, unfortunately, the only definition of stupidity. Another definition involves getting naked with your troubled goalie and making game night even more stressful for both of you.

I’ve spent part of the last twenty-four hours beating myself up over it. Hale was in a rough place. He needed to talk. He needed a coach, a friend.

He didn’t need a blowjob. And neither did I. No matter how spectacular.

Murph asks another question, but it’s hard to concentrate on tonight’s decisions when I’m consumed by what happened last night. God, I’m such an idiot.

The call with Demski ends eventually, and Murph closes my laptop. Neither of us gets up right away, even though we’re crammed into yet another tiny stadium office that was probably meant to be a closet.

“I’ll tell Hale that we’re starting Walcott in the net,” Murph says slowly. “He deserves to hear it from us instead of reading it on the starter sheet.”

“Agreed. But you find the kid,” I say quickly. “Tell him his parents need to watch the game. I’ll go find Hale.”

I’m not looking forward to this conversation, but I won’t shrink from it.

“All right,” Murph says. “Whatever you say.”

After he leaves, I drop my head and take a series of slow breaths. I couldn’t keep my dick in my pants, so my discussion with Hale will be personal—something it should not be.

Like a prisoner heading for the gallows, I get up and head for the dressing room. I don’t spot Jethro. Instead, I see Stoney sticking his vision board to a wall with poster putty.

“Check it out, Coach! Almost everyone has chipped in. Except for you, I might add.”

Ignoring the dig, I scan the collage. It’s very elaborate. There must be over a hundred pictures, artistically pasted in overlapping patterns. The Cup features prominently, as does Cougar Blue. I take a minute to scan for inappropriate imagery. We’ll let reporters in here later, and I don’t need the bad press.

I’m not paranoid, either—someone’s vision for the team is apparently a view of Margot Robbie in her Barbie-pink bikini. But Stoney has handled this with discretion, by giving Ms. Robbie a large sign to hold that covers her breasts and torso. The sign has Sharpie text that argues for tape-to-tape passes and clean hits.

“Good work, Stoney. I hope this brings us some magic.”

“You betcha, Coach. Feel free to pitch in. I saved you a corner.” He points at the upper left side. “Everybody’s getting in on it. Even Jethro Hale gave me something today.”

“He did?”

“Right here.” He taps the board.

I squint at the images. “Is that a…?”

“Cupcake,” Stoney says. “He called it a black-bottom cupcake. He says cupcakes are very motivating. And he said this—” He taps another image. “—is a lucky symbol. And we need all the luck, so…”

I blink as I realize what the lucky symbol is. Two oak leaves. “Double Oaks,” I say slowly.

“Yeah, he told me I had to put them like that—sorta crossed in the middle.” He shrugs. “Don’t know what it means. But I’m here for it.”

I slap Stoney on the back, make an excuse, and walk away quietly.

But it’s loud inside my head. Before Jethro came back into my life, I assumed he’d forgotten all about me. I would have bet he’d never remember the name of our old apartment complex, which was not the most memorable spot on Earth.

He remembers plenty, though. And he wants me to know it.

And, damn. It was easier to stay professional when I thought he didn’t care.

After ten minutes of searching for him, it seems like he’s nowhere in the arena. My last stop is the sharpening room, and there he is, standing at the sharpener, testing the edge of a blade with his thumb.

I stop short in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

He looks up calmly. “Sharpening my skates. You’ve heard of it?”

“You still do it yourself?”

“If you want something done right…” He tests the blade again and turns off the machine. “You looking for me?”

I glance at Banks, our young equipment guy. “Give us a minute?”

Wide-eyed, Banks slides out the door and closes it with a solid click.

“It’s about the game tonight,” I say, bracing myself.

Jethro looks calmer and more rested than I feel. He obviously got some sleep last night. Our Montreal rooms weren’t adjoining, thank God, but I’d spent the night tossing and turning, alternating between stress dreams about the game and sex dreams involving Jethro. Takes a rare man to mix those up on a single night, so I guess I’m special.

“Just tell me,” he says quietly.

I swallow. “We’re starting Walcott.”

“All right.” He tests the blade again.

“It’s not personal,” I blurt.

He glances up, and his expression hints at amusement. “Jesus, Clay. I know that. Not born yesterday.”

“Okay. Thank you.” I stand there awkwardly for another beat before I realize that’s all we need to discuss. “Um, see you later.”

He smiles and shakes his head, as if I’ve done something amusing. “Later.”