Page 75 of Cold Feet
"So, what's on your agenda this week? How many disasters do I need to create to keep you busy?"
I rolled my eyes, grateful for the lighter tone. "Please, no disasters. I'm still dealing with Nick Fosse's accidental livestream from that club in Ybor City."
"Hey, at least you've trained us well. He kept his clothes on thewholetime."
"Small miracles," I laughed. "I've got the usual Monday chaos. Planning for the community skating event on Thursday, finalizing media credentials for the opener, media training with the new trade, Axel Blackwood about his post-game interviews." I gave Cam a sideways glance. "You know he only gives one-word answers, right?"
"That's because he hates the spotlight," Cam replied. "Always has. Give him a box of caps to sign for kids, he'll stay for hours. Put a microphone in his face, he transforms into a monosyllabic hockey robot."
"Well, this hockey robot needs to be more articulate if we want national coverage on how happy he was to be traded to the Slashers."
"Good luck with that. I'm not sure 'happy' is in his wheelhouse."
"Yeah, he has a bit of a reputation," I said.
"He's a hell of a player. Always had some challenges off the ice, though."
"Yeah, I've been warned. What about you?" I asked. "Besides working with Rocco?
"Early skate, film review, probably get my ass handed to me by Dr. Peters for that hip flexor thing again."
"From a fight you didn't need to get into," I reminded him. "Pre-season games aren't worth a strained hip, Cam."
"Asshole cross-checked Zayne from behind," Cam said simply, as if that explained everything. And in a way, it did. Cam's loyalty, especially to teammates, was absolute and unwavering.
"And don’t forget the meeting with Redline on Thursday!!!!" I did a little happy dance for Cam in the passenger seat, and my voice went up about three octaves when I mentioned the sneaker meeting.
He laughed. “How could I?”
As we approached the Sunshine Skyway Bridge, I leaned forward slightly in my seat. On a clear day, the drive across the massive yellow cable-stayed bridge was one of my favorites in Florida – a spectacular view of Tampa Bay stretching to the horizon, the funny excitement of rising 200 feet above the sparkling water. Like a slow-moving roller coaster.
"Wow," Cam said, slowing as we joined the line of cars preparing to cross. "This traffic is worse than usual."
I checked the time on my phone. "Almost 8:00. This is pretty bad, even for rush hour. I wonder what's going on..."
"Might be an accident," he concluded, peering ahead. "I think I see flashing lights."
As we inched onto the bridge, an official-looking orange sign confirmed his theory: "ACCIDENT AHEAD. SINGLE LANE. EXPECT DELAYS."
"Great," I sighed. "We're going to be late."
"Could you please text Rocco and let him know we're stuck in traffic on the bridge," Cam asked. "He'll let Sully know. I don't want to get fined for being late to practice, especially not with the Redline deal hanging in the balance."
"Already on it," I said, fingers flying across my phone. "You've never been late to practice, have you?"
"How do you know that?" He looked at me inquisitively.
"I know all," I tease. "I literally get reports on everything you guys do because I have to know everything, all the time so I don't look like a deer in headlights when some reporter decides to surprise me with a question about somebody's secret baby or whether that hamstring injury is going to sideline so-and-so for the rest of the season, or, or, or...
Cam raised his eyebrows for comic effect, "Who's got a secret baby?"
I rolled my eyes at him, "You're terrible."
"Well, yes, but I've only been late to practice once in my life since I started peewee hockey and I don't have a secret baby."
"Once?"
"Yeah," he answered, eyes on the road. "I was late to practice once, back in college."
