Sure Shot

by Bowen, Sarina

  “I’m sure they’re getting their skates under them as well. Shame about that loss to Boston.”

  As soon as I say it, I realize my mistake. I can’t mention Dallas’s struggles. If I’m a boring interview, Miranda won’t use the footage. I really don’t need any publicity right now. Not until I can prove myself.

  The team publicist obviously agrees with me. She’s wringing her hands behind Miranda Wager, begging me with her eyes to cut things short.

  But Miranda isn’t done with me. “Your ex-captain says he’s looking forward to your January matchup, and that there’s no way Brooklyn can win. He’s calling for a three-point differential on the scoreboard. What do you say to that?”

  I tip my head back and laugh out loud. Fucking Palacio. “Here’s what I think, Miranda—hockey is fifty percent skill and fifty percent smack talk. Personally, I don’t see the point of predicting a point spread on a game that’s still months away. But maybe that’s just a little quirk of mine.”

  She gives me another smile, so I brace myself. “Bart Palacio also predicted the matchup to be rougher than usual. He said lingering tensions will probably flare up on the ice. Do you know which tensions he’s referring to?”

  A flush creeps up my neck as I force myself to hold her gaze. “I wouldn’t have a clue, sorry,” I say in the calmest voice I can muster.

  “Didn’t the two of you fight?” she asks, holding her phone up to record whatever I say.

  “Well, this might be tough to believe, but my teammate and I did not see eye to eye during every minute of the last seven years. Like all people who work closely together, we fought occasionally. You can write whatever you want, though. I know it’s tough to get a good story out of one lousy practice. But if you want to see Brooklyn evolve into a new kind of fighting machine, you stick around.”

  I’m feeling damn proud of this answer when Miranda levels me with one last question. “Do you have any insight into Juliet Palacio’s reasons for hiring a divorce attorney yesterday?”

  All my blood stops circulating. “Come again?”

  “Yesterday, Bart Palacio’s wife retained legal counsel at Darby, Connors and Morgan, the same firm that represented your wife for her divorce—”

  Georgia steps between us suddenly, like a skilled referee heading off a fight. “Questions at open practice can only be game-related. And Tankiewicz is needed in the dressing room.”

  Miranda switches off her microphone. “Then I guess I’m done here.”

  Georgia actually has to give me a hard nudge to get me moving toward the locker room, because I’m trying to wrap my head around this new layer of bullshit.

  “Tank,” Georgia says the minute we’re past the double doors that lead to the locker rooms. “What the hell just happened?”

  “Nothing,” I say quickly.

  She studies me with a frown. “I hate to ask, but…” She clears her throat.

  “No,” I say, preempting the question. “I never spent any time with Juliet Palacio. I had no idea they were getting divorced. And I do not know why.”

  “Sorry,” Georgia says quickly. “I’m just trying to stay ahead of the news cycle.”

  “You and me, both.”

  “Okay.” She pats me on the arm. “Good practice.”

  I just laugh, because it was not a good practice. Not even a little.

  Twelve

  Big Hunk of Kryptonite

  Daily News and Sports

  “Dallas’s Palacio Throws Down a Challenge. Tankiewicz Won’t Answer It.”

  By Miranda Wager

  Brooklyn’s morning practice was just as squirrelly as last night’s game. The team has some work to do, as Tankiewicz fails to settle in.

  They used to call him “Sure Shot.” But that nickname will have to die if he doesn’t get his stick on the puck more often.

  Meanwhile, his old team has finally found its footing without him, beating Arizona last night, redeeming their Boston loss.

  When asked about the upcoming Dallas / Brooklyn matchup, team captain Palacio was confident. “We’ll take them by at least 3 goals,” he said. “It’s gonna be a gong show, too. There are tensions that need airing out.”

  Palacio didn’t say what those tensions were. However, this week his wife retained counsel with divorce attorneys.

  At any rate, Brooklyn fans will be glued to their TVs in early January to find out if their team can take down its nemesis with one of its former players.

  When asked for his own prediction for that game, Tankiewicz refused to provide one.

