Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Leo was halfway across the Icehouse parking lot before he realized he’d already pulled his phone out.
He did that now. Every practice, every film session, every stretch of time where he’d been unreachable, his hand found his pocket before his brain caught up.
It was like he needed to be in contact with Dawson every available minute.
That’d die down as they settled into whatever it was they were doing, right?
How was practice?
Leo stood in the parking lot grinning at his phone like an idiot.
He loved that Dawson always asked, giving him an opening if he needed to vent about Coach being in a shit mood or his teammates pissing him off.
Oddly enough, now that he had that support, he was on a team that he truly enjoyed being a part of.
Practice had been good. Better than good.
He’d made a cross-slot feed to Novo during line rushes that six weeks ago he would have shot himself, and Novo had buried it and pointed his stick at Leo on the way back to the line without even looking at him.
In the film session after, Annie Tremblay, one of the assistant coaches, had frozen a clip from the Iron Bay loss and asked Leo what the weak-side D was doing, and he’d seen it before she had to point it out.
They’d been texting like this all day, every day since Milwaukee. Leo had started learning the rhythm of their conversations. Fast replies meant a slow day or a moment alone at the shop. Gaps meant Wyatt was hovering or a customer was close.
Good. Really good, actually. I think the team’s starting to trust me.
Starting to?
Leo was still grinning when Jonesy appeared at his elbow, bouncing on his toes. “Haircut.”
“What?”
“You need a haircut. I need a haircut. Ski’s already there. Let’s go.”
“I have a guy in Milwaukee.”
Jonesy stared at him. “You drive to Milwaukee for a haircut?”
“He does a specific— It’s a fade… It takes—” Leo remembered who he was talking to and quit trying to explain himself. Jonesy was a simple guy. Honestly, it wouldn’t have surprised him to find out his teammate’s idea of a haircut was using the clippers in front of his bathroom mirror.
“Get in the truck, Vargas.”
The barbershop was on a side street two blocks off Main, sandwiched between a gift shop and a combination bait shop and liquor store, which Leo still hadn’t recovered from.
It had a striped pole out front that spun, and inside it smelled like antiseptic and coffee.
There were only three chairs, and two of them were occupied by men old enough to have opinions about the Korean War.
Ski was in the first chair, getting his sides trimmed by a guy with forearms like bowling pins and a Stags cap turned backward. He waved without moving his head. “Hey, V. Pull up a seat.”
Leo sat in the waiting area next to a stack of Field & Stream magazines from 2019 and a jar of Dum-Dums. The two older men were deep in a conversation about someone named Earl who’d driven his truck into a ditch off County Road K and blamed a deer, though the consensus was that Earl had had a few too many old-fashioneds at the fish fry beforehand and the deer was probably imaginary.
“Earl’s been blaming deer since ninety-eight,” the barber said without looking up.
“That’s because deer keep jumping in front of his truck,” one of the old men said. “After seven beers.”
Leo tilted his phone in his lap.
Now I’m at a barbershop that apparently doubles as the town’s intelligence headquarters.
That’s Gary’s. Don’t tell him anything you don’t want repeated at the Tap.
The Tap was one of the bars in town Leo hadn’t frequented.
It still surprised him how many taverns a town this size had in a small area, and all of them stayed in business.
If The Penalty Box was a bit too grungy for Leo’s taste, the Tap was a true dive.
The windows looked like they were still coated in nicotine from when smoking was allowed indoors, and the bright orange awning over the door was lopsided.
It didn’t surprise him that it was a known rumor mill.
“You’re up.” The barber, Gary, waved him over. Ski brushed clippings off his collar, grabbed a Dum-Dum from the jar, and dropped into one of the waiting chairs like he had nowhere else to be.
Leo sat in the chair. The cape went around his neck, and Gary studied his head in the mirror.
“What are we doing?”
“Just a trim. Keep the length on top, clean up the sides.”
“You one of the new Stags boys?”
“Leo Vargas. Forward.”
“Right, right. The Florida kid.” Gary pumped the chair higher. “How you liking it up here?”
“It’s good. Cold.”
