Page 11 of Bad Teammate
Coach scurried out of the room, coughing into his fist.
The boys cheered. Niko was playing.
“Never seen that one before,” Vaughnsy said, offering me a fist bump. “Solid vet move. Respect.”
“See?” Dane asked, smiling. “That’s why every team needs an old guy like Reavo.”
“Old guy? The fuck?” I muttered. “Since when am I the old guy?”
Everybody laughed.
I went over to my roommate and smacked his cheeks a few times to wake him the hell up. “I just saved your ass, Niko. You understand? You owe us. You better score a fucking goal tonight, kid.”
“Me love score goals,” he said with anurp.
5
Derek
Hours after the game, the arena’s frenetic energy had finally fizzled into a late-night calm; the fans had left, and the arena crew busily swept and cleaned every hallway and corner.
Freshly showered and changed into a suit, I made my way to the player’s parking garage. The leather soles of my shoes clicked on the pavement. The overhead lights loudly buzzed. Somewhere, Niko straggled after me, his legs barely able to move him forward.
I spotted my car and pressed the unlock button on my key fob. The coupe flashed its fog lights and a friendly chirp echoed throughout the garage. I climbed in, fired up the engine, and waited for Niko to catch up.
A few moments later, he tossed his bag in the trunk and climbed into the cabin.
“Uuahhh,” he moaned, clutching his stomach.
“Don’t even thinkabout puking in here, Niko,” I said, speaking slowly and loudly, hoping he could somehow understand. “Brand-new BMW. Understand? You’ll ruin the leather.”
He shut his eyes and grimaced in agony.
I sighed and backed out of my parking spot. I don’t even think I was out of the parking garage before I looked over and noticed he’d dozed off.
“Hey. Wake up.” I poked his shoulder. “I’m not your chauffeur. The least you could do is stay awake and keep me company.”
But the kid wasn’t gonna wake up, no matter how hard I slugged him. He just smacked his lips and went right back to snoring with his mouth hanging open.
“You’re lucky you had a hell of a game,” I said as I punched the gas. “Otherwise, I might be tempted to leave you back there.”
I didn’t exactly have high hopes for tonight’s game after Niko’s grand entrance as the town drunk. But even with a hangover from hell, the kid could do things that the rest of us could only dream of. For sixty minutes, he laid it all out on the ice.
Late in the third, in a tied game, I’d thrown Niko a pass that was utter garbage—literally nine feet too far ahead of him and sailing chest-high through the air. (In my defense, I’m a little rusty out there after missing the past two years, okay? Sometimes, pucks can get away from you.)
With any other player, the play would’vedied thanks to my crappy pass. But Niko’s different—he’s special. He lunged forward, his entire body elongating as he desperately stabbed at the puck with only one hand on his stick. Impossible, right? But nineteen-thousand fans gasped in utter disbelief as Niko plucked the puck right out of midair. Then, picking up speed like a runaway train, he bulldozed his way through two defenders and rifled the puck right over the goaltender’s glove and into the net.
He didn’t even celebrate his goal. Didn’t have the energy for it. Instead, he coasted back to the bench, doubled over at the waist and moaning in agony.
Yeah, I’m sure Coach Q didn’t need long before he figured out what Niko’s mystery ailment was—the menthol trick could only do so much. But when a guy plays that good of a game, no coach in the world will say anything. Oh, he won’t forget, though. He’ll just bide his time instead and wait for the right moment to make his point.
After a quick drive, I pulled into my building’s parking garage. I killed the engine and tried one last time to wake Niko the polite way. But when that didn’t work, I stamped my fist into the steering wheel, blaring the car horn.
Niko woke with a jolt. He gave me a surly stare and said something in Russian that didn’t exactly sound polite.
“Right back at ya, bud,” I said. “Let’s go. We’re home.Comprende, comrade?Get outta my car.”
We got out and took the elevator. Niko couldn’t even stand for the ride to the 42ndfloor; he slumped against the polished metal of the elevator wall, his skin quietly screeching as he slowly slid down to the floor.
