6 Months Later #3
The Monday following our loss to Detroit in Ann Arbor, I arrived at the Chicago Ice Center five minutes early for our team meeting.
I passed the team physiotherapist as I rounded the rink and greeted him with a nod.
Just as our season was over, so was his.
No doubt he was here tidying everything up until next season.
I marched up the stairs and along the corridor and went straight to an armchair so I wouldn’t be tempted by the snacks table. Jane and I had already eaten breakfast, so it wasn’t as if I were starving. My self-control just tended to dip in the postseason.
“Hey, man,” Nick said as he approached the seating area and lowered himself onto the beanbag beside my chair. The beanbags were a new addition. I imagined that Jane would like them. They made the place homier.
“Morning. How are you doing?” I pulled a notebook and pen from my pocket, resigned to taking my own notes.
Nick tested his limbs. “A bit achy, but that’s what comes when you start getting old.”
“Shut your mouth.” The last thing I wanted was to be reminded that I might only have a few seasons left in me.
Matthews and Gauthier flopped onto the beanbags with the ease that came from being a little younger. Matthews was tearing into a sandwich like a ravenous lion and glancing around as if he hoped no one would comment on it.
Coach Dunn whistled to gain everyone’s attention. “Morning, team. Good to see you all here, bright and early.” He smiled, but the expression was strained. “As I said on the weekend, you should be proud of how you’ve performed this season, even though we didn’t make the playoffs.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room.
Coach sighed and ran his hand over his stubbled cheek. “I wish we could end on that note, but there’s something else that needs discussion. Stephen?”
Stephen Robertson walked briskly from the side wall to join him. He was dressed in a suit as usual, but this one was so unobtrusive that I hadn’t even noticed him earlier.
Robertson cleared his throat. “If you haven’t already heard, Young, Rasmussen, and Brown were involved in a party on Saturday evening after the rest of you returned to your hotel rooms. It got so wild that the police were called to break it up.
Several media outlets obtained photographs of Young completely drunk and dancing half-naked on a pole at a club. ”
I glanced at Nick, who looked startled by the news. I wasn’t. Much as I might like Jesse, he’d always been a loose cannon. I did a discreet survey of the room. He, Rasmussen, and Brown were all absent.
“Obviously, they’re being slammed,” Robertson continued.
“This is exactly the kind of negative publicity we’ve been trying to avoid, and we can’t let it slide.
As such, they will be carrying out mandatory community service over the next two months and, if such a thing happens again, the consequences will be severe. ”
Shit. I hated to think what consequences Robertson had in mind, but based on his tone, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d consider trades. They’d certainly made clear their low tolerance for this sort of behavior, and they’d want to act swiftly to make sure we knew we’d be held accountable.
Robertson put his hand on his hip. “Not only do we need damage control, but Mr. Trent has decided we need to take a more active role in rehabilitating your public image. He’s hired a publicist to work directly with the team, and I expect you to cooperate with her fully.”
I nodded, hoping this publicist wouldn’t mean I was looking down the barrel of yet another season under intense public scrutiny.
“Your new publicist will begin next season. Each of you will be emailed her details in case there’s anything you’d like to address with her directly.
Before now, she’s been working with a baseball team out of Los Angeles.
Her name is Chelsey Fields, and she’s very good at what she does, so please treat her with the utmost respect. ”
There was a gasp, followed by hacking.
I spun around, wondering what the hell was going on.
Matthews had apparently tried to inhale his sandwich and was now choking on it.
Gauthier thumped his back and, after a moment, Matthews spat a glob of food into his palm and hauled in a breath.
It took a long minute for him to regain control of his breathing. He raised his head, his face burning red and his eyes watering.
“Sorry,” he whispered, blinking rapidly and rubbing his chest.
I winced, hoping he’d disposed of the half-chewed bite of sandwich first.
“Did you say Chelsey Fields?” he asked.
Robertson nodded. “Are you all right, Matthews?”
“Fine,” Matthews muttered.
He looked anything but.
In fact, Matt Matthews looked like a man heading to the firing squad.
THE END