As he went through his warm-up, the ants under his skin multiplied, and it felt like he’d downed two energy drinks one right after the other, and because of that, his mind couldn’t settle. He kept remembering crawling out of bed after a sleepless night to a snowstorm and to his weather app advising travelers to stay home. Remembered the border agent’s bored expression when he’d informed Sandro that he needed to “Pull over there. You’ve been selected for a random car inspection.” Recalled the sinking feeling in his gut when his car had sputtered and died and the creeping feeling of guilt as he’d waited and waited and waited for a tow while the snow that had followed him from Tobermory had piled up on his hood. He was going to let his team down, just like Bennett had predicted.
Except he’d made it. Barely. Although, judging by Coach Madolora’s expression, maybe it would’ve been better if he hadn’t. He could’ve put off the pending lecture for another day and sat through it when he was feeling more rested.
Madolora gestured him over. Squaring his shoulders, Sandro joined him at the team bench.
“Zanetti,” Coach said. “You doing okay?”
Sandro nodded. “I’m good, Coach. Sorry about today.”
Coach sighed, and though it was exasperated as hell, his tone was fond when he said, “We really need to talk about your trips home. I wasn’t kidding about that three-day window.”
Of course, there were often practices and meetings during those game-free three-day windows, but as a fifteen-year vet with a nearly spotless record and a fairly consistent game, Sandro got a lot of leeway.
“Now get your head in the game,” Coach demanded. “And focus. Even I can tell your mind’s a thousand miles away.”
“I’m right here, Coach.”
Coach gave him a searching look. “Glad to hear it. Let’s do this.”
The Washington Undergrounds were struggling this year. Plagued by injuries almost from their first game of the season, they had the fewest points of any team in the league, putting them dead last in the rankings. It was a shitty place to be. The Trailblazers were having another fantastic season, but there’d been seasons in Sandro’s career that had been absolutely miserable. Sandro wouldn’t wish that dreaded last-place spot on any team.
Except maybe New York. They were all assholes.
The Trailblazers scored twice in the first period, but that didn’t mean the Undergrounders didn’t make them work for it. Just because they were last didn’t mean they didn’t have some phenomenal players on their team. They were simply having an off season. It happened to everyone.
Sandro began to flag embarrassingly early. The fatigue he could handle, but he hadn’t eaten a real meal since his brother’s dinner last night—this morning’s fast-food breakfast sandwich didn’t count—and the hunger combined with the long day succeeded only in making him hangry.
Every intercepted pass made him see red. Every hit into the boards boiled his blood. But it wasn’t until he wanted to slash at one of the Undergrounders for calling Eli Parker a cocksucking motherfucker that Sandro admitted to himself that he probably should’ve sat this game out.
“The fuck did you say to my teammate?” Sandro growled at the Undergrounder during a break in play.
“Zanetti,” Eli said. “Hey, it’s fine.”
The Undergrounder leered. “What’s wrong, Zanetti? Can’t take a little chirping? I only called him a?—”
Dropping his gloves, Sandro advanced on the Undergrounder before he could repeat what he’d said, but Hughes got between them before his fist could land and shoved him back several steps.
“Dude, what the fuck?” Hughes slapped him on the side of his helmet. “If someone needs a beatdown, that’s my job. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” Sandro snapped. “I’m fine.”
Coach benched him for the rest of the first period.
And the Washington Undergrounds scored twice, tying the game at 2–2.
During intermission, he caught Coach speaking to Eli, whose shoulders were hunched and his cheeks pink. Eli had missed a perfect opportunity to score on the rebound, and it looked like Madolora was chewing him out for it. Or possibly for something else; Sandro wasn’t close enough to hear.
Besides, he was on a mission to find food before he expired, so he left his helmet and skates at his stall, ducked his head to avoid the gazes of anyone who might want to talk to him, and headed for the kitchen.
Eli came in as Sandro was wolfing down a sandwich and a Gatorade, feeling incrementally better with each bite. Eli was still in his skates, and as he ripped off his helmet and flung it aside, one of Bennett’s camera operators walked into the kitchen.
Sandro ignored him and focused on his teammate. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s not wrong, Jesus Christ,” Eli muttered, clearly having as off a day as Sandro. Unlike Sandro, he’d done better at handling whatever was bothering him during the game.
The rookie keeping his cool while the veteran couldn’t keep his shit together.
Weird.
