Part 8 (1/2)
”You don't know jacks.h.i.+t about my life.”
”I know that you're bored. You need a hobby. Something to do.”
”I don't need a hobby.”
”I'm thinking you should get involved in youth hockey camp. I know from reading your fan letters that you were a positive influence in the lives of those kids.”
He looked out the pa.s.senger window and was silent for several moments before he said, ”In case you haven't figured it out, I can't skate these days.”
”When I went to that Stanley Cup final with my sister and Jules, I noticed that the Chinook coaches just stand behind the bench, act really cranky, and yell a lot. You can do that. You're good at being cranky and yelling.”
”I've never yelled at you.”
”You just yelled 'son of a b.i.t.c.h' at me.”
”I raised my voice in reaction to you almost killing me. I survived one car wreck. I don't want to be taken out now by a little person who can hardly see over the dash.”
Maybe that explained why he was so horrible when she drove him around. He was terrified of another car crash. Of course, that didn't explain his a.s.shole behavior at home. ”I can see perfectly fine and I'm five-one and a half.” She stopped at a red light and looked across the car at him. ”In order to be considered a little person and attend the annual LPA national convention, I'd have to be four-ten or under.”
He turned and faced her. Both his brows rose above the frames of his sun-gla.s.ses.
”What?”
He shook his head. ”You know the height requirement of little people?”
She shrugged and glanced up at the traffic light. ”When you grow up with kids calling you a midget, you look these things up.”
He chuckled, but she wasn't amused. The one time he decided to laugh, it was at her. The light changed, and she put her foot on the gas pedal. Once again he'd managed to change the subject. ”One of the letters I answered yesterday was from Mary White. You coached her son Derek.”
He turned and looked out the pa.s.senger window once more. He was quiet for a few seconds, then said, ”I don't remember a Derek.”
She didn't know if that was the truth or he was just trying to shut her up. ”That's a shame. The impression I got from his mother was that you were a great coach.”
”Sometime today, you need to program my phone,” he said, subject closed. ”I'll give you a list of names and you can look the numbers up.”
She'd drop the subject. For now. ”Programming a cell is really easy.” Because his phone was lost and he hadn't backed up his numbers to the Ver-izon secure site, he'd lost everything. Yeah, it was easy, but finding all his numbers and programming them into his phone would take time. Time that she would rather spend plowing through the fan letters. ”You can do it.”
”I don't get paid to do it,” he said as they pulled into the garage. ”You do.”
When they walked into the house, a cleaning service was there vacuuming and was.h.i.+ng all those windows. Mark scribbled a list of names, then handed her his cell. ”That will get you started,” he said, then disappeared into the elevator.
Chelsea plugged in the phone to give it a good charge before she turned to Mark's computer and got back to work. While she answered a fan letter, an e-mail popped in his personal inbox. In case it was a Realtor, she opened his e-mail program. The return address caught her eye, and she opened it.
Coach Mark, it read. it read.
My mom let me read what you wrote I hope you get better really soon I've been practicing my stops like you tot me I'm getting good you should see.
Derek White Derek White? How had the kid managed to get ahold of Mark's e-mail ad-dress? Wasn't he like eight? If he'd been older, she might be scared. As it was, she was slightly alarmed.
Derek, she wrote. she wrote.
Good to hear from you. I don't know if I'll be at hockey camp this year. If I can't, I'll miss you too. I'm glad o hear that you are practicing and I'd love to see how good you are getting.
Coach Mark P. S. How did you manage to get my e-mail address?
EIGHT.
Friday afternoon, Mark looked forward to a day of doing nothing besides watching junk TV. As was true with his life lately, there seemed to be a conspiracy to change his plans. ”That double overtime against Colorado in the regular season was grueling. One of the toughest games I've ever played,” Sam Leclaire said as he raised a bottle of Corona to his lips. The light in the room caressed the black and purple s.h.i.+ner smudging his right eye.
