Moonlighter

MID AUGUST

ERIC

There’s one minute left in the scrimmage, and I just won the faceoff.

One minute is plenty of time if you have A) the puck B) Trevi on one side and C) Campeau on the other.

A rookie with crazy eyes launches my way, hell bent on stripping me. So I drag the puck away on the edge of my stick, like a worm on a fishhook. Trevi is nearly open. I wait as long as I possibly can and then flick the puck right past Crazy Eyes’ stick.

And, bam. Right onto the shooting surface of Trevi’s.

My muscles scream, and my knee whimpers as I accelerate out of Crazy Eyes’ way. But it’s worth it. I get open again. I push my stick forward as if waiting for the pass.

But it’s all for show. Because Campeau is also open, and I already know Trevi will pass to him instead.

He does. And then anyone who blinked probably missed Campeau’s wrister toward the net. Including the goalie. Because the puck goes in and Campeau laughs out loud as the lamp lights.

“Fucking beautiful!” I bellow as the buzzer sounds. Nothing is better than the last period of a hockey game when my teammates and I are on fire. Nothing.

Our defeated opponents put their hands on their knees, breathing hard. They’re only rookies, anyway. This is the week when twenty guys from our affiliate teams in the minor leagues are invited to a training camp skate.

It’s always a brutal scrimmage. Management likes to see how we stack up against the young punks they’re grooming to take over our spots. But we won, damn it. Even if I’ll need an ice bath, a massage, and a double cheeseburger just to feel human again.

We line up to shake hands with the youngsters. And then finally we make our way toward the overcrowded dressing room.

Lord, with twice as many players, it’s the crush of humanity in here. Beside me, my teammate Castro shakes his head. “I feel like such a geezer right now.”

“Stop,” I grunt. “If you’re a geezer, then I’m prehistoric.” Castro isn’t the one whose knee is taped up so completely that it might as well be mummified. “At least we could have some fun with the rookies.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hey rookie!” I shout into the melee.

Seven or eight heads turn in our direction at once.

“I was just checking to see who was paying attention.”

My other teammates crack up. “Yo!” Leo Trevi calls. “Someone here is going to end up answering to that name all year, though,” Leo muses. “Who’s it gonna be?”

The minor league guys all grin, but nobody raises his hand. They know better than to boast before our next scrimmage. We’d flatten whomever dared to claim the title before proving himself worthy.

I fucking love it in this room. They’re gonna have to carry me out of here feet first.

“Okay, listen up, kids!” Leo’s wife hops up onto a bench. “I’m Georgia Trevi, co-head of publicity. The veterans already know the drill. But history has shown that everyone can use a reminder. And you’ll answer to me if you get this wrong.”

The room is silent, with all the youngsters listening as if their lives depended on it.

“So long as you’re here in Brooklyn you’re representing the Bruisers organization.

I expect you to take care with your actions outside the rink as well as inside.

I don’t want to see any bar brawls. No photos of you guys acting crazy.

No public drunkenness. You want to blow off steam tonight, you do it responsibly.

Also? Twenty minutes, boys. Then Coach wants you in the video room. ” She hops off the bench.

“Good speech, you badass,” Leo says to his wife.

“That all goes for you, too, hot stuff.” She gives him a smile. “But right now, I have some business with Bayer.”

“What did I do?”

Georgia puts her hands on her hips. “What’s with the vacation pictures in Hawaii? You and Alex Engels? How did I not hear this gossip?”

Pictures? Uh oh. “Don’t believe everything you read, Georgia.”

“Are you saying this isn’t you?” She pulls out her phone and scrolls through a gossip blog I’ve never heard of. “Here.”

As she thrusts the phone at me, I have a moment of dread. What the hell am I about to see? And how much trouble will it cause for Alex?

Naturally, Leo and Castro crowd me on either side.

But my first glimpse of the photo fills me with relief. It’s a simple snap of Alex and me walking down the beach together. She’s laughing, and I’m grinning. We look deliriously happy, but we’re not even holding hands. This is not a scandalous photo. Not today, Satan.

“Whoa!” Castro says. “Look at you with the secret billionaire romance.”

“Nah,” I say, handing Georgia back her phone. “We’re just old friends.”

“Really?” Trevi says. “Old friends who vacation together in Hawaii?”

