Moonlighter

20. Late November

LATE NOVEMBER

ERIC

I sit on the bench in the practice facility while skaters whiz past me. It’s loud in here. The sound of pucks smacking the boards is the soundtrack of my life.

It’s supposed to be, anyway. But I’m sitting on the bench with three ice packs on my knee.

My left knee. The one formerly known as my good knee.

And I’m trying not to panic.

Last night—during the overtime period—I took a hit and went down hard. But there was no big pop. No excruciating pain. I got right up again, but I could tell that something wasn’t quite right.

Afterward, I was in some pain. There was swelling, and it was no better in the morning. So they sent me for an MRI.

Doc Herberts prohibited me from practice today. He wouldn’t even let me take the morning yoga class. So I’m sitting here like a bump on a log while he talks to an orthopedist on the phone.

“Yeah, okay. Good stuff,” Doc says. “Bye.”

Good stuff. That has to be good news, right?

He hangs up and turns to me. “He agrees that it’s a minor ACL tear. Not a complete blowout. But you need a surgical repair.”

Fuck. “Soon?”

“That’s right. You’ll be back at physical therapy immediately. And off crutches in a week, probably.”

The sounds of the rink grow dim in my ears as I try to wrap my head around this. After three months of increased pain in my right knee, I was already scheduled for another round of scans and appointments with the specialist.

Now none of that matters, because I’ve torn my other ACL.

“Is there anyone who’d say I don’t need this surgery?” I croak.

Slowly, Herberts shakes his head. “Not unless we wander up Atlantic Avenue and ask random Bruisers fans we meet in the street.”

“Well, let’s try that.” But the joke falls flat, because somewhere in my thick head I know that Doc is right. Not only that, he’s sugarcoating it, too. Because after I go through surgery and several weeks of rehab, I’ll still have another problem knee.

Unless I’m very lucky. But I’m often very lucky.

“So when can we do this?” I grunt.

“Does tomorrow work for you? Grizzaffi will pull some strings to get you into the midtown clinic in the morning. ACL repair is an outpatient procedure these days. You’ll need someone to sign you out afterward. But you can sleep in your own bed tomorrow night.”

“Great.” As if that really matters. I know I should feel grateful that professional athletes don’t wait in line. But I only feel grim.

Doc gives me a wry smile. “Hang in there, Eric. I know this is all happening fast. But it could be so much worse. You want me to go over the procedure with you?”

“Nope. Thanks.” It won’t change the facts.

“Then sleep well. Don’t eat breakfast, and check your email before you go to bed. The surgical clinic will send you instructions. And call me tomorrow night when you’re home, okay? I need to hear how you’re doing.”

“I will. Thanks.” I get up and head for the locker room, feeling a little stunned. I thought I was going to play Chicago tomorrow. But while my whole team boards the team jet, I’ll be headed to the hospital instead.

In the dressing room, I rip off my practice jersey and throw it at the bench. It slides off and onto the floor. Useless. Just like I am right now.

The best thing about family is that they still have to acknowledge you even when you’re in a shitty mood.

On Thursday evenings, my father and brother can usually be found in the gaming lounge at the Harkness Club in midtown. I have a standing invitation to join them. But usually I’m too busy playing hockey. Which they seem to take personally.

Tonight I’m free, though. Yay me. And it’s just dawning on me that I need to recruit someone to pick me up at the hospital tomorrow.

So I take a cab into Manhattan and limp into the club. It’s the kind of place where the doorman wears white gloves and calls you “sir.”

“Evening sir,” he asks me as he opens the door. “Are you here to join a member?”

“Two of them: Max and Carl Bayer. My name is on file. Hang on…” The Harkness Club is yet another place where I have to dig out my ID just to visit my own family.

That’s totally normal, right?

Once management is satisfied that I’m welcome on the premises, I take the elevator upstairs to the gaming parlor.

It’s a low, paneled room in back. The walls are lined with books, and the furniture is cognac-colored leather.

It’s not difficult to find Max seated at a backgammon table, rolling the dice with a gleeful look on his smug face.

Get this—my brother thinks backgammon is a real game, but hockey is a waste of time. Chew on that one.

“Hey guys. You’re pretty easy to find,” I say by way of a greeting.

“Eric! So nice to see you.”

The first man to call out a greeting is Max’s opponent, who happens to be Chet Engels, Alex’s father. I haven’t seen him in years, but he looks as spry as ever. I walk (slowly) over and shake his hand.

