“I couldn’t date Easton,” I say. “He’s a client.”
The girls all grin. “So you have thought about it,” Maya says.
“Okay, maybe I have. I keep telling him we can’t date.”
“He’s asked you?” Maya nearly shouts.
“Well, yeah—for lunch yesterday.”
“But it wasn’t a date.”
“No. Or the time you went for brunch,” Carlin points out.
I roll my eyes. “That definitely wasn’t a date.”
Maya grins. “You’re in denial, girl.”
“Why can’t you date him?” Adriana asks.
“Because he’s a client.”
“Phhhht.”
“Think how awkward it would be if things didn’t work out. I’d probably lose him as a client, which means, I’d probably lose Otis. And then I wouldn’t have a famous hockey player endorsement, and what little business I’ve built would go down the sewer.”
They all nod.
“I suppose that’s true,” Carlin says.
“Also, I’m not interested in dating. Guys who find out my situation assume I’m a big loser who makes trouble with my employers, sues them when I don’t get what I want, and then lazes around waiting for the big payoff.”
Carlin winces. “Those guys you went out with were dirtbags.”
“Yeah,” Maya agrees with an emphatic nod. “You don’t know that Easton would think that.”
“He doesn’t.”
I realize what I just spilled.
“You told him?” Adriana gasps.
I rub the condensation on the glass of my beer. “Er, yeah. Not all the details.”
They all fall silent. “I don’t know, Lilly. Maybe you should see where things go with him.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want a relationship.” I pause. “I wouldn’t mind a bonefest.”
“That’s what I said!” Carlin slaps a hand on the table. “You are interested in his dick!”
“Go for it,” Maya says, lifting her margarita. “Just make sure you’re clear with him what it is.”
I shake my head. “Still a bad idea.”
Except I can’t stop thinking about it, while we change the subject to the toxic co-worker Maya’s dealing with at work; while we play Skee-Ball; while the two guys at the nearby table flirt with us again; and while Carlin and I ride the subway home. What if I give in to the temptation? Maybe…is it worth the risk?
Easton
“It was a fucking stupid play! You had eight seconds left! To try and force that through when you haven’t been scoring all game? Give me a fucking break!” Coach’s face is as red as my jersey.
Tonight, it’s my turn for his wrath. I deserve it. I screwed up. But I know I did, and I don’t need him going on and on about it. Jesus.
“Get that puck to the net, get a rebound, maybe you get it in,” he yells.
“I know,” I say. “I realize that now.” That was how the whole night went for me, trying to force things and make plays that weren’t there. “You’ve made your point. You don’t need to go on and on.”
Coach’s face tightens and his eyes bulge in their sockets at my back talk. For a moment, I think he’s going to snap the clipboard in his hands. “We’ll talk more about this Monday.” Then he turns to Jammer. “And you! You jumped into the rush and got caught deep in their end when Millar here is trying to make fancy-ass passes.”
Jammer winces. Yeah, that was another screwup. When the Florida D-man picked up my attempt at a seam pass to JBo, he slid it to their talented center Sandberg, who was off flying up the ice with his winger. Jammer’s partner on defense, Nate, was on his own chasing them. And they scored. With four seconds on the clock.
We’d been trading goals the whole game, and with four minutes left in the game, Bergie gave us the lead. That got us all amped up and we weren’t focused enough on defending that lead, especially me.
Then we lost in overtime.
There’s a rock in my gut as I strip off my jersey and my shoulder pads. I’m on the list for the media to talk to, so I’ve got to wipe the sweat off my face, grab a baseball cap to hide my soaked hair, and put on a game face in front of the cameras.
Of course they’re asking questions about the same thing Coach just gave me hell for. But I have to own it. “Yeah, sure, I want to make nice passes, but that was obviously a dumb move,” I tell the reporters. “I should have kept it simple and just chipped the puck in, got the puck to the net, and hopefully create something off that. I didn’t do that.”
I don’t bother cooling down on the bike like I usually do. I hit the shower and dress in my suit, not wanting to stick around. I don’t see Cookie, so I leave the arena and trudge to the subway station on 28th Street. I have a knit cap pulled down low over my forehead and a scarf around my chin. I don’t feel like dealing with any fans right now. Right now, I feel like kicking the tiled wall behind me.
I pull out my phone when I’m on the train and check my messages. There’s the usual text from Lilly with a picture of Otis, which she sends before she leaves. It was sent two hours ago.
I wish she was still there.
No, I don’t. I don’t need to inflict this black mood on anyone. Poor Otis will have to deal with me.
About twenty-five minutes later I’m hooking up Otis’s leash to his collar and heading back out into the night. Saturday night traffic still streams along 9A in ribbons of light and hissing tires, but Riverside is quieter. I walk toward the park, Otis happily romping and sniffing the base of the trees on the boulevard. I take a few deep breaths of chilled air, trying to loosen the tension that’s accumulated in my shoulders and neck. I’ll need a massage tomorrow for sure.
I’m trying not to beat myself up over one bad night. We all have them. In this business, we have them in front of millions of people. And one livid coach. I’ve made mistakes before and I’ll make them again. We have to learn to deal with it and put it behind us. Coach’s diatribe doesn’t make it easier to let it go, though. It makes it harder. And the last thing I want is to be afraid the next time I step onto the ice, afraid of screwing up and being in his line of fire again. Fear doesn’t make you play better. It’s not a good motivator. It’s a mental game killer.