Chapter 17 #2
“Yes.” A little of the tension eased in his face. “Good thought.” He pivoted and climbed the stairs slowly, gripping the rail, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
My hand ached like a sonofabitch, and my dinner sat leaden in my gut.
Outside the kitchen window, screened by the bushes, lights shone in Zeke’s house.
I wanted to cross the lawn, climb those stairs, and knock on his door.
I was pretty sure, despite how pissed he’d been, that he’d let me in.
But then he’d ask if I was ready to go tell my story to whoever prosecuted gambling crimes, and no, I wasn’t.
So we’d fight again. I couldn’t handle that.
Instead, I went upstairs and reviewed a bunch of tape our video coach had sent me, offensive strengths, flaws, and weaknesses of the Barracudas, whom we’d be facing on Wednesday.
Late into the night, I studied the way their top centre deked and how their hot two-way defenseman shifted his weight before shooting.
Every little detail, over and over, like there was going to be a life-and-death quiz, not two away-games in the middle of the season.
Around three in the morning, I finally began sagging over the screen enough to try turning out the light, but I still lay there for an hour, trying to anticipate all the ways I might be screwed over by Mr. Smith, before sleep finally came.
My lack of rest showed during practice the next day.
Bambi, our rookie who’d never scored on me one-on-one in practice, sank a mediocre slapshot that deflected off my blocker.
Yablonsky, up next, chirped me about being distracted by Bambi’s pretty face.
Or maybe he was chirping Bambi, who knew?
But the implication rubbed me the wrong way at the wrong time.
When Yabby skated toward me with the puck, ready to take his shot, I charged out of the net, knocked him off the puck and over on his ass, and cleared the rubber all the way down the ice.
“You asshole.” Yabby got to his feet, glaring at me.
“What? It worked. Nobody expects the goalie inquisition.” I was totally playing the moment for laughs, with Coach bearing down on me.
A couple of the guys snickered, but Coach bellowed, “Fitzpatrick! What in the hell was that?”
“Poke checking? But, like, with real checking?”
“In a game situation, you left your net wide open. You’re a goalie, not a goddamn enforcer. Act like one.” Coach waved at us. “Do it again. Get it right.”
I’d be damned if I’d let Yabby score after that. I sneered behind my mask as he tried to fake me out and easily stopped his wrister heading for the top corner. “At least your ugly mug’s no distraction at all,” I chirped as he swung around the net. “I bet Bambi gets a lot more play than you do.”
He sneered at me, but skated back to take his place.
I’d love to say I played well after that, but I was distracted.
Someone had arrived to watch practice, up near the top of the seats, a tall figure, hard to make out in the dimmed lights.
I couldn’t imagine Uncle Wayne would show up, but the mere idea had me off balance.
I flubbed a couple more easy saves. The next time I looked up, the man was gone.
That just made me wonder where he was now.
Coach pulled me aside after practice. “What’s going on, Fitzpatrick? You played better than that when you were in juniors.”
“Late night,” I half-truthed. “Watching game tape till three a.m.”
“Is that another way to say you went out drinking?”
“No, absolutely not. I was imprinting on my mind how number seventeen shifts his grip before his slapshot.”
“Don’t be a smartass.” Coach frowned at me. “You’d be a damned good goalie if you could keep your mouth under control. Also the penalties. I don’t know what Yablonsky said, but you come out of your net like that in a game and the refs will find something to call you on.”
“It was a clean hit. He had the puck.”
“Not the point. Just because you’re a goalie doesn’t mean I can’t bag skate you.” He looked me over, then sighed. “Hit the showers. Come to practice with a better attitude tomorrow.”
“Yes, Coach.”
In the locker room, I took off my gear and skates, then couldn’t shake the creepy feeling of being watched anymore.
Still in my sweat-soaked underlayers and a pair of slides, I ducked out of the locker room and worked my way around to the stands.
After a minute, as my eyes adjusted to the dimmed lights, I spotted that tall man up above the last row of seats, near one of the exits.
“Hey!” I shouted, jogging up the steps toward him.
He turned and yes, Uncle Wayne. I saw red and ran the stairs faster despite my screaming thigh muscles after a long practice.
For a moment, he watched me approach. Then he grinned, aimed two fingers at his eyes and then at me in an “I’m watching you” gesture, and ducked into the hallway toward the exit.
I sucked air through clenched teeth, pounding the treads till I reached his level, then sprinted around the perimeter, and back down. By the time I got to the outer door, a truck was pulling out of the lot. Grandpa’s truck. Goddammit!
If I’d had my phone, I’d have called the cops to report the truck stolen.
He must’ve made a backup key, or taken Grandpa’s again.
But by the time I reached the locker room, I’d thought twice about it.
Uncle Wayne might not report the gambling scheme if Mr. Smith imagined I was still onboard.
But he could out me as gay in revenge without getting Smith mad.
And taking Uncle Wayne off the table wouldn’t remove Smith.
If it was just me at stake, I’d say fuck it and go to the cops. But they’d mentioned Grandpa. Until I knew how serious that threat was, I didn’t dare.
I need to talk to Zeke. If only I could trust him not to go all cop on me.
I wanted to, so much, till it made my stomach hurt.
But in the end, I had to wait, and think.
Just like coming out, reporting Smith would be a one-way street with no way to take it back.
I had games to play in Bakersfield first. Maybe I’d suck.
Maybe Smith would decide I was a bad investment.
Maybe Uncle Wayne would get busted for drunk driving.
The pivotal game with the Archers was still a week away. I had time.