by Ruby Lang
She heaved in another breath.
“And the funny thing is, I’m just like him. I eat Pop-Tarts and popcorn, and I know what’s good for me, and I don’t do anything about it. The one concession he had to health was that he wouldn’t eat toast.”
“Pop-Tarts yes, toast no.”
“He said it was carcinogenic. He and my mother had battles over the toaster. She set it on high, and he barely tolerated warm bread. He loved barbecue, though. Completely illogical, I know.”
She looked at him. Her tone was almost conversational now. “I’m not logical, you know. I try and try, and then I fail spectacularly.”
They were quiet for a while. It was dark now, and he couldn’t really see her face, except in the reflection in the window.
“He had a few accidents. And then, it was like something came loose. The onset of disease was rapid,” she said, finally. “Well, that’s not true. It had been happening for years, but no one noticed. Well, he would have noticed, if it had been his own patient. But I ... didn’t.”
She tried to laugh, but it came out as a strangled cry. The sound shot straight to his heart. “I’m trying to explain,” she said. “But I’m making a muddle of it.”
He shushed her. She was staring straight ahead now, and he sensed that she didn’t want him to look at her anymore.
“So, I guess this is good-bye,” she said.
No, he thought.
But that was impractical—they were all wrong for each other. She was frail. He was ... not much better. Instead, he nodded. He’d been telling himself that since the beginning. It was better for both of them.
“For the record,” she said, “I think you’re ... well, I wish things had been different. I wish I had been different.”
“I wish I were different, too,” he said.
He squeezed her hand and got out of the car.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“You’re wanted upstairs,” Brooks the GM said, avoiding Adam’s eyes.
Well, the moment had finally come. He was going to be fired.
He had imagined it would take place after a particularly bad game. But they’d won another last night. He’d even scored a goal, and the crowd—yes, there had been a slightly larger crowd—had cheered for him. It had felt pretty good. Not the best thing ever, but not bad.
In any case, best to go out on top—or as near the top as he would ever get.
He unlaced his skates and began to pull off his jersey. Brooks said, “I mean now.”
“At least let me put on a pair of shoes or something,” Adam said irritably.
Brooks looked nervous and he began to pace.
For pity’s sake.
Adam sighed. “Fine.”
He did pause to at least put on some sneakers, but he was a mess. “Aren’t you coming with me?” he asked Brooks.
But the man was already gone. Coward.
When Adam entered the meeting room, he frowned. There wasn’t a familiar face among them. And they were all men—except for one young African American woman. She was also the only one to smile at him, so he looked away, and his gaze landed on someone whose face was a little more familiar.
Yevgeny Molotov.
Adam’s billionaire boss, his papers, and his devices took up the long side of a rectangular table. Everyone else was crammed around the remaining sides. The man made a gesture, inviting Adam to sit, but there were no chairs. Adam preferred to stand anyway, which forced Molotov to tip his head back a little. Off the ice, Adam didn’t usually like his overgrown body, but today he didn’t mind.
“You’re finally here,” Molotov said.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. I only heard about this meeting two minutes ago.”
Molotov’s handsome face looked faintly bored, faintly amused. He wore a suit, no tie. His shirt was open at the collar. He had that European litheness that came from cigarette smoking and vitamin-D deficiency.
Adam had met the man once, at some sort of party for the Wolves. He had a woman on each arm and another following him. Actually, probably several. Apparently, no woman could resist his money, and his accent, which drifted in and out, and his cold, gray eyes.
It was so cheesy.
Adam schooled his face into farm-boy stoicism and wiped the sweat with the bottom of his shirt.
He waited. Only fair. After all, he’d kept Molotov waiting for two whole minutes.
“Mr. Magnus,” Molotov said, after a long silence. “That was an interesting game last night.”
“Thanks.”
“I saw clips from the interview you gave the other night, defending hockey in Portland. Under the terms of your contract, of course, you’re supposed to be checking with us before making public appearances, even if it is on a small-town TV program.”
Adam’s stomach clenched. It was true; he hadn’t exactly run his appearances by Wolves central command. But who listened to public radio? Who watched that clown, Declan Quail? No one ever watched Declan Quail.
“Janel here tells me that you were found ... acceptable by the people who did watch that little program the other day. We need a recognizable face, one that is a little different from my own. We’d like you to step up your appearances, but of course we would have to have Janel here groom you.”
Molotov’s tone implied that Adam would need a lot of grooming.
The woman who Adam assumed was Janel intervened at this point. “We’ve faced an unusual amount of resistance, trying to get this arena project built. It would be good if we could give the team a face and a voice in these last months before the vote goes before state legislators. Someone to remind them that they want this.”
“That’s a little more the team captain’s job, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but as Yevgeny noted, a few key people are beginning to pay attention to you thanks to your writing and your debate. You have a certain chemistry with Dr. Frobisher, too. The redirection, shall we say, has served us twofold: First, it can be used as an excellent diversionary tactic, away from the question of arena funding and into more academic questions about the morality of sport et cetera, et cetera. No one’s really likely to win that one. Second, attendance has gone up, and interest has gone up—perhaps because of the win or possibly because more people are paying attention to you than previously suspected. The numbers are pretty modest, but we’ve done a little testing and apparently Portlanders like that sort of stoic, sensible modesty that you project. We could also offer you a bonus for the extra work that you’d put in.”
