Chapter 7
chapter seven
Vermont greeted October with three days of overcast skies and intermittent rain. Dabbs sat in his bedroom and tried to concentrate on his virtual meeting. Shannon the crocheted ice cream cone stared at him from where he’d propped her on his bookshelf.
“And that’s it,” the freelance editor he’d hired said, pushing waves of dark hair over her shoulder.
“A couple of tweaks in the second book to make the theme clearer and adjusting the language in all three books for a middle-grade audience. I’d also recommend changing either Simon or Silver’s name in the third book; they’re similar enough that readers might get confused. ”
Dabbs nodded, sleep pulling at the backs of his eyes.
Fuck, he was tired. Had barely been able to keep his eyes open the past couple of days, and he felt . . . off. Maybe he was coming down with something—not ideal only a day before their second regular season game.
Giving his head a hard shake, he refocused on the conversation as Gloria was telling him that she’d email him an edit letter outlining everything they’d talked about.
“The first book is the strongest,” she said. “But with some small tweaks, the second two will be just as strong.”
“I wrote a shorter version of the first one for one of my university courses,” Dabbs told her. “I applied the feedback from my professor when I decided to expand it.”
“Smart,” Gloria said. “If you have any questions or want to talk through any issues, shoot me an email. I’m happy to help.”
“Will do. Thanks.”
They signed off, and a moment later, an email appeared in his inbox.
He read the edit letter through twice before giving up and closing out of it.
His brain was too foggy to function properly, and it didn’t help that his stomach hurt too.
Indigestion, no doubt. He blamed the takeout burrito he’d picked up for lunch yesterday on his way home from the dogs’ grooming appointments.
Bellamy stuck his head in his room, sporting a Trailblazers hat and a rain jacket. “Ready to go?”
Dabbs stared at him blankly. Did they have an appointment somewhere?
“Team meeting?” Bellamy reminded him.
“Right.” Shaking his head, Dabbs rose and grabbed his wallet. Shit, was he really that out of it? “Yeah, I’m ready.”
It began to rain again as they exited the house and jogged toward Bellamy’s SUV. Every step was a pinprick of pain along Dabbs’ right side, and he grit his teeth against it as he ducked his head and scrambled into Bellamy’s passenger seat.
“Zanetti!” Bellamy called, standing outside his open driver’s side door. “Want to carpool with us?”
A moment later, both Bellamy and Zanetti joined Dabbs in the car, Bellamy in the driver’s seat, Zanetti behind him.
Dabbs clocked Zanetti’s dripping umbrella and said, “Were you going to walk to the arena?”
“Yeah.” Zanetti ran a hand through dark brown hair, dislodging rain droplets. “My car’s in the shop.”
“Why didn’t you call us?” Bellamy asked, backing out of the parking spot.
“I texted,” Zanetti said. “Neither of you answered.”
“Sorry, man,” Dabbs said. “I was on a call.”
“Same, honestly,” Bellamy said.
“Next time, come knock on the door.”
“When neither of you answered, I figured you’d already left.” Zanetti leaned forward and poked Dabbs in the shoulder. “So? Tell me, oh captain, my captain. What’s this I’ve been hearing about the Trailblazers being the subject of a documentary?”
Dabbs exchanged a glance with Bellamy. Coach Madolora hadn’t brought it up since their first conversation about it—as far as Dabbs was aware, they were still waiting on the answers to their many questions—so where had Zanetti gotten wind of it?
“Where’d you hear that?” Dabbs asked.
“They were speculating about it on a hockey podcast I listen to.” Zanetti poked him in the shoulder again. “So? Any truth to that?”
“Not that I’m aware of at the moment,” Dabbs replied, which was technically the truth.
Zanetti made a sound in the back of his throat. “Bummer.”
Turning halfway around in his seat, Dabbs said, “You want to be the subject of a documentary?”
“Me personally? No. Me as part of the team? Sure. It’d bring in tons of new fans.”
