“Have what?”
“Cup potential.”
I took in a deep breath. “We’re goddamn close. But the Ice are good,” I said, referring to Seattle’s team. “They’ve got depth.”
“Exactly. We’ve got you and Chip out there crushing it, but once our second string goes in—and god help us, our third string—we lose a whole lot of leverage. For that reason, I’m actually glad you got suspended, in a way. The fatigue of the season is starting to show.”
Coach was damn right. A hockey season was a marathon, not a sprint. The exhibition season started in September, and God forbid you made it to the Stanley Cup—you’d be playing in June. That was only three months of recovery, and it took a toll on your body.
“We could use one more flashy player,” I added. “But the trade deadline’s almost here.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling the front office. I’ve told Bells like twenty times we need one more wingman. The office is bipolar or something. It makes no sense. They were threatening to trade you for a while, and then they backed off—for now.”
He stood up for a moment, checking again to make sure no one was within earshot.
“What I’m about to say stays between us.”
“Of course.”
“I think Old Man Bells is getting too old for this job. I think Jackie is the one pulling the strings.”
“Obviously.”
“Obviously?”
“She’s the one who wanted to trade me. Not Jerry.”
“Why does she want to trade you? It still doesn’t make sense to me.”
“I don’t know, man. I don’t know.” I grinned, thinking back to our dinner at the Bells’s mansion. “Good thing my wife is charming.”
“Yeah,” he said, then snorted.
“What the fuck wasthat?” I asked.
“What was what?”
“That reaction you just made when I referenced my wife.”
“I don’t know who you think you’re fooling with that act.”
“Ex-fucking-cuseme?”
“Look, LeBlanc. I’m not trying to get involved in your personal shit. But after that dinner—you’reluckyOld Man Bells is as senile as he is. That kiss-ass ‘I love The Beatles’ routine she tried to pull was thinly veiled lies. Ten years ago he would have grilled you—and canned you right there. I don’t knowwhatyou’re trying to pull, but you better be freaking smart.”
My natural reaction was to get defensive. The truth was, Iwasstarting to fall inlikewith Cat. Were we a normal married couple? No. But what was normal, anyway?
I reminded myself Coach Slanch was on my side and took a deep breath. “It was obvious, huh? How’d you know?”
“To be honest, I couldn’t tell. But my wife—she’s a huge music fan—asked Cat what she thought of Rubber Soul, and if it was her favorite. Do you know what she said?”
Rubber Soul was the Beatles best album. Well, in the opinion of many people.
“What did she say?”
“Her face got all twisted up and confused, and she looked down at her heels. ‘They’re regular soles,’ she said.”
Shit. This was my fault for pimping Cat into that role. I thought it was funny—and it was, a little. But not enough to risk exposing our situation.