Adam thought quickly. “What kind of bonus?”
“Thirty thousand.”
Adam couldn’t help noticing that Molotov looked bored.
Must be nice.
But it was a good thing they’d bypassed Adam’s manager, Bobby, and come directly to Adam to negotiate. Bobby would have jumped on the offer right away.
“I’d be happy to help out. But ... I wonder if in addition to the bonus, Janel would be interested in teaching me more about the business and operations side of the game.”
Janel beamed approvingly. “Looking to the future,” Janel said. “I think that’s a great idea. Molotov International has a lot of opportunities in operations. At the very least, we can give you some good fundamentals in PR.”
Molotov flicked a speck of dust from his sleeve. “We’ll have to test him over the course of a few more appearances.”
“Of course, sir,” Janel said.
They turned to each other and began talking in hushed tones.
Adam realized he’d been dismissed.
He gave a halfhearted wave at them and trudged back down to change. What the hell just happened?
Apparently, he’d gained the possibility of a new job? Of course, if he had to work more with Molotov, he’d probably end up punching the guy. But Janel seemed fine. Besides, he thought, looking down at his filthy jersey, he really wasn’t in a position to refuse.
• • •
“I’d like to talk to you about your recent forays into the m
edia, Dr. Frobisher,” Dr. Weber said, intercepting her before she left.
Well, it was about time that she was called to the carpet, or the linoleum, or whatever it was that lined the hospital hallway.
Helen’s shift was over. She had been keeping her head down, hoping to escape and go home and brood. Unfortunately, she was wearing her green and orange bike leggings. No one ever even came close to hitting her on the road, although she was sure that her bright gear had caused many accidents. Most likely, it was from people swerving to get away from the awful tie-dye. It figured that on the day that she’d hoped to make her way home quietly, she’d (1) brought the wrong wardrobe and (2) run into the hospital’s hockey fanatic.
No one ever watches Declan Quail, my ass, she thought as Dr. Weber pointed her outside to the small garden adjacent to the hospital. It was a cold day, and no one was outside. No one to hear me scream, Helen thought irrationally. Weber would drown her in the koi pond for going after his team. He was way too nice for anyone to suspect he was capable of foul play. She wouldn’t even suspect him, even if he held her under the swampy water. He’d probably manage to convince her that she was helping him look for his eyeglasses.
It was the perfect crime. No one would miss her. She did regret that she was going to die in these stupid leggings, though.
She hadn’t exactly cleared her escapades with the hospital’s PR department. Well, it was Dr. Weber’s fault that she even knew of the Wolves’ existence. Although, to tell the truth, revenge and yelling weren’t Weber’s style.
“So, you’re on a one-woman campaign to rid Portland of hockey.”
“Well, I’m hardly alone. Although, I guess my motives are a little different.” She added, “I wasn’t speaking for the hospital. I made that clear.”
“Yes, you made it clear. And no, you weren’t speaking for the hospital.”
Weber smiled. Helen shifted uneasily.
“You’re not in trouble, Dr. Frobisher, and to tell you the truth, I hadn’t heard about it until Aditi, our social media manager, brought it up. She has a news alert set up for the hospital, I guess. In any case, we’re having our annual charity softball game to raise money for the new children’s wing. I wondered if you’d play. Chair of the board Dr. Mimi Chister is particularly interested in your participation. And so am I.”
Well, that was the last thing she’d been expecting.
“We call it the SnowBall game, even though we don’t get snow here. Just a little joke. Usually, the orthopedic surgeons and cardiologists sign up for all the spots. But we wanted to change it up a little this year. Not so much that we lose, mind, but you’re clearly an athletic young woman. You’d fit right in.”
He twinkled at his pun. The leggings were a joke, she wanted to yell. Because she’d concentrated so much on dance, she hadn’t really used bats or nets or cleats or sticks or any of the equipment associated with fitness.
“I’m not great at team sports,” she said.
He waved his hand dismissively. “Board chair specifically asked me to ask you,” said Weber. “You might know about her. Her husband is a developer. They’ve got an ax to grind with the new arena, too. Besides, we’re hoping we can make it into a bit of a grudge match. Some publicity for either side won’t hurt. Adam Magnus is on the opposing team. And there’d be a brief radio spot.”
Oh.
No.
She got up. “It’s been nice. Thank you so much for the offer to play t-ball—”
“Softball.”
“Whatever. But no. I am not being pitted against Adam Magnus again—”
Weber was going to interrupt, but she held up her hand.
“In a venue that is sure to be even more personally humiliating than public radio or the Declan Quail Show.”
Or my car, she added silently.
She had planned to never see the man again. He’d held her hand and she’d liked it, for God’s sake. Was she in grade three? She felt ashamed of herself. Why, oh why, did the universe want to humiliate her?