“Sometimes,” I say mildly.

“Because that happens all the time.” Georgia’s eyes glimmer with questions.

“Hey—aren’t you the publicist? You’re supposed to hate gossip about the players.”

“Oh, I hate it in the press. But I like it for myself. So, Romeo, how do you explain this…” She opens a folder she’s carrying and pulls out a cream-colored envelope addressed to me at the team headquarters. And the return address is Alex’s company’s office tower in Manhattan.

“Easily. It’s probably a thank you note.”

“Thank you for what, exactly?” Castro snickers.

“She needed a date to this thing in Hawaii, so I went. Big sacrifice, right? A quick trip on her private jet.” I slide my thumb beneath the envelope flap and then pull out the card.

When I open it, there’s an immediate peal of laughter. Because Alex has included a copy of that photo from twenty-one years ago, with her looking preternaturally mature and beautiful, and me looking like an escapee from the Lil’ Rascals movie.

“You weren’t kidding about the old friends thing,” Georgia giggles. “That photo makes me want to go out and buy you a sandwich.”

“I’ll take a sandwich. Anytime, anywhere.”

“Let me see that.” Jason reaches over and grabs the picture, probably with the hopes of passing it around the locker room. Whatever. But then he freezes. “Oh, shit. Bayer, man. Wow.” I look down at the card and see a second photo there as well.

It’s a sonogram image of a fetus.

“Whoa!” Yell Georgia and Leo simultaneously.

I snap the card closed. “Jesus. Lower your voices.”

“What did I miss?” calls Silas from a few yards away.

“Nothing!” Then I look at my three friends, their mouths gaping open in front of me.

“It’s not at all what you think,” I say quietly.

“She is an old friend who finds herself in a tight spot. That’s why she needed a friend to go with her to a business thing in Hawaii.

This—” I tap the card, “—Doesn’t have anything to do with me. But it’s still confidential.”

Leo looks deflated. “Not yours, huh? Because that would be some first-class gossip right there. Mr. Single man takes a walk on the not-so-wild side.”

“You wish,” I tease him. “You smug married people are always trying to flip me.”

“Ah, well.” He shakes his head. “Someday, though.”

As if. “Guys, please don’t say anything about Alex to anyone. It isn’t public yet.”

“Fine!” Georgia throws her hands up in the air. “That was almost really exciting. But I guess I’ll have to go back to watching Love Island if I want gossip.”

“I guess you will.”

“There’s one more thing I needed to ask you about. Who is Anton Bayer? He was just added to an AHL roster in Colorado.”

“Oh, that’s my cousin. Well, my cousin’s kid. Good guy, I guess. I don’t know him that well.”

Georgia makes a note on her legal pad. “Okay. If he’s in town when we travel to Denver, can I schedule a photo op? The press loves that stuff. Families in hockey.”

“Sure,” I say with a shrug. Georgia can spin it that way if she wants, even if my actual family gives zero fucks about hockey.

“Thanks!” She pats me on the arm and then moves away.

“Fifteen minutes, boys!” calls O’Doul, the team captain.

Fifteen minutes is just enough time. After my shower, I slip Alex’s note out of my gym bag and read it.

Listen, Stinkmonster:

This is the note I should have written to you after that debacle in Florida. The I’m-sorry-I-behaved-badly note. So here goes:

I’m sorry I was so abrupt with you when we got off the jet. I was really scared and not thinking straight. Not that it’s any excuse. You were nothing but wonderful to me in Hawaii. I don’t think I’ll forget that trip anytime soon.

The baby and I are both fine. My symptoms stopped within forty-eight hours, and I haven’t had any more trouble. My doctor here in New York shrugged and said, “it happens.”

So I’m back at work, getting ready for my big launch and calling my lawyer every few days to see if they’ve made their move on the paperwork that I need signed. They haven’t approached him yet, though. I think your brother is trying to dig up some more dirt first.

They don’t tell me the details, either because it’s quasi illegal or they think I’m a fragile flower. But I hope to know more soon.

I hope you’re doing great and enjoying the start of the season.

Best,

Alex

I read it twice. It’s a nice note, but it doesn’t say, “Swing by and visit later.” Not that I have her home address, or even her phone number. I never asked for it in Hawaii. I didn’t need to. The security team handled everything.

