Page 96 of Well Played

Bob Plager

Maya

Can’t takemy eyes off Sourpuss Sauer as he stomps down the stairs like an old man. Thinking I was immunized to the allure of hockey hunks after a lifetime in a hockey family, the attraction whams me out of nowhere. From his first grumpy glare, I wanted to bring a smile to his face and desire into his eyes. And now? I’m confused, and afraid.

A relationship at work is anathema. So many of my past colleagues have gotten caught in a web of secrecy, emotion, and betrayal. Entanglements with coworkers, and even worse with patients, usually leads to heartbreak and sometimes professional suicide.

Glued to every move of his tall, well-muscled frame, I tell myself this is just the observation of a doctor looking at a new patient. His gait telegraphs distress and my hand itches to reachout, every molecule urging me to tell him he can be fixed. Mentally, I stiffen, pressing my feet harder against the floor, then swing my attention back to Ax, who’s rubbing his jaw, appearing perplexed at Sauer’s reaction to working with me.

Irritation clashing with Sauer’s gravitational pull, I lash out at the nearest target. “What the fuck, Ax? Why are you insisting I work with this jerk?”

Merritt Alexander’s The Iceman moniker still fits. Like ice floes, his blue orbs refract chill—hard, slippery, and unforgiving. “Sorry, Maya. He’s had plenty of therapy in the past, so I’m not sure what’s going on here. He did like Hank a lot, but people come and go.”

I used to think my emotions were permanently in check and I could handle the most difficult situation with aplomb. Who was I kidding. I’m a mess and now, my first day on the job, I’m already screwing up.

“I think he doesn’t like or respect women, professional women.”

His mouth drops open but before he can ream my ass, the cell phone in my pocket vibrates. Ax’s rings at the same time and he waves me off and turns toward the exit. I look at my screen. Dad. Guess he wants the skinny on the start of my day. I think about refusing it, but with Ax preoccupied… I slump onto a bench. “Hiya, Dad. What’s up?

“Hey honeybee, you sound down for someone on their first day. How’s it going? Find out where the bodies are buried? You and Ax getting on okay?”

What can I say. As far as Ax is concerned, our relationship is already down the toilet. But I’m a fighter. Not giving in on him, or, I guess, on that bastard Frank Sauer either.

“Everything’s fine, Dad. I’m just starting to meet people.”

“They asking about me?”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “Ax and all the brass know who I am, and I’ve only met one player so far. You didn’t come up.”

“Who’d you meet?”

I picture Sauer, disdain in his eyes and a condescending smile on his wide mouth. His face is narrow with a long jaw, eyes like pools of melted brown sugar, angled brows, stubbled chin, and brown hair in a buzz cut. He looks dangerous and grumpy at the same time. But he moves like a man of fifty rather than thirty-five. Hockey can do that to you. My dad, my uncles, even my brothers show the wear and tear on their bodies.

“Uh, Frank Sauer.”

“I’m sorry,” Dad says. “Sourpuss lives up to his moniker. I hope he wasn’t too obnoxious.”

“Well, he didn’t seem to connect us. Just furious because I’m the replacement for his favorite assistant trainer. He had a few choice words for Ax and made it clear he won’t work with me.” I can feel the heat on my cheeks as I remember the short encounter.

“Probably just as well. He’s not a guy you want to be around. Definitely doesn’t like to answer to women, although having met his mother, I’m not surprised.”

“You know his mother?”

“He was on the Bulldogs when I was coaching them. I got to know a lot of the parents. And his mother was a piece of work. All-female household as I remember, except for Frank. Dad died when he was about ten.”

I’m starting to feel a little empathy for the man. Easier to do when he’s not glowering in front of me. My own road has been filled with potholes and I don’t have patience for bullying jerks, but I do understand when the bullied become the bullies. On the other hand, why hasn’t he seen a psychologist?

“Doesn’t mean he has to take it out on me. I was just about to tell Ax to assign him elsewhere, but then we both got calls.”

“Maya, while I’d rather you weren’t in his orbit, the fact he is a team member who needs help means that you have to take him on. You’re new to the staff. Better not to roil the waters.”

I’d give him the evil eye if this was a video call. Crashes boom out in the background. Dad yells, “Break it up you two. Save all that aggression for the other team.”

That reminds me what I hate about working in hockey. After I finished my DPT at Washington University in St. Louis, I had a residency with the Blues. Four years with an AHL team burned me out, so I found a job with in a private practice in Wichita, where we worked with athletes from Wichita State as well as the local community. If the Seabirds hadn’t come with an amazing offer, I’d still be there.

Back in this adrenaline- and testosterone-fueled environment, always on guard—I wonder if I can manage the stress? I thought I could, but now I’m not so sure.

When I hear my dad back on the line, I push away the negativity. “Sorry, honey,” Dad says. “Anyway, the good news is that Chris will be in Chicago sometime in the next week. Did he tell you?”

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