“See?" It was Bellamy's turn to poke Dabbs. “That’s what I said.”
“But more than that,” Zanetti continued, “it’d showcase how hard we work. Remember a couple of years ago when we just missed winning the cup and we got all sorts of flack about it? A documentary would help offset that.”
Both excellent points, and they were something to consider whenever Coach finally met with the producer.
Bellamy parked at the arena a moment later, and they trooped inside. Dabbs lagged behind as Zanetti asked Bellamy how his kitten—which had been a recent gift from Jason—was settling in.
Inside the meeting room, Dabbs did a quick headcount. Almost everyone was here, sitting around a massive oval table. Someone—probably their director of player engagement, Roman Kinsey—had thought to bring Gatorade, protein bars, yogurt cups, sandwiches, and various types of smoothie bowls.
Dabbs grabbed an acai bowl and sat on Michael Hughes’ left.
Hughes, partway through a smoked meat sandwich, rotated his seat toward him and narrowed his dark-eyed gaze. “You okay? You look . . . ill.”
“I feel ill,” Dabbs confirmed.
“If it’s the flu, get the fuck out of here.”
“I think it’s indigestion.”
“Indigestion make you look like you haven’t slept in a week?”
Dabbs removed the lid from his smoothie and dug in. “I’ve done nothing but sleep. Can’t seem to keep my eyes open.”
“Yeah, bro, that’s not indigestion.”
“Hey, Dabbs. Check this out.” Sean Gaffney sat on Dabbs’ other side and shoved his phone in Dabbs’ face.
“Is that . . . ” Dabbs leaned closer to the phone and squinted. “Tenor Jones?”
“Cool, right?” Gaff took the phone back and swiped through more images.
“I posted on Insta that I was at his concert, and his husband saw it. You know Emery Stanton, right? Used to play for Vancouver? Anyway, he messaged me and brought me and my girl backstage to meet Tenor Jones after the concert.”
“Where was he playing?”
“In Montreal. Me and Sonia drove up yesterday and came back this morning.”
“I’ve got a celebrity photo too.” Deeley slid his phone across the table. “Check that out, Dabbs.”
Dabbs set his smoothie bowl aside—it wasn’t sitting right in his stomach anyway—and peered at the image on Deeley’s phone. “Who is that?”
Deeley’s mouth dropped open. “What do you mean who is that? He plays the dad on that new show everyone’s talking about.”
“What new show?”
“You think that’s cool?” Sandbaker hovered between Dabbs’ and Hughes’ chairs and gave Dabbs his phone. “Check that out, Cap. Caught that this summer.”
In the photo, Sandbaker was pictured standing on a dock, a lake stretching out behind him. He held a foot-long fish in his arms.
“What is that?” Hughes asked as Dabbs handed the phone back. “Trout?”
“Rainbow trout,” Sandbaker said, moving around Hughes. He pulled the empty chair on Hughes’ other side back from the table, but before his butt could hit the seat, Hughes sent a squinty-eyed scowl his way. “That chair’s not for you.”
Sandbaker backed away, raising both hands, and chose a different seat clear on the other side of the table.
“Don’t scare the new kid,” Dabbs said mildly.
Hughes shoved the final bite of his sandwich in his mouth. “Everyone knows the empty seat next to me is always reserved for one person.”
“Yeah.” Dabbs chuckled. “Everyone except for that person.”
Speak of the devil. Colter “CC” Clarke scrambled into the room a minute before the team meeting was due to start and looked around for an empty chair.
Hughes gave the one next to him a kick in his direction.
“Thanks.” CC gave him an absent smile as he sat. “I got caught in a family group call, and I was late leaving.”
“Everything okay?” Hughes asked.
“Yeah, they just wouldn’t stop yapping. I swear, the concept of time is lost on them.
I tell them I have somewhere to be at four, and they think I need to leave at four.
” CC’s laugh was both fond and exasperated.
“Gotta love ’em. Oh, thank god. Food.” He grabbed one of everything except for the protein bar, unwrapped a tuna sandwich, and took a hefty bite.
