Page 1 of The Alternate Captain
He’s been fighting again.There’s a fresh wound above his eyebrow, which tells me it wasn’t just a scrap. It was a full-on fight—helmet and gloves removed.
“How did you get that scar?” I ask him. We’re both aware of my stance on fighting, but I want to hear him say it. I want him to tell me he’s being reckless. “Mike? Answer me.”
“It’s just part of the game,” he says, turning and moving to the fridge. He rummages around in the salad drawers before returning to the counter with a pile of pre-chopped vegetables and a pack of chicken. He reaches for a wok that’s lying upside down on the draining board, then he sets it on the hob before lighting the gas. “You’re singing to yourself again. People will think you’re crazy.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Okay, fine. It’s a paper cut,” he says. I scowl at his reply. “What do you want me to say?” I cock my head to the side and stare at him. He’ll back down before I do. “Okay, fine. We were down a goal and I needed to apply some pressure. Get the guys riled up. That’s how it is.”
Sadly, I understand, but this hasn’t always been the case. I’d never known him to fight before he joined his current team. In fact, I’d say he was more of a peacekeeper.
“The captain put you up to it, didn’t he?” I say, widening my eyes.
“Not really.”
“What do you mean, not really?” I stand up from the barstool and step around the counter, pulling his face towards me so I can inspect it.
“Get off me, damn it.” Mike wriggles free before grabbing a spatula from the drawer under the hob.
“Have you had it checked?”
“It’s a cut. Calm your tits.”
Sighing, I make my way back to the counter, accepting defeat. “I just don’t like it.”
“It’s part of the game.” He chuckles softly, which pisses me off even more.
He calls himself ‘The Enforcer’. I call him an idiot.
“Anyway,” he says, tossing some chicken into the wok, “I thought since you were on my side of town, you’d want to come to the game.”
“It’s still a no,” I say.
My usual excuse sits along the line of not wanting to get the bus all the way across the city to freeze my ass off and watch him fight a grown man over the possession of a piece of rubber. I can think of better things to do with my Saturday night.
He stirs and shakes the wok before setting it down. He reaches for an envelope that’s stashed next to the microwave and tosses it towards me.
“Would you hate me if I didn’t come?” I ask.
“Nah, I already hate you, so it makes no difference.” He smirks.
I haven’t been to one of Mike’s games in a long time. Not since he took a check to the head a few years back. I hold his linemate fully responsible for it since he was the one the checkwas intended for. I’m certain of this because I re-watched the footage repeatedly. I wanted closure. Instead, I got more riled up. Mike was out for two weeks. And he ended up losing two teeth that game.
He clears his throat. “It’s a big game, though, Kel. I mean, it’s been a few years since we’ve made the playoff finals. I think we’ve got a chance this year.” His tone is serious, and I watch him as he tosses veggies into the wok, an intense expression on his face.
“You say that every single year,” I say, taking a gulp of my water.
“And you say that every single year.”
I roll my eyes. “I need to prep for tomorrow.”
“No, you don’t. It wouldn’t surprise me if you could play those pieces without even looking at the sheet music.”
But I’m an over-preparer. At least I try to be. And I couldn’t live with myself if I spent the evening before my audition chilling—or turning into a block of ice—with no preparation.
I watch Mike cook as I consider my options. I mean, I could watch his game, but I’d be going alone since I don’t know anyone else and the likelihood of Tom or Sally making their way across the city at short notice is slim to none.
I open my mouth to speak, but Mike answers the question I haven’t asked.