“This isn’t cold. This is October. Wait till January, then you can say cold.” Gary picked up the clippers. “My nephew played in Florida for a while. Cape Coral. He said y’all call shopping carts ‘buggies’ down there. That true?”
“Some people do.”
“Lord.” Gary shook his head. “Buggies.”
By the time Leo left the chair, he’d learned that Earl’s wife had left him in 2014, come back in 2016, and nobody discussed what happened in between, that the Stags’ owner had once tried to change the team colors to teal and nearly got run out of town, and that Gary’s daughter was studying nursing in Green Bay and was single if Leo was interested.
“I’m good,” Leo said. “But thanks.”
“Suit yourself. She’s a catch.”
He paid cash because Gary didn’t take cards and stepped onto the sidewalk where Jonesy was leaning against his truck, eating a Dum Dum.
“You survived Gary’s,” Jonesy said. “You’re basically a local now.”
“He tried to set me up with his daughter.”
“Yeah, he does that. He tried Novo too. Novo told him he wasn’t ready for to settle down and Gary respected it. He’s just an old fool who wants to see everyone happy.”
Leo laughed, sudden and sharp, and Jonesy grinned around his lollipop stick like he’d won something.
His phone buzzed as Jonesy dropped him back at the Icehouse lot.
Did Gary try to set you up with his daughter?
How did you know?
He does it to every new guy. Rite of passage.
She sounds great. Maybe I should call her.
Don’t be an ass.
You have nothing to worry about. I only want to be set up with grumpy mechanics.
I’ve got two brothers. Neither one’s your type.
That’s a shame. You know anyone else who might fit the bill?
I’ll ask around.
He pocketed the phone and pulled out of the lot.
The heat was on high and Jonesy’s country station was still programmed into the presets.
Leo actually found himself singing along instead of changing the channel to something a bit less twangy.
He thumbed through his contacts at a red light and called Phil.
Phil picked up on the second ring. “Leo, how’s it going up there?”
“Good. I’m on the first line. Season’s going well.”
“I know. I’ve been watching the game sheets. Assist totals are strong.” A pause, deliberate, the way Phil spaced things when he was managing expectations. “I’ve made some calls. Informal, nothing concrete. A couple of teams have expressed interest, but it’s early. Nobody’s making moves.”
“When do you expect they’ll start talking seriously about it?
” Leo’s gut tightened. Instead of being eager to get the hell out of here, he was worried his reputation had followed him up here and the Stags would assume his improved attitude was just an act.
Or that they’d need someone at a different position and view him as expendable because he got paid more than the rookies who’d eventually get called up to play in Chicago.
“Could be December. Could be at the deadline. Could be next summer. The feedback I’m getting is that teams want to see you settle in. Play the full season. Show you can be part of a system.”
Leo’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “That’s what Briggs said when he traded me.”
“And you’re doing it. The numbers say so. The front office seems pleased with your performance. Just give it time.”
“I’m not great at giving things time.” He should tell Phil to give his attention to his other clients.
But that would raise questions Leo didn’t feel like answering.
Phil knew he was gay, but had encouraged him to keep a low profile if he wanted a snowball’s chance in hell of playing in any league higher than this one.
“I know.” Phil said it without judgment. “Stay the course. I’ll keep working the phones.”
Leo hung up and drove the rest of the way with the radio off.
Two months ago, that call would have ruined his afternoon.
He’d have pulled over and scrolled other teams’ rosters, building a case for why he deserved better.
Now, he was hoping Phil didn’t find him a trade before he worked up the courage to tell his agent he was comfortable where he was.
Of course, saying as much would probably guarantee his ass would be headed off to somewhere like one of the California teams, even further away from Dawson.
He pulled into his parking spot, killed the engine, and texted Dawson.
Heading to The Penalty Box later. Team thing.
I’ll probably be there.
The Penalty Box on a Tuesday was half-full, which by Port Haven standards meant packed.
Jonesy had commandeered the big booth near the TV, and Russ and Riggs were arguing about a Packers play from 2011 that everyone in Wisconsin had committed to memory.
Novo was studying the menu with the skepticism of a man who’d been burned by the cheese curds once and hadn’t forgotten.
Leo slid into the booth and found Dawson before he’d finished sitting down.