The only thing that travels faster than a hockey puck in a rink is gossip. A fact I am reminded of as I watch ESPN after practice in mine and Gavin’s hotel room. The panel of sports analysts are talking about the “unconfirmed brawl” they heard about occurring during today’s practice. How they found out about it is anyone’s guess as practice was closed and will probably remain so until we can act like a civilized group of men. Which is fine by me. The longer we can keep my father out of the rink, the better.
Not that he hasn’t heard about the fight. He has, and he’s been calling me ever since we boarded the bus to head back to the hotel. I don’t have it in me right now to answer his call, which I know I’m going to pay for later. But I don’t trust myself to not say something to him that I shouldn’t, so I keep sending him straight to voicemail.
I can’t avoid him entirely, though, as he’s currently being shown on the TV screen standing in the team meeting room here at the hotel with Coach Chris and his staff. News of our team brawl broke right on time for every sports channel’s afternoon roundup. The studio reporters are eager to break down whateverCoach Chris is about to say in regard to today’s practice. Cameras and reporters were already at the hotel when we arrived.
“Look,” Coach Chris says, “there’s a lot of personalities on this team. It’s going to take a few practices for everyone to get used to sharing the ice and the spotlight. We’re just experiencing the growing pains of putting each team’s superstars together.”
“What about the rumors that everyone was out partying last night?” a reporter off screen asks.
Coach shakes his head and laughs. “We’re in Las Vegas, not the Vatican, and everyone wants to have a little fun. But we have implemented a curfew that we expect everyone to adhere to from here on out.” He looks at his watch, then glances over his shoulder at his staff. Over his other shoulder is my father, who’s standing stiff backed with his arms crossed. Turning back to face the off-screen reporters, Coach Chris says, “Now if you’ll excuse me, my staff and I need to discuss tomorrow’s practice.”
“One more question!” a reporter yells out.
Coach pauses and waits. I realize suddenly that I am leaning so far forward on the bed I almost fall off. I settle back a bit and my heart rate picks up. For some reason, I’m dreading whatever this reporter is about to ask. It seems my father is as well as he’s narrowed his eyes on whoever is asking off the screen.
“Is it true you named Gavin Marshal alternate captain?”
I bite my lip as I watch my father’s face shift into anger. I doubt anyone else watching notices it, but I do. It’s unmissable for me. That brief crack in his stoic demeanor where his nostrils flare and his jaw pulls tight before he stiffens back up and schools his face into an unreadable mask again.My lips pull up into a slight smile. In theory, I shouldn’t be as pleased as I am that announcing Gavin as alternate captain has made him angry. I know nothing good will come of it, but it still feels like a win. He didn’t want him on the team; having Gavin get the A must feel like a slap in his face. He was probably banking on Gavin causing the fight and planning on using that to get him kicked off the team.
“It is true,” Coach Chris answers with a hint ofpride in his voice. “Gavin Marshal showed maturity today and that he can keep his cool under pressure.”
“He didn’t cause the fight?”
“No,” Coach Chris says with a tone that shuts down any follow-up questions.
The screen goes back to the in-studio analysts, and they begin to break it all down again. “Do any of us believe that the king of penalty minutes is capable of keeping his cool under pressure?”
Everyone in the studio laughs. “Not a chance,” one of them says. “It’s more likely Coach Chris named Marshal alternate captain to punish everyone.”
“I don’t know,” another analyst says. “He wears the A for the Blizzards. He could do the same job here for this team.”
“I don’t see how,” a fourth analyst says. “There isn’t a player on that team Marshal hasn’t laid out flat on the ice.”
The screen shows a highlight reel of Gavin Marshal’s most brutal hits. One of which is on me from when we played against each other the day this team’s roster was announced. There’s another of him basically tossing my right winger over the boards back into our bench.
I hear the beep of the door unlocking and look towards it to see Gavin walking in. He leans against it when it shuts.
“How is it out there?” I ask him.
“A mess,” he says and slides his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. He’s back way too quickly and isn’t sweaty, so I’m guessing the run he said he was going on didn’t happen. “This place is swarming with reporters. We can’t go anywhere.”
“How did they even hear about the fight?”
He pushes off the door, walks to the desk, and sits in the chair. “Fuck if I know.” He picks up the room service menu and waves it. “You hungry? There’s no way we’ll be able to eat anywhere in peace tonight.”
I nod my head. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since lunch, and I’ve been dreading leaving the room to get a meal.
His phone rings and he answers it. “Hey,” he says. “Gimme a second.” He pulls the phone away from his mouth and tosses the menu onto the edge of my bed. He points at his phone and starts walking towards the bathroom. “I gotta take this. Can you order me a burger?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Anything to drink?”
“Root beer if they got it.”
“Not abeerbeer, after today?” I ask him with a smile because to me, a drink sounds like a great idea right now.
He shakes his head. “I don’t drink.”
Interesting.
