Page 12 of Crush
“Your nanny's name wasEstel?” Quinton Brooks shouted from across the room, his interest apparently piqued. Brooksy is my cranky defense partner, and an even bigger pain in the ass to play against than me. “And you're wondering why Estel couldn't keep up with three young kids?”
Ilya, our Russian goalie and resident ball-buster, leered at me. “Maybe try to find a nanny closer to your children's age, rather than your own,” he joked in his thick and broken accent.
The room burst into an uproar. It didn't matter if the goaltender's insult wasn't all that funny in itself—his accent automatically made everything that came out of his mouth sound a hundred times funnier. Besides, my age—I'm thirty-seven, by the way—was the ol' reliable joke that never failed to earn a chuckle around the room.
“Ha ha. Hilarious,” I said when the laughter started to wind down. I stepped into my skates and laced them up.“For your information,Ilya, I think the nanny I'm meeting is younger, based on her resume.”
“Ooh,” Radar cooed. “Class of '72, then? Is she more of a Marilyn than an Estel?”
The room cracked up all over again.
“AMarilyn?” another teammate laughed. “Whoa there, what do you think Boomer is, a cradle-robber?”
“Actually, that's a good idea,” Lance said, butting in. “Maybe Boomer will hire some hot teen nanny? Some girl he can't keep his hands off of?”
“Teennanny? I'm thirty-seven, Lance. Do you have any idea how dumb the stuff is that comes out of your mouth?” I asked as I slipped the practice jersey on over my shoulder pads. “You guys are so dumb. Young, dumb, and full of cum. Jesus, I don't miss being a twenty-something who can only think about getting laid.”
“So whatdoyou think about?” Ilya asked.
“Yeah, Boomer, tell us what we have to look forward to when we're all dinosaurs like you,” someone else in the peanut gallery said, egging me on.
“Winning the Cup,” I answered, and my tone fell deadly serious, whether I'd meant for it or not. The effect was the same regardless: the room had fallen silent, and all eyes were on me. Play time was over.
“All I can think about is winning that Cup before I retire,” I continued. “Two more months. That's all I've got left. And now thatyouguys are finally married and done with your man-whoring days, we've got the best shot we've had in years. Yet we keep screwing around and dropping stinkers like we did last night.”
Twenty blank faces looked back at me. These were the kids I'd spent so much time mentoring, until they matured into grown men—married men, with good wives that helped keep their lives together and their home in order.Radar and Lance especially.In a way, it was kind of funny that I helpedthemfind the thing I never could.
But whatever. I'm past the point of caring about that.
I tapped my stick on the floor. “Now let's go hit the ice and put in a hard day's work.”
***
Coach kept us out on the ice longer than scheduled. He hadn't liked the way we lost our game last night, either. Too many guys looked like they'd mentally checked out and were going through the motions.
So, to end the practice, he bag-skated us—a punishment where the players have to skate from goal line to goal line, over and over, until we've skated so many laps that our bodies start to quit.
When Coach decided that we'd finally atoned for our sins and told us to hit the showers, more than a few guys were bent over clutching at their side-stitch. My teammates dragged their sorry bodies off the ice.
But I skated off the ice upright and with a smile on my face.
I might beold,as all these young guns are always so quick to remind me, but I take my conditioning seriously.
When I made it back from the shower, I heard my cell phone's chime. I swung my locker door open, rooted through my bag, and snatched up my phone.
It was the nanny. She'd sent me a few messages during our bag skate:“Hi! I'm here.”“Where are you?” “Hello? Mr. Ellis?”
I hoped she hadn't left. My thumbs busily tapped away at my screen, composing a message. “Running behind, but I'll be there soon. Sorry. My work thing ran a little long.”
“No problem. How do you take your coffee?” She punctuated the question with a wink.
“Black. But coffee's supposed to be my treat.”
I was interviewing her for the job, after all.
“Don't worry about it,” she replied. “It'll be easier to find me this way. I'll be the girl sitting by herself with two cups of coffee.”
“Okay, I'll see you soon.”