Hughes passed him a stack of napkins and opened his Gatorade for him. When CC smiled at him again, there wasn’t a hint of absentmindedness to it. Just affection and starry eyes that Dabbs wasn’t sure CC recognized for what it was.
“All right, settle down, everyone.” Coach Madolora stood at the front of the room.
Somewhere in his fifties, Coach had played hockey in his day, though he’d never made it to the NHL.
He was a big guy with a receding hairline and a skinny mustache.
Bellamy had once told Dabbs that he thought Madolora looked like an organized crime boss.
Dabbs had never thought so, but ever since Bellamy had pointed it out, Dabbs couldn’t unsee it.
“You know the drill.” Roman Kinsey, former team captain of the Vermont Trailblazers and current director of player of engagement, held out a bowl filled with folded pieces of paper. “Who wants to go first?”
Zanetti raised a hand. “I’ll bite.”
Roman held the bowl out. Zanetti blindly pulled out one of the pieces of paper and unfolded it. “Bellamy Jordan.”
Bellamy waggled his eyebrows at him.
“That’s easy.” Zanetti tossed the paper onto the table. “Bellamy gave me a lift here today while my car’s in the shop.”
A chorus of “Awww” spread around the room.
Zanetti held up both middle fingers. “Fuck you all. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t have driven through a puddle and splashed me if you’d seen me on the sidewalk.”
Everyone laughed, then it was Bellamy’s turn to select a name out of the bowl and to say something nice about that person.
This went on for five rounds, as it did at every team meeting. It was a tradition Roman had started in his team-captain days. A positive way to start meetings that always generated laughs.
Dabbs tried to pay attention, he really did. But Christ—his eyes kept slipping closed no matter how hard he tried to concentrate. He eventually resorted to scratching the inside of his elbow to help keep himself awake.
The pain in his side intensified. It felt like there was a rock lodged in his side, and he made a mental note to pick up antacids on the way home. He missed virtually the entire meeting, too busy trying to keep himself awake and breathe through the pain.
They got home in time to catch the first period of the Columbus versus Minnesota game. Bellamy had invited Zanetti over to watch with them, and he pulled out chips and dip as though they hadn’t just eaten at their meeting.
Dabbs sat on one corner of the couch, legs propped on the coffee table, and watched Ryland win a face-off.
He was fluid on the ice, and fast on his feet too.
He looked like every other player on his team in his maroon, white, and blue uniform, yet somehow, Dabbs could tell right away when he stepped onto the ice for his shifts.
Castle and Cosmo hopped onto the couch between Dabbs and Bellamy.
Castle snuggled up to him, but Cosmo watched the action on the television as though he understood what was going on.
Dabbs took a photo of him, making sure to angle it so that the TV was visible in the background, and sent it to Ryland.
Dabbs:
Apparently, Cosmo’s a Columbus fan. Or maybe it’s Minnesota? Hard to tell with his poker face.
Ryland wouldn’t see it until later, but hopefully he’d get a kick out of it.
And why Dabbs was sending him random messages to make him laugh was anybody’s guess. It had all started with his drunk dial during the summer, and now he and Ryland exchanged almost daily texts.
Dabbs couldn’t say he hated it.
On the television, Ryland had the puck, and it would’ve been a perfect breakaway if not for one of Minnesota’s D-men, who charged at him from the left and barreled into him like this was football instead of hockey.
Ryland and the D-man went crashing into the boards in a flurry of skates and sticks.
“Jesus Christ,” Bellamy fumed. “What the fuck?”
A knot formed in Dabbs’ stomach.
The D-man got to his feet.
So did Ryland, much more slowly.
“Oh shit,” Bellamy muttered.
“Oh no,” said Zanetti.
Ryland skated off the ice, surrounded by the refs and a couple of teammates.
His right arm hung by his side and his left hand gripped his right shoulder.
The knot in Dabbs’ stomach pulsed. “Oh fuck.”