Page 14 of Offside

“I guess.” Cale nods in agreement. “Getting kind of tired of the single life though. Only so much clubbing you can do until it becomes boring as fuck.”

“Dude, then you’re doing it wrong,” says a voice from the other side of the weight room. We both look over to see one of our forwards, Dane Axelrod, geared up in sweats and a T-shirt and pushing through the locker room doors.

He walks over and claps us both on our backs, smiling broadly to show off where a tooth used to be missing. Looks like he had some dental work this summer because he now has a complete set of pearly whites.

“Hey, Ax. Good to see you, brah,” Cale says, clasping his hand in greeting. They do their usual convoluted handshake that ends with both of them bent over at the waist and clapping each other’s hands like a climbing ladder until their hands are on the other guy’s head and they ruffle their hair. I shake my own head and grumble at their ridiculousness. Maybe someday they’ll grow up.

“How was your summer, boys?” Ax asks, stepping up onto one of the treadmills to begin an easy jog.

“Mine was okay. It’d have been better without this.” Cale pats his knee and Ax nods in sympathy. “I’d have rather had Keener’s summer plans though. Didn’t you go fishing somewhere in Bali?” Cale asks me.

“Baja, then Fiji. Did some golfing, too.”

“Whoa, epic, dude,” exclaims Ax, his expression reminding me just how young he still is. He was drafted at nineteen and he’s only twenty-one or two now. “Bet you caught a lot more than fish down there, eh?”

“Just hope it wasn’t a STI,” Cale teases with a wink as he leans over and smacks my bare leg.

Axelrod laughs. “Yeah, man. Good thing we get tested before the season starts so they can put you on some antibiotics, Keeners.”

I ignore their stupid commentary about my sexual health because I know I have nothing to prove and nothing to worry about.

Yes, I had all summer to sleep around with bikini-clad single women, but did I?

No, because none of them were Karis.

Something about Karis Spurlock has fucked me up in the head and messed with my mojo.

And I don’t know what to do about it.

6

Karis

“I think you’ll be happy with the trade we just acquired,” I say in an over-bright voice while running a brush through my uncle’s stark white hair.

It had been a salt-and-pepper gray until he fell into this coma, brought on by the anoxic brain injury when he was in surgery and deprived of oxygen. It may be snowy white now, but it’s still the same thick head of hair he was always so proud of.

I set the brush down on the bedside table and adjust Marv’s covers. We moved him from a rehab facility in Seattle back to his home in late April, right after the Vikings lost in the first round of the finals. Moving him after the team lost gave me the opportunity to spend the time needed to find suitable round-the-clock in-home care. Although not easy to find, the task is made a lot less difficult when money is no object.

In fact, I’d been referred to the company by the Viking’s head trainer, so I knew it was a reputable business. The owner and ARNP, Daria Rupp, is a godsend and has made the considerable number of decisions I’ve had to make less draining on me emotionally with the caring guidance she provides.

I bend over and place a kiss on Marv’s forehead. Having been confined to a bed for months—hooked up on a dialysis machine, ventilation, and feeding tubes—he has aged so much and looks much older than his sixty-two years. I gently stroke his hair and talk to him as if nothing were amiss and we’re just having a normal, everyday conversation.

While it’s rare for someone to remain in this type of coma for so long, I made the decision that I thought was best and am giving Marv the care I know he deserves. I consulted with numerous doctors and specialists along the way and came to the conclusion that they all differed on whether Marv can hear me or even comprehend what I’m saying.

But I still continue to hold my one-sided conversations because it helps me to talk through the team changes. By sharing the details and keeping him informed, I feel less alone and not like I’m shouldering the burden of two teams on my own.

I hold out hope that Marv will pull through soon. He’ll wake up, breeze through rehab as if nothing ever happened, and resume his ownership responsibilities, relieving me of my temporary duties.

It’s what I have to believe in order to get through this tragedy without curling up in a ball and drowning myself in tears of grief. Marv’s the only one I have left in this world and I can’t bear the thought of him gone, leaving me a complete orphan. No parents. No family. Just me.

I continue to elaborate on the recent team changes for the Vikings that Nate and our new head coach, Conner Thomas, worked out with me. “We were able to lock down Nils Lundren from the Nighthawks with a one-year contract. If you remember, he became a free agent at the end of last season. Nate mentioned you were eager to get him signed when he became eligible.”

Nate, Conner, and I met early last week, right before training camp began, and ran through our roster, all subject to change when we cut the list in half after training camp. Conner—a thirty-year veteran of hockey and the father of current NHL superstar Callan Thomas—had some great insight right out of the shoot on how the team could capitalize off the already strong defensive line and who he thought would work best with current players.

Conner thought we could experiment with Nils, Ballas, and last year’s captain, Cale Costa. Nate hated the idea.

However, with a new coach on board and Nate’s cantankerous attitude, I thought it best that I be around to at least offer some thoughts and provide a third opinion if there were any head-to-head disputes.

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