Page 68 of Punchline
He exhaled sharply. “Come on. I’m your teammate, and I’m your friend. What’s going on?”
I chewed my lip and stared at the floor between us for a moment. I mean, he wasn’t wrong—if there was anyone I could talk to about this, it was Marek. It took a minute or so for me to pull my stupid thoughts into some kind of order, but I finally did, and I looked at my teammate. “What if I lose my career and my boyfriend because I fucked up by punching that guy?”
His eyebrows jumped and his lips parted. Then he rolled his eyes, and the look he gave me was similar to the one he’d given Jake over the racoon roid rage. Equal parts“are you fucking serious?”and“oh, you sweet, sweet dumbass.”
“Why would you think either of those things?” he asked, and he sounded genuinely confused.
“Because I’m down for weeks when the team needs me?” I shrugged. “Because my boyfriend-slash-fighting-coach got a front row seat to me… ” I flailed my uninjured hand. It didn’t matter how many times Jake had reassured me that I hadn’t screwed up and that an injury like mine wasn’t that uncommon. Maybe I was just too raw about everything tonight because I was so painfully aware of the precariousness of my career. Even though I’d seen countless players come back from longer recoveries, I couldn’t shake the certainty that I’d broken more than some bones that night. I felt stupid for being this insecure, but… I also felt this insecure, and it fucking sucked.
With an exasperated sigh, Marek put a hand on my shoulder. “Berns. Listen to me. First—hockey. You’re not going anywhere.” He emphasized that with a sharp shake of his head. “Coach said the other day this—playing without you—is just good practice for when the Aces finally call you up and keep you.”
I blinked. “He… He did?”
“Yes. And Coach doesn’t bullshit about things like that.”
A glimmer of hope tried to break through, but then my heart sank, as did my shoulders. “But this is exactly when I need to shine. I need to be playing top-notch right the hell now so the powers that be notice me and call me up.” I exhaled hard. “Not sitting on the bench because… ” I gestured with my cast hand.
That earned me another of Marek’s“God, you are so stupid”looks. Not in a mean way—in the way he looked at Jake about the racoons or at Carson about pretty muchanything. Pity, surprise, and some affection. A very Marek look if there ever was one.
Shaking his head again, he said, “Theyhaveseen you. Youhavebeen shining. Injuries happen.” He paused. “And one of the assistant coaches from the Aces was in the locker room the other day. I heard him telling Coach they were glad to see you showing some grit. That’s what they’ve been waiting for you to develop.”
I straightened. “Wait, so they were happy to see me fight? Even with… ” I waved my cast again.
“Yes, they were.” Marek chuckled. “You punched that fucker hard enough to break your hand. That shows some grit. That’s what they’ve been waiting for you to develop down here in the PHL. Once you’re healed and playing again—assuming you don’t make the roster at training camp this year, you’ll be one of the first to get called up when they need someone. You’ll see.”
Swallowing hard, I tried not to cling too hard to that possibility. But I mean, how could I not? Marek had made peace with being in the minors for the rest of his career, but he had an excellent hockey IQ. His ability to read players—to gauge their development and potential—meant that coaching was almost certainly in his future. He also wasn’t the type to blow smoke up someone’s ass; he wasn’t a bullshitter, and he also didn’t like to give people false hope. Telling a player he was bound for the big leagues was great for the ego in the moment, but realizing later that it wasn’t true could be a slow, crushing form of devastation.
So when Marek said I was likely to be called up—that I might even make the Aces’ roster at training camp—I believed him.
“Now,” he went on, “as for your boyfriend.” He tsked and rolled his eyes. “That man”—he jerked his chin towardthe living room where we’d left our boyfriends—“is an idiot sometimes. He’s… Well, an idiot. But even he isn’t stupid enough to let you go.”
That got a tentative laugh out of me. “You really think… I mean, even after?—”
“You haven’t done anything wrong, Berns.” Marek rolled his eyes, squeezed my shoulder, and let me go. “You got hurt. It happens. The team isn’t holding it against you. The coaches aren’t holding it against you. And for fuck’s sake, that man who is ridiculously in love with you isn’t holding it against you.”
Heat rushed into my face. “You think he’s?—”
“Kecáš kraviny.” He gave my shoulder a shove. “Yes, dumbass. Don’t be an idiot. Of course he’s?—”
Outside, something crashed. There was a skittering sound, followed by some squeaking. Then another crash.
Marek closed his eyes and pushed out a breath through his nose.
“What was that?” Carson called from the living room.
Marek groaned. Then he headed for the door, “It’s the fucking racoons again!”
I laughed, grateful to be out of my frustrated teammate’s crosshairs, and followed him out to chase away the trash pandas.
CHAPTER 22
JAKE
Things with Dimon came to a head when the tickets arrived. Viacertified mail, the shit. Even better—or worse, depending on your perspective—they were delivered to the gym during one of my shifts, so I had to stop class to sign for the envelope. I threw it into the office and tried to forget about it, but Carson arrived before I could get rid of it. And opened it.
“Dude, holy shit!” he burst out as I walked into the office after class, two shiny rectangles in his hand. “Look what he sent you!”
“Opening my mail is a federal offense,” I informed him as I reached for the—yeah, shit, they were tickets.
