FORTY-TWO
Max
D ays later, I’m still livid that Richmond’s win against us put them in the playoffs, most likely playing against Cape May. A good team, who will get mowed down with every trick in the book, just so Richmond can face us again.
Even though I’m back on the ice, we play the last two games halfheartedly. Coach Beck brings up some players from the farm team to get major league ice time for their contracts. They’re our support system when a player goes down for any length of time. We have to keep them happy and engaged.
The regular season ends, and we have five days until Game One against Albany here in Stamford.
I grow a beard in the postseason, I follow brutal dietary rituals, and in the past, I’ve woken up in the middle of the night to run ten miles on the treadmill. I growl, I curse, I slam shit. Every loss is the end of the world, and Gilda looks at me with a glimmer of fear in her eyes.
Now I have a bodyguard who is paid to be, for the lack of a better word, up my ass. It feels like we’re in some kind of relationship. Even though it’s temporary. I have to incorporate him into my playoff routine and rituals.
Sweating from a brutal workout, I stare at the Sound. Luca left early this morning before I woke up. His cryptic note worried me, but I’ll have to get used to it. Maybe he started working for the mafia guy.
Or maybe my cold attitude and drive to win has already driven him away.