Page 9 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
“Yes, sir?”
“Maybe try smiling. Especially during post-game comments.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Don’t be sorry, but it wouldn’t hurt for you not to look like you’re contemplating whether a better weapon would be a hockey stick or a puck to knock out everyone in the room to temporarily put you out of your public-facing misery.”
I despise cameras. Video is worse. But it’s what I signed up for.
“That bad, sir?”
“I know you’d rather play without a single fan in the arena, but they’re part of the package. The press too.”
Hockey is the thing that saved me from a different audience altogether. So yeah, I’d rather play to the void.
“Or maybe don’t scowl.”
I snort a laugh.
“See, that’s more like it.”
“Just keeping focused, sir.”
I heard the fans chanting ‘Drop the Hammer,’ meaning don’t let the biscuit in the basket. I try to ignore when the classic nineties tune by MC Hammer blasts through the arena when the opposing team races the puck toward the goal.
Badaszek snaps his fingers and points at me. “I understand. But it’s okay to enjoy yourself. To have fun too.” He arches his eyebrow. “Just not too much.”
Like a good father, he presses, but not too hard. He’s present, but not smothering. The guys were right. I do go with the flow, but I also have opinions. Strong ones usually. I just keep them to myself.
Badaszek grips my shoulders and gives me a little shake and then squeezes in a fraternal way. If he could reach the top of my head, he’d probably ruffle my hair. He strides out of the room, leaving me in thoughtful silence.
When his footsteps recede down the hallway, I realize I’ve just been Badaszeked. He has the reputation for being the toughest coach in the league, but not because he’s loud or aggressive. Though he can be. He holds his players’ feet to the fire. He hangs in there with us for as long as is necessary for him to get the desired results. He’s a dad.
Haven’t seen mine in a couple of decades.
Not going to lie, I don’t mind the enthusiasm of fans and encouragement from my coach, but I keep everything close to my hockey jersey. Sometimes less is more.
I take the team flight back to Omaha where the Nebraska Knights are based—specifically a small town called Cobbiton that had available land for the arena, parking, and a veritable playground for hockey fans with a proposal for a hockey museum. Here, if it’s not corn-themed, it’s all hockey all the time. Fans call it Hockey Town.
I rarely travel with my phone. Our assistant coach, Vohn, says he likes that I’m old school. The other guys tease that I’mold, even though they’re all on my heels, some of them by mere months. Actually, Micah is in his thirties, making our captain older than me.
When I charge my phone, those little red dots glow, meaning I have missed calls, voicemails, and texts. They’re like mosquitos. If only I could swat them away.
Without so much as opening the messages, I know what they say. Reminders about the wedding this weekend. I already agreed to make an appearance out of familial obligation. My cousin Marlon is marrying a local woman. My mother—Sukie—likes to remind me that I have until thirty “to sow my wild oats.” I don’t have oats. I prefer cereal. Cereal milk specifically.
I’m hardly what anyone would call wild. Maybe a little feral at times. I don’t do late nights out or get involved in drama. That’s why Badaszek once said he’s keeping me forever. He seemed pleased about the shutout. I’m perfectly suited to the Nebraska Knights, which is a family organization rather than a flashy organization like some of the other teams. Namely, the one we just routed. They should spend more time focusing and less time fooling around. Fun is overrated.
I quickly peruse the messages. As suspected, they’re from my mother.
As my twenty-ninth birthday creeps closer, I only have so many tokens left to cash in. If I remain unmarried, my inheritance remains tied to Sukie. With frequency, she pestersme with demands to change my status. I don’t need the money, but a promise is a promise and I’d never break one. Least of all the one I made to my grandfather before he passed away.
CHAPTER THREE
Practicefor the rest of the week crawls by with brutally repetitive quick hands, lots of sauce, passing drills, and so much puck scooping I’m afraid Ted is going to bean one at Coach’s melon.
Usually, I’m the one giving a pep talk to the goalposts to work their magic, right now I need them to convince me to remain upright.
It’s a Friday night home game versus the Reno Rebels. I don’t execute as well as I did against the Kings, but my performance is serviceable with a final death overtime triumph.