  * * *

  Tank

  I read the so-called article in the back of a taxi the next day. It’s not Miranda Wager’s best work. But hey—she has to file a story whether she finds one or not, or lose her job to someone else. I get it.

  The comments, though. They’re worse than usual. Miranda opened the door for another round of armchair hockey fans to smear my name.

  Tankiewicz gets into a fight with Palacio, then they both get divorced. Coincidence?

  I groan out loud. Unfortunately, I’m not the only one to read this article. By the time I step out of the cab in front of my new boutique hotel, my phone is blowing up with texts from my ex-wife. Ignoring Jordanna for the moment, I pay the driver and then enter the spacious and plant-filled hotel lobby.

  “Mr. Tankiewicz, welcome back,” the concierge says from behind his desk. “Can I offer you a croissant and some fresh-squeezed orange juice?”

  “Well, sure,” I say as my stomach rumbles. “Thanks.”

  He hands me a small bakery bag with a smile. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  When I let myself into my room a minute later, I’m nearly blinded by the glimmer of sun on the surface of the river right outside. The room is serene and comfortably appointed.

  The only unsightly thing in my new space is a bouquet of balloons. They’re silver, and each one has an uplifting saying on it. “You’ve Got This!” “We’re Your Number One Fans!” “Go Get ’Em!”

  Interesting choice. Kassman doesn’t usually send me balloons. I think his assistant might have been trying too hard.

  On the bar, I find a plate for my croissant and I bite into it as I glance at my ex-wife’s texts.

  Mark, you have to make it stop. I’m getting calls. A reporter asked me why we got divorced. Not like it’s any of their business. But just tell them, okay? I’m tired of seeing my name on Twitter.

  So don’t look at Twitter. I actually type that out and then delete it. I refuse to argue with Jordanna, even when she’s being ridiculous.

  There is nothing to be done, I reply instead. There is literally no way to kill off gossip other than to ignore it.

  The second I hit Send, those little dots show up, telling me that she’s typing a reply.

  I open the orange juice and wait, wishing I’d never responded in the first place. The juice tastes like sunshine and heaven. It’s funny, but Brooklyn is doing its best to impress me. The Bruisers facility is glorious. This new hotel is lovely. The publicist is nice. The staff is sharp, and living without a car is pretty fab.

  If only my teammates weren’t trying to drive me insane, I’d have a chance at liking this place.

  You could deny it! Jordanna writes. I look like an idiot. My own friends believe the things they read about you on the internet.

  That’s on them, I fire back. I guess you need better friends. And I’m not giving any interviews about my personal life.

  Somehow I manage not to add: And if I did, you wouldn’t even like what I have to say about the end of our marriage. I will not pick a fight with the woman who divorced me. No good can come of that.

  At least keep your head down, she says. Don’t talk to reporters. Stay out of the gossip pages.

  I’ll get right on that, I shoot back.

  My phone rings about ten seconds later. Instantly, my famous temper spikes. I’d rather throw my phone across the room than talk to her right now. But when I glance at the scree
n, I see it isn’t Jordanna who’s calling me. It’s my agent.

  “Hey,” I say into the phone the second I manage to answer. “Henry! How are you? Long time no see.”

  “Nobody is sorrier about that than me,” the older man rumbles. “How’s the new room?”

  “Nice,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. “Thanks for finding me better digs.”

  “That was all Kelly’s doing.”

  “Still, I appreciate it,” I say, moving over to the king-sized bed, where I flop down with a weary sigh. “Did you call to yell at me for talking to Miranda Wager?”

  “Not a chance. I called to remind you—” He stops to take a wheezy breath. “—not to let the assholes get you down.”

  “Hey, are you okay?” He doesn’t sound right.

  “Don’t you worry about me. Got plans for your afternoon off?”

  “None,” I say. “Just a few prayers and incantations, and maybe a goat sacrifice or two. It’s the only way I can imagine beating Philadelphia tonight.”

  Henry laughs. “That bad, huh?”

