“Yeah. All good, though,” I said, even though I still wasn’t free of my post-bus daze.
“Coach wants to see you.”
My throat dried, but I went along like nothing was wrong. Was I getting let go? “Great. Yeah. I’ll go now.”
Olson fell in step beside me. You usually couldn’t get the guy to shut up, but now he was tight-lipped.
“Am I in trouble?” I asked, again trying to sound casual and likely failing. Maybe I really had sustained a brain injury and PT just didn’t catch it. My thoughts drifted to Chef again. Why wasn’t she getting checked over by medical?
“Nah,” Olson said. “Should be good news.”
We rounded the corner into Coach’s office and Olson closed the door behind us. I took my usual spot leaning my shoulder against his whiteboard and crossing my arms. I sometimes came away with little marker lines on my arms or shirtsleeves, depending on whether I had a shirt on.
Harlan 2.0 was going to wear shirts though. Or maybe not wear shirts? Muscles were scary. Did Harlan 2.0 want to be respected or feared? That was something to worry about later.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Would you like to sit?” Coach asked, putting aside his usual clipped tone.
My instinct was to decline, but I was reinventing myself. Harlan 2.0 wouldn’t feel threatened by sitting. Someone who took themselves seriously commanded respect, but didn’t demand it.
Damn, I was on my way to being a motivational speaker. Put that on a corporate poster. I sat, and Olson sat beside me with his elbows on his knees.
“What are you doing walking out in front of buses, Royce?” he asked.
I shook my head and snorted. “Freak accident. My head wasn’t on.”
He looked me over, considering me. “And it’s on now?”
“Yeah, yeah. All good. I’m awake now.” I added a little chuckle to show just how with it I was.
“Good. So, we’re sending Frederick down to the Nails.”
I lifted a shoulder. “Makes sense.” Frederick was our back-up goalie who had become permanent since Nielsen was out for the season with an injury. I didn’t have the best save percentage in the world, but I wasn’t first in line to get demoted. “Who’s replacing him?”
Olson sat back, stretching his arms and locking his hands behind his head. “You’ll never guess.”
“Well, it’s not Doyle, because he’s in jail.” Cap famously dealt out the injury that led to Doyle’s downfall last season.
Coach shook his head. “It’s Cordero.”
“Oh, wow.” I had looked up to Eric Cordero my whole career. The shock made me say something stupid. “He’s way better than me.”
Olson wouldn’t meet my eyes and Coach tipped his head from side to side. “He is toward the end of his career.”
“Toward it? I thought he was retiring? Doesn’t Toronto want to keep him until the end?”
Coach’s tongue traced his upper teeth. “That’s why we wanted to talk to you first. As you know, Toronto also has?—”
“Stevenson, right.” Stevenson was maybe the hottest up and coming goalie in the league.
“Yes, and Cordero’s wife is from Ohio. They want to test out a life here.”
Something about that didn’t sit right. There had to be more to it. I waited, knowing Coach would eventually cave. The man loved a beat of drama.
“And Stevenson’s record is cutting into Cordero’s playing time.”
Blood rushed in my ears. “So he wants more starts.”
