“Can you pull around the corner?” Silas asked the cabbie as the car slowed down. “We need the side entrance.”
A minute later they both got out, and Leo waved off the goalie’s ten dollar bill. “You can get the next one.” He paid the fare and pulled out his shiny new team ID.
“Afternoon, boys,” the security guard said as he waved them through. “Beat Tampa.”
“We will,” Silas said, although it was iffy whether either one of them would have a say in it. Leo followed the goalie down a set of stairs and through a bright hallway beneath the stadium. They came to a stop outside a locked door. “Try your ID,” Silas suggested. “See if it works.”
With a nervous chuckle, Leo held his card up to the scanner. The light flashed green and the door clicked open.
He was in. At least for today.
“Guess I’m your tour guide,” Silas said. “Treatment rooms and the stretching gym are all the way at the end of the hall. But the locker room is in here.” Leo followed Silas into an antechamber with traditional wooden lockers. “Coat goes here, and you can hang up your suit and change. Hey—they already gave you a spot.” He opened a locker that already bore a brass-framed nametag reading TREVI. Silas pointed out a pair of black shorts and a gray T-shirt with the Bruisers’ logo. “They’ve got you all set up with a training kit. I’m gonna change.” He moved down the row to his own locker.
After they both changed into warm-up gear—pads and jerseys would come later—Leo followed Silas into the next room, which was where it all really happened. The Bruisers’ owner had built a state-of-the-art oval dressing room, where every player had plenty of room for his gear and everyone could see and hear everyone else.
Once again, he found TREVI, #55 on a locker. All his pads were here—arranged by a team minion in his locker, which was beside Castro’s. And what’s more—a jersey hung from it. Purple, of course, with T R E V I stitched on in white. It was impossible not to stare at it. His whole life he’d been waiting for this.
“You can snap a picture,” Silas said. “I won’t tell.”
“Nah.” Leo’s little sister would want him to, but Leo was too superstitious. If he got to stick around, there’d be plenty of time to get that picture later. “Where is everyone?” They were the only two in the room.
“In the treatment rooms getting stretched and taped. And in the lounge getting a bite or a protein drink. Let’s go. It’s right back here.”
They went back the way they’d come and then a bit farther down the hall toward a door marked BRUISERS PLAYERS AND STAFF ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.
Silas pushed it open, calling, “Hey, ladies. What’s for eats?”
“Taco Tuesday!” O’Doul yelled. And sure enough, there was a spread of Mexican food on a kitchen counter at the far end of the lounge. In addition to the kitchen and dining tables, there was a carpeted area with leather sofas and a big-screen TV. A half dozen players were scattered around the room, snacking and talking to one another.
“It’s Saturday, dumb-ass.” Beringer, another veteran defenseman, pinched O’Doul’s ass and then plucked something off his plate and stuck it in his mouth.
“Get your own,” O’Doul complained, sidestepping him. He sat down in the center of a leather sofa that was just off to the side of the room. “Hey, rookie!”
It took Leo a beat to realize he was being addressed. “Hey.”
“Bring me a water, would you?”
Seriously? “Sure thing,” Leo said. But then he took his sweet time. In slow motion, he turned around, locating a spoon and a carton of yogurt. He wouldn’t eat a real meal this close to game time.
When he was good and ready he crossed the kitchen to open the beverage refrigerator. “Does our captain prefer the still water or the bubbles with his cuisine?”
O’Doul snorted. “Just chuck me a bottle of the plain stuff.”
Leo took out two, then walked over to offer one to O’Doul. “Here, man. Sorry about that bullshit at the press conference yesterday. I’m not usually a loose cannon.” He locked eyes with the man and waited to see what the captain would say.
The guy studied him, giving nothing away. Leo was pretty good at reading people, but O’Doul was a tough nut to crack. He seemed to blow hot and cold on everyone. “Thanks,” he said, taking the bottle and twisting it open. Whether the gratitude referred to the water or the apology, he didn’t say. And then the captain looked past him, watching someone else come through the door. “Bayer! How’s the shoulder feel?”
Dismissed. Ah, well. He’d tried.
Leo took a seat at one of the tables. But as he ate, he listened to the conversations around him. The most interesting part was the discussion of Bayer’s injury.
“Got a massage after warm-ups, but it’s still a little sore. The trainer wants me to sit out another game,” Bayer complained. “But I don’t need it. We both talked to Coach, but I don’t know what the new guy’ll decide.”
A silence fell over the room as all the smack talk died. While Leo had probably the worst case of new-guy anxiety, the truth was that every guy here would be a little on edge today. A new coach could shake things up in ways that wouldn’t be appreciated.
O’Doul looked at his watch. “I say we hit the soccer early.” He stood up. “Let’s go.”
To a man, everyone stood up and followed him out. So Leo pounded the rest of his water and brought up the rear of the procession. The parade of hockey players threaded the length of the hallway until O’Doul pushed through a door marked LOADING DOCK. By the time Leo got through it, the guys were already forming a circle on the concrete floor. The room was cavernous and cold, due to a set of garage doors lining one side. But Leo felt his spirits lift as he stepped into the circle of men, each of them dressed identically to him in Bruisers warm-up gear. He felt the age-old tug of being on a team, with a common goal and a common enemy.
And elimination soccer was a blast, anyway.
“Heads up, boys,” O’Doul said with a grin. Then he dropped the ball to his sneaker and popped it across the circle to Bayer. Who headed it to Silas. Who kicked it to Beacon, the starting goalie.
Who went for it with a knee. And missed.
“Aww!” the men yelled together.
“I’m savin’ it for later!” the goalie protested, but he backed out of the circle with a smile.
Leo gave over his consciousness to this silly pursuit. He headed the ball to O’Doul the first time it came to him. He managed a good knee bump the next time. The rules of elimination soccer were simple: the ball doesn’t touch the floor. And smack talk is a hundred percent legal, and encouraged.