  “Practice was just as bad as you read in the newspaper. Luckily, my personal life isn’t quite as complicated as you might think from the comments.”

  My agent snorts. “Never read the comments, kid. That’s the first rule of life.”

  “I thought the first rule of life was never order a red wine that’s not old enough to go to kindergarten.”

  He laughs again, and I feel more relaxed than I have in days. Bullshitting with Henry Kassman is one of my favorite things to do on game day. I didn’t realize until right now how much I missed this guy.

  Bess was right, damn it. A guy just needs his agent sometimes. “Thanks for the presents,” I say. “The balloons are a little silly. But I think there’s a fruit basket, too.”

  “That’s all Kelly’s work. But silly is good. Promise me you won’t spend the day brooding. If you can’t sleep, go out and do something fun.”

  “Fun? Like what?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Pinball. Biking on the river. I know the game is important, but so is your life. You only get one.”

  His oddly introspective comment has the strangest effect on me. I get goosebumps. Henry likes to win almost as much as I do. His pregame pep talk is usually more along the lines of knock ’em over and make ’em cry. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say slowly.

  “You do that. Now go out and do something fun, and don’t waste another second on the haters. Got any new friends yet?”

  “No.” I chuckle. “That might be a while. They all think I’m a manwhore and a loose cannon.”

  “They’ll come around. You need friends, Tank. No man is an island.”

  “Yeah, but some men are traded to them.”

  He laughs, but then he ends up coughing. “I better go,” he says, wheezing. “But I’ll be watching tonight.”

  “Thanks, Henry,” I say. “Talk to you later.” He agrees, and I hang up the phone.

  I spend the next few minutes watching the reflection of river light sparkle on the ceiling. I’m probably too stirred up for a pregame nap.

  I pick up my phone again and scroll backward through my texts, hoping to see something from Bess, who I can’t stop thinking about.

  Nothing. Damn it. I guess I have to take things into my own hands. Hey Bessie. Where are you today? I was just thinking about you.

  She could be anywhere right now. She covers hockey and baseball players on thirty teams in twenty-one states. I know this because I cyber-stalked her after our first hookup.

  Is it egotistical of me to wonder if she’s staring out a window somewhere thinking about me? We had a hell of a time together the other night. Bess is terrific. She knocked me out of my funk. Part way, anyhow. I still have issues. But not with the sexiest person I know in New York.

  The reply comes one minute later.

  Bess: Were you, now?

  Tank: Absolutely. Kassman told me to go out and do something fun. And naturally I thought of you.

  Bess: Go Fish, Tank.

  Tank: I’m not in the mood for cards, thanks. You didn’t answer the question. Where are you?

  Bess: I’m in Boston at the moment.

  Tank: Fuck.

  Bess: Are you ready for tonight?

  Tank: Of course. The younger guys are still treating me like a turd someone left on their doorstep. And I have no rhythm with the forwards. But no problemo!

  Bess: You got this! Yay hockey! <- World’s shortest pep talk, because I don’t want to be accused of agenting you.

  Tank: Speaking of agents, is it possible you spoke to mine?

  Bess: I have no idea what you’re talking about.

  Tank: Uh-huh. So it’s just a coincidence that Kassman’s assistant decided to move my hotel, book me a spa massage, and then send me a fruit basket and… The last thing is just weird.

  Bess: You needed a hotel change. And fruit baskets are nice. Everyone likes fruit. And baskets. But what is the weird thing? I’m worried.

  Tank: A bouquet of mylar balloons. They have uplifting sayings on them. Like “We’re your number one fan.”

  Bess: BALLOONS? WTF. Is Henry trolling me? That’s weird and not very environmentally responsible.

  Tank: So you pushed him to do this?

  Bess: Henry and I text from time to time. We might have texted the other day.

  Tank: I see how it is. But you don’t have to worry about me, okay? I’m fine.

  Bess: Come on. The new hotel kicks ass, right? Have you tried those croissants at the desk?

  Tank: They’re glorious. Still. I’m a big boy. You verified it yourself many times.

