That meant I would no longer be the preferred goalie.
Olson nodded. “Yes, but we thought it would be good for you for a lot of reasons. Take the pressure off. You’d have his mentorship.”
“Our record has been fucking impeccable since November. I’ve only lost two!”
Coach put his hands out. “We know that. You’re not being replaced.” He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his hair, giving it a pat on either side to retain his almost helmet-like style. “We thought you’d be excited for the opportunity to play with him.”
I let out a breath and closed my eyes. Cordero had been my idol for as long as I could remember. Embarrassing posters of him in my room and everything. Ten-year-old Harlan would be doing cartwheels right now.
“I am. I’m excited. But I . . .” I mustered up the strength to say something big, to actually push myself. If I wanted to be taken seriously, I had to start with taking myself seriously. “I want to prove to you that I’m good enough to be first. I almost just got hit by a bus, and I don’t know. It did something to me. I don’t want to be second best. Not as a player and not as a team.” I stood and paced in the narrow space in front of Coach’s desk. “We are better than we’ve ever been. We could take the whole thing if we just focus.”
“I agree,” Coach said. “So I want you to take this fire under your ass and prove it. To me. To the guys out there. To the fans.”
I fought the urge to pump a fist in the air. Instead, I planted my fists on Coach’s desk. “And when I do, you’re either getting me $10 million next year, or you’re getting me out of here.”
Olson coughed, but Coach met my eyes. “Whenyou do,” he emphasized, “I will do everything I can to get you your bag.”
THREE
EMMA
FEBRUARY
I had a sixth sense,and it wasn’t seeing dead people or being able to predict the future.
Well, it sort of was.
It was knowing when Harlan Royce was about to bother me for something. Some kind of hum in the air or barometric pressure change signified his impending presence.
“Chef,” he said, sauntering in with his hands in his shorts pockets and a stretchy headband holding his floppy locks back from his face. His skin was a little more tan than before the All-Star break, probably fresh off some tropical getaway. I shoved down the thought that the little kiss of sun suited him.
Did I objectify the players? No. I saw them with their shirts off too often to really be bothered anymore. Plus, my son played hockey. I had a special affection for hockey players, but it wasn’t romantic affection. I had a running theory that 80% of hockey players were sugarplum goofballs with an aggressive streak, and 20% were genuinely terrifying. The 80% were what made my job fun and had turned this into the best gig I’d ever had. Oneof the young guys, Owen, had even sent a card around before the holidays so the guys could pitch in for a bonus for me and Miguel. It was really sweet, and very much needed since I had an emergency roof repair that made me have to dip into Liam’s college fund. Owen was a confirmed part of the 80%.
Harlan Royce fell into the 80%, but he had his own graph for being annoying. Those measurements were off the charts.
“Rules, Royce.” I hit him with a sharp glance.
He put his hands up. “I’m not past my floor tile,” he said, the toe of his shoe indicating the boundary I’d put in place. A thin strip of kitchen tape that had been eaten up by time and mopping read, “NO ROYCE LINE.” He wasn’t allowed to come more than four floor tiles into the kitchen, and he couldn’t block doorways. That might sound like an overly strict rule, but he had tried to step in as chef too many times.
I was happy to make things according to the players’ likes and dislikes, but Royce always took it a step too far. He treated my prep line like a buffet, taking ingredients like they were his to take. One time, I returned from the dining room to find him at the cooktop, using a weight from the weight room as a panini press.
In short, he’d lost his privileges as someone who was allowed in my space.
“What brings you into my kitchen today?”
He crossed his arms and leaned a hip against the stainless steel counter. “I just wanted to see what’s up.”
I stopped chopping tomatoes for the ever-present and always necessary guacamole and narrowed my eyes at him. He had on training clothes: a Rusties T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of soft athletic shorts that showed off his foolishly muscled and flexible lower half. Not that I was looking, of course. I’d learned to be suspicious of his questions, though. They usually led to critiques. “Not much?”
“Yeah?” He cocked his head to the side. “How have you been? You know. Since the accident.”
Terrible, actually. The scrape on my back had mostly healed, but there was still residual pain. I wondered if maybe I’d damaged my vertebra, but never went to get it checked out. But he didn’t need to know that. “Fine.” I examined him, trying to figure out where this was going. My words were slow and careful. “How are you?”
He bobbed his head and stuck his lip out. “Can’t complain. Happy to be alive, thanks to you.”
Why was he sucking up so much? I returned to my chopping. “Don’t mention it.”
“Hey, so I was wondering if you know of any good cooking classes?”