”It wasn't pretty. Especially with you sitting out a double minor,” Mark agreed as he looked at the four hockey players lounging on his couches and chairs inside the leisure room. Through the open gla.s.s doors, two more of the guys stood on the veranda outside, hitting golf b.a.l.l.s across the yard and into the thick, short hedge. Beyond the hedge was the Medina golf course, and Mark hoped they kept the b.a.l.l.s off the green or he'd hear about it from the grounds superintendent, aka Kenneth the n.a.z.i. Kenneth was just one more reason he needed to get the h.e.l.l out of Medina.
”Hensick took a dive on that one. The pansy a.s.s rolled around like a girl. He embarra.s.sed himself.”
Which might have been true, but didn't mean that Sam hadn't tripped Hensick. Then punched him for good measure and gave Colorado the power play.
The guys had shown up at his house half an hour ago, unannounced. He was pretty sure they'd organized this little trip without calling first because they knew he'd tell them not to come. He hated to admit it, but he was glad they'd shown up without warning. He'd known most of these guys for a long time. He'd been their captain, but they were more than just teammates. They were friends. Close as brothers, and he missed shooting the s.h.i.+t with them. He hadn't known how much until now.
Today they all looked rough around the edges. Like warriors who'd just survived a battle. The two defens.e.m.e.n outside looked the worst of the lot. Left guard Vlad Fetisov had a few st.i.tches in his brow, while the team's enforcer, Andre Courtoure, had b.u.t.terfly tape closing a cut on his chin. Inside the house, second-in-command, alternate captain Walker Brooks, wore a brace on his left knee. Of course there was Sam's s.h.i.+ner, but Sam always had a s.h.i.+ner. He was a good guy. Always laughing and joking, but there was something darker inside. Something he tended to work out on the ice. Which made Sam a liability almost as much as a d.a.m.n good hockey player.
”The rumor is that Eddie is leaving,” forward Daniel Holstrom informed everyone from his position on the side of the chaise. Unfortunately, Daniel had yet to shave off his playoffs beard, and the growth of blond hair on his cheeks and chin looked moth-eaten.
Sniper Frankie Kawczynski raised a bottle of Corona to his lips. ”Isn't he already playing in the Swedish leagues these days?”
”Not Eddie the Eagle. a.s.sistant coach Eddie,” Daniel clarified.
”What?” Walker looked across the room at Daniel, incredulous. ”Eddie Thornton?”
”Th.o.r.n.y?”
”That's what I hear. He's signing on as the a.s.sistant coach in Dallas.”
”Where did you hear that?” Mark wanted to know.
”Around. I bet it's true. Th.o.r.n.y never did get along with Larry,” he added, referring to the Chinooks' head coach, Larry Nystrom.
”Nystrom can be a straight-up hard-a.s.s,” Frankie said. He sat in a chair to Mark's left, a big kid from Wisconsin whose height and bulk had deceived many opposing players. Frankie was as nimble as a ballerina, with a slap shot clocked at one hundred and fifteen miles an hour. Just three miles short of the record holder, Bobby Hull. Mark had helped handpick Frankie when Mark and the late owner of the team, Virgil Duffy, had looked over the NHL draft several years ago.
Mark shrugged. ”Larry's always been a fair hard-a.s.s.”
”True,” Frankie agreed. ”But remember when he got all apoplectic and turned purple after Tampa Bay handed our b.a.l.l.s to us a couple seasons ago? I thought he was going to bust a vessel in his head and blood would shoot from his eyes.”
”Apoplectic?” Mark laughed. ”Have you been reading again?”
”Unlike most of you guys, I did spend a few years in college before I was drafted.”
As much as the guys could get on Mark's nerves, he missed the constant razzing. He pointed to his own chin and asked Daniel, ”Why are you keeping the fuzz?” He and the Stromster had played on the same front line for past six seasons. The Swede had been drafted by the Chinooks his rookie year. The same year Mark had been named captain.