  Bess: But never again.

  Tank: Uh-huh. You said I’m your kryptonite. And I know how kryptonite works.

  Bess: ?

  Tank: Proximity. And now we’re in the same neighborhood.

  Bess: Go take a nap, Tank. Beat Philadelphia.

  Tank: Later baby.

  Bess: Later.

  Tank: Later is better than never. See?

  She doesn’t reply, and I toss the phone aside. But texting with Bess was fun. And I’m already plotting how to get another chance to show her my big hunk of kryptonite.

  * * *

  Five hours later, I’m feeling more like the Hulk than Superman. There’s two minutes left on the clock, and we’re losing 1-0 to Philadelphia. Our offense is not creating enough scoring chances. They’re too patient, which drives me up a tree.

  Worse—the first line still can’t find me when I’m open. After a week of intense practice, they’re still completely confused by my style of play. When I’m open at the top of the circle, I’m somehow invisible to Castro, Campeau, and Drake.

  “Coulda turned that into a goal,” I growl at Castro before a third-period faceoff. “You have two shoulders. Check the right side once in a while.”

  “Who died and made you a forward?” the young wing spits. “Stay in your own lane.”

  Ugh. It’s not like I don’t understand the problem. They’re young, and their captain is a different kind of D-man. O’Doul’s a shut-down defenseman—a wall of “no.” He’s always behind the blue line, ready to stop whatever comes his way.

  I’m not that guy. I’m an agent of chaos. I had twice as many points as O’Doul last year, and that’s what this team needs—flexibility on the blue line. The GM and the coach thought so, anyway. That’s the reason I’m here.

  This logic has evaded my young teammates. They win the faceoff, dragging the puck toward the corner, and then passing it tidily amongst each other.

  I move up, harassing the opponent and opening myself up for a shot. Again. No dice. Drake passes to Castro, instead. His angle is a hair’s breadth off, and we get stripped.

  It’s the perfect storm. An opposing D-man tangles up Campeau in a blatantly illegal hit. There’s no whistle. Castro lunges after his opponent but can’t get there fast enough.

  Our other defenseman—Anton Bayer, aka “Baby Bayer”—is perfectly positioned.
But it’s a three-man rush, and there’s only so much he and the goalie can do. None of us can get there in time, and Philadelphia capitalizes on the chaos, lighting the lamp a split second before the buzzer goes off.

  “Les fuckés!” Campeau shouts. His face is full of thunder. The guys on the bench all look miserable.

  As we leave the ice, Castro looks like a bomb about to go off. That dude won’t even look at me. His scowl leads us off the ice and down the chute to the locker room, past a dozen sports writers trying to make a big story out of a single early-season game.

  “Tankiewicz, how’d it go?” one of them calls toward me.

  “We’ll get there!” I say cheerfully. Although I’d rather knee him in the nuts.

  God, I need a shower and a drink. I strip off my sweaty gear and grab a towel. But then—because it’s so much fun to be the new guy—I head in the wrong direction. I end up in the crowded anteroom instead of the showers, clutching a towel around my ass like an idiot.

  Then it gets worse. Castro is standing there, head down, grumbling to a trainer. And what do I hear? “So fucking useless as a defenseman. I mean, the guy is so useless his own wife didn’t want him anymore.”

  Anger rears up inside me. I reach out and grab the edge of his jersey, turning his body so he can see I’m standing right here. “Excuse me? You got issues to talk about, you do me the courtesy of saying it to my face.”

  Honestly, I couldn’t have picked a worse time or place to behave aggressively to a fellow teammate. A dozen heads swivel. Half of them are journalists. And one of them is a certain red-headed agent with the prettiest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Her mouth drops open in shock, and she stomps toward me.

  “Are you insane?” Bess hisses. “Get your mitts off my player.”

  I drop my hand like a guilty child.

  “Is this the story you want to read on the blogs tomorrow?” She somehow manages to yell at me in a sotto voice. It must be something you learn at agent school. “‘Veteran Player Manhandles Younger Forward’? Are you fucking crazy?”