Page 8 of My Wife
I grunt.
“Was the naughty step really that bad?”
I tighten the laces on my trainers and get in line for the equipment rotation.
Crouched, I sense a figure looming over me. If Grimaldi is trying to assert himself in the pecking order—seriously, what is it with the chicken stuff today?—he has another thing coming.
When I glance up, Badaszek gives me a nod. Rising to my feet, I stand several solid inches taller than him and am not easily intimidated, except by arguably one of the greatest coaches that has ever lived—and fatherhood. That has me running like a chicken with its head cut off.
Giving my head a little shake, I dismiss those foolish thoughts and lengthen my spine. “Morning, sir.”
He nods mildly. “During your hiatus, did you get everything sorted out?”
“Everything?” I ask dumbly.
His tone is firm when he replies, “Yes. Everything.”
I blink a few times, much like the kid looking at me wide-eyed this morning. I got nothing sorted out.
The recent stress, impairing my judgment, may have been what got me temporarily put in a time-out.
Wait. Badaszek can’t know about the kid, can he?
“Sir, nothing like what happened during the game against the Titans will happen again.”
His gaze penetrates me for one long moment as if he’s measuring the truth in my words.
I can assure him that my laughter was a one-time-only event. Nothing in my life is remotely funny right now—wasn’t then either, but I may have had a hysterical break from reality for thirty seconds that resulted in me laughing at the coach in front of the entire team.
Not my finest hour, never mind the fact that I never laugh at anything. Ever.
Badaszek says, “You signed up for this knowing full well how things work.”
“Yes, sir, of course.”
Unlike some teams, the Nebraska Knights are not party boys. We’re men built for a gladiator sport and are expected to show up for practice and games prepared not just to give one hundred percent. No, Badaszek requires two hundred percent. I bring three hundred.
That’s not to say we don’t have fun, but you won’t find any of our guys “playing the field.” Puck bunnies aren’t welcome. The general debauchery sometimes found among high-paid athletes is not tolerated.
Or else.
I won’t lie and say I haven’t had a few flirtations in the past—the kid being a prime example of that. However, I can promise I won’t be having that kind of fun in the future. The results of Pam’s burning me, means I don’t want or plan on having so much as a fling or a relationship. The end.
“Glad that we’re on the same page,” Badaszek says and walks to the front of the room, where he addresses the team in an uncharacteristically cheerful voice.
As he scans Group C, he pauses on me, making me feel jumpy inside—a rarity. If I were to describe myself in a few words, it would be “Rock Solid.” If someone asked my brother Hendrix, he’d call me the golden boy. Ingrid, our sister, would say I’m Mr. Muddy Boots and to skate faster. As if.
Usually, nothing rattles me.
But I’ve been shaken—like a snow globe—on this chilly winter day and I can’t figure out which way is up. Right now, I feel like I’m sliding down a slippery chute like in the popular board game. Would the kid like that? Is he old enough to play or would he chew on the pieces?
Too bad he didn’t come with a manual. My mother would know these things, but then she’d also have to know she’s a grandmother and that makes me feel like the ice is cracking beneath my feet.
Badaszek demands my attention when he continues, “Glad you all joined us today. As you know, I’m in the business of making not just a good team, but a great one. Exceptional. Stanley Cup winners.”
The guys cheer.
“Someone in your life gave you the, ‘You’ll never make it to the NHL’ talk, or maybe it was a voice in your head casting doubt. Yet here you are. In five, ten, fifteen years, when you’re retired, don’t be stuck with coulda, shoulda, woulda’s. Be like a hockey puck. Hard, fast, and dangerous if you hit someone in the face.”