“Listen, Helen,” Weber said, smiling, “You’re young. You’re photogenic. And you’re the closest thing that this hospital has to a public figure right now.”
“Two appearances on local shows that no one watches or listens to? That’s pathetic. What about that nurse who wrote medical thrillers? She’s got to be more famous than me.”
“She moved to Seattle for a new post last month. Don’t worry, you’re going to help us raise money. A little ball playing, some publicity stuff. Maybe you’ll judge the organic apple pie eating contest or whatever the planning committee usually does. The first practice is tomorrow at six. Everybody’s busy with the holidays and such, but we’ve all cleared our schedules. I’ll make sure you’re on the e-mail list. Did I mention I’m the coach?”
Yelling wasn’t Weber’s style, Helen decided, but revenge definitely was.
• • •
What choices did he have? He had gone to a career counselor and taken more tests. He filled out a stack of application packages from colleges, but he suspected that it was probably just a make-work project for himself.
Molotov was rich and powerful, and he could make things happen anywhere. Plus, it wasn’t good to antagonize him. There were rumors on the team that their last center was flipping burgers at a downtown diner. Although all the “diners” in downtown Portland seemed pretty upscale and weren’t likely to hire an inexperienced ex-hockey player for the kitchens, truth be told. The rumor mill at Wolf lair was not known for its accuracy.
He had told Molotov and Janel that yes, he’d give the PR stints a try. Janel, it turned out, was the head of Molotov corporate’s PR on the West Coast. Rumor had it that she was one of Molotov’s ex-girlfriends, but Adam couldn’t see it. She seemed too sharp and too upbeat to have ever once been with Molotov. She was a quick worker and very thorough. Janel soon had a new schedule for Adam. She took out file pictures they had of him and went through his wardrobe and loaded his smartphone with suit, jacket, and tie combinations for future appearances. She said he could stand to go a little more casual. She was a toucher, too. In fact, she had her fingers on his shoulder now, in the cafeteria in the Wolves’ training facility. They were going over his schedule.
He could always beg to go back to the farm, he thought as he shrugged out of Janel’s insistent grip.
Truth was, he wasn’t needed. Farming was a hard life, and most years, his sister, Jennifer, and her family just scraped by. They wouldn’t be able to make room for him. When he was young, he had hauled a lot of hay and cleaned a lot of manure out of barns. He was the first in his family to go to college; his brother, Jim, was the second.
He saw his parents, his siblings, and his nephews at Christmas and when he went to Minnesota to play. When he signed with his first team, someone put a banner over Main Street that read, “Home of Adam Magnus.” He heard that it had blown down in a storm after the first week and brought a tree down with it. No one bothered replacing it.
His family didn’t know much but they could probably trace his emotional health through the ups and downs in his stats. Hell, he hardly knew exactly what had happened. His drinking had started in the first year after being drafted and had gotten worse when he’d been kicked down to the minors. His memory of those years was fragmented: beeriness and vomit, terrible keyboard music, forgetting how to lace up his skates, a strip club in Utah where the dancers hadn’t been allowed to peel down beyond their skivvies. He started wearing his hair short then as a way of ensuring that he would not wake up with puke in his hair—or with a mullet. There had been fights. Most of them had taken place off the ice.
He’d pulled it together eventually and fought his way back to the majors, but a part of him wondered if it was too late for his poor abused brain. If Helen Frobisher were to aim a flashlight into his skull, would his gray matter be riddled with darker pockets? Would she be disgusted with him? Appalled? Would she pity him? Would she hold his hand?
He doubted that she’d hold his
hand.
The crush he had on her—that he still had on her, after all of this—was just entirely too pathetic.
He took a sip of his coffee, and Janel finally took her hand off his shoulder to tap on her iPhone. She gave him a wide smile. I’m listening, her eyes said, even though she wasn’t. She was checking her messages.
With that, she stood up. He half rose, too. “I’ll see you tonight, then,” she said, and tried to pat him on the head.
He winced away. If she noticed, she didn’t show it. Some people were good at that—selective noticing.
“Who’s that?” Serge asked, sliding in place.
Adam looked at his friend’s tray. “New minder.”
Serge squinted at the retreating heels. “I wouldn’t mind being minded by her.”
Serge picked up a plastic fork and shoved it unenthusiastically into a fruit salad. “Everyone was speculating about your little meeting with Yevgeny today. You agreed to be the team’s spokesmonkey?”
“That’s what everyone’s saying?”
Serge frowned at a grape that he had speared. He released it gently on his tray. “Throws you against the lovely Helen Frobisher for a while, doesn’t it?”
“I think the phrase is throws me in with.”
“I’m French.”
“French Canadian. Your English is great. You said it that way on purpose.”
Or maybe Adam’s imagination was in hyperdrive if one little word choice was enough to drive him crazy.
Serge pursed his lips and deposited another unsatisfactory piece of fruit on his tray. “Will you stop that?” Adam said. “The cantaloupe is fine. That grape is fine. I am fine. This is a good opportunity for me to get into something new and different. Who knows, maybe I can make a career out of it.”