My brother has her number, of course. I could ask him. But that’s a crap idea. He didn’t like my behavior in Hawaii. He might not even give it to me.

Instead, I do an internet search for Alex’s corporate headquarters. I dial the main number and ask to be connected to Alex’s office. I wait on hold for a while, and then a man’s voice eventually picks up. “You’ve reached the CEO’s office, how can I help you?”

His voice is familiar. “Rolf?”

“Speaking.”

“It’s Eric Bayer calling. Can I speak to Alex?”

“She’s in a meeting.”

Of course she is. “Look, Rolf. I got a letter from her today, and I don’t have her cell number. I need to reach her.”

“I knew you weren’t really the boyfriend.”

“It’s complicated. Can you give me her number so that I can speak with her later?”

“No way,” he sputters. “I’d have to fire myself immediately for giving out her personal information.”

I was afraid of that. “But you can give her mine, right?” I rattle it off, hoping she gets the message. And, more than that, hoping she returns my call. I know I’m supposed to be just a friend. I can live with that. But I’d really like to see her.

When I hang up, Castro is sitting beside me. “So, what’s the real story?”

“I told you. It’s confidential.”

My teammate’s eyebrows lift. “I meant with you, blockhead. She’s having a confidential baby with some other guy.

But you’re the one on the beach.” He hands me the old photo from Martha’s Vineyard.

I guess it’s made the rounds. I take a good look at it.

I see two kids turned loose for the summer to entertain themselves.

We thought we were so naughty, but we reek of innocence.

“There’s no big story,” I repeat. “I’ve known Alex a long time. I have a soft spot for her, I guess.”

“Oh man.” Castro shakes his head.

“What?”

“You got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one Leo gets whenever Georgia walks into the room. The one that O’Doul—who claimed he’d be single forever—got when he started seeing Ariana. The look.”

“You’re drunk,” I grumble. “I’m going to be single until the end of time. Just like your grumpy ass.”

He laughs. “Fair enough.”

“Let’s go!” O’Doul calls out just then. “Let’s watch some tape, kids!”

I head for the video theater in a hurry because there are more hockey players here today than there are seats.

But just as I’m trucking down the hallway, someone calls out. “Bayer—can I talk to you for a second?” It’s Doc Herberts.

“We’re supposed to watch tape.”

“I know,” he says with a grin. “This will only take a minute.” He beckons me into his office.

“Hey, Doulie!” I call to our captain. “Save me a seat?” My teammate nods, and I follow Herberts into his office. I sit down, taking care to hide my wince.

“How’s the knee?” he asks immediately.

“Sore,” I admit. Doc is no fool. “But I’m wrapping it well, icing it frequently, and I’m careful to warm up.”

He nods, because this is stuff that every decent athlete does, anyway. “We’ve been discussing your MRI,” he says. “How many years has it been since your ACL reconstruction?”

“Almost fifteen.”

“You know that most ACL patients eventually develop arthritis.”

“Yeah, you’ve said.” That means pain and stiffness. But an arthritic knee is still functional.

“Your scans show some meniscal wear, too. The unevenness of the cartilage may be your major source of pain. So, it’s possible that a meniscal repair could make you more comfortable. The problem is that we don’t know until we try it.”

“Because it might be the arthritis?” I guess.

“Exactly.”

I think that over. “How big a surgery is meniscal repair? How long would I be out?”

“Well…” The doctor hedges. “It depends on what they see when they get in there. The more cartilage they remove, the longer the recovery time. But you’d be off the roster for at least two months. Potentially longer.”

Shit.

“So, it’s something to watch. We have to stay on top of it.”

“Right. Okay.”

“If your pain changes or gets worse, speak up.”

“I will,” I say, even as my heart drops. I can’t afford time off the ice. My team is positioned to go all the way this year, and I won’t let them down without a fight. Then there’s the issue of my contract extension. I can’t even think about that right now.

“Now go kick a rookie out of your seat and watch some tape.”

Two minutes later I’m back in the tape room, sliding into a seat between O’Doul and Castro.

“We’re hitting the tavern later,” Castro says under his breath. “Gonna get into some trouble. Start the season off right.”

“You know it,” I say as the screen in front of us blinks to life. It’s going to be a great season. We have some teams to beat and some things to prove, though. And I intend to be there when it happens.