And now I’m thinking about Alex again, which is something I’ve been trying not to do.

“Hey, look what the cat dragged in!” my own father cries from a sofa nearby. He’s holding a glass of scotch in one hand and a New York Magazine in the other. He tosses the magazine aside. “What’s the problem, kid? You don’t walk in here for no reason.”

So I guess I’m predictable, too. “No problem really,” I lie. “What are you two up to tomorrow?”

“Flying to Palm Springs with Chet.” He points at Alex’s dad. “He’s hosting a golf tournament.”

“That sounds fun.” Let’s face it. Anything is more fun than surgery, followed by rehab.

“And I’m going to D.C. for a meeting,” Max says, his eyes on the board. “Why?”

“Oh, no big deal. I have to have my knee tweaked tomorrow and somebody has to sign me out of the surgical clinic.”

Max looks up from the dice. “Another surgery? How bad?”

“Outpatient,” I say. “A small repair to my ACL.”

“The same one that tore in college?” Dad asks. They’re all staring at me now, worry on their faces.

“Nope!” I say with a plastic smile. “My other knee has decided to join the party.”

Nobody laughs.

“I’ll call off my trip,” Dad says.

“Absolutely!” Mr. Engels agrees. “There will be other tournaments.”

“Not necessary,” I argue immediately. And now I’m sorry I came. “Honestly. I’ll ask a friend. It’s really no big thing.”

Except I can’t ask a friend. They’re all going to Chicago in the morning for a game. Literally everyone I know is a hockey player or works for the team. I’ll think of something. Or—worst case scenario—I can just talk my way out of the hospital. I’ve done it before.

“If you’re sure,” my father says as I sit down beside him. “But what are you going to do about that loft of yours? Can’t imagine you’re allowed to climb stairs.”

He has a point. My studio apartment has double-height ceilings and a sleeping loft. It’s pretty slick unless you’re on crutches. “I have a pull-out sofa,” I remind him.

“When that gets old, come stay in my guest room,” Dad offers. “There’s always a place for you. And Maisy will spoil you with cookies and milk.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I guess my weird family isn’t so bad. “I might take you up on that.” And Dad’s housekeeper does make excellent cookies.

“Double you,” Mr. Engels says suddenly. He pushes the doubling cube toward my brother.

“Excellent,” Max says with another smirk.

“Dangnabbit! So it’s a terrible idea?” Mr. Engels says, and Max laughs.

A waiter in a black suit approaches me. “What will you have to drink, sir?”

“Uh, ginger ale. Thanks.” I’d love to order whiskey, but alcohol the night before surgery is a terrible idea. “And some of those warm cheddar crackers, if they’re still on the menu.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“I love the crackers,” my father sighs.

“Me too. And they’re going on your tab, so I love ‘em even more.”

Dad grins.

The crackers are probably twelve bucks or some equally ridiculous price. But they’re not even the point of this place. Neither are the fine furnishings. The club’s real luxury is the company of other people. In this room, it’s against the rules to use your phone. There’s no Wi-Fi, either.

Dad and Max probably pay fifty grand a year each for the sole purpose of rolling back technology for a few hours a week.

Max plays backgammon, and Dad plays poker.

There’s a masseuse on staff. You can get your shoes shined or your hair cut without an appointment.

There are billiards tables, dart boards, and even air hockey.

There are racquetball courts in the basement.

But it’s all about the camaraderie—rich guys want other rich guys to talk to after a long day making money. These are the same American titans who earn their billions getting everyone addicted to technology. They come here to play chess on a real board with a real opponent.

Tech used to be the luxury. Now it’s the lack of it that rich people really crave.

My snack arrives, and I dig in while watching my brother clean up the backgammon board with Mr. Engels.

“I should know better than to double down with you,” the older man complains. Then he looks quickly over both shoulders, like a naughty schoolboy. He needs to be sure that none of the stewards are nearby to catch him using his phone.

When the coast is clear, he whips it out and opens a payment app.

I glance at the die. The eight is facing up.

Club rules say that no money changes hands, during games, but playing just for fun goes against their nature.

They play for a hundred dollars a point.

They’d like to play for more, but the payment apps would be obligated to investigate all those chunky transactions for money laundering.

Mr. Engels finishes his transfer and pockets the phone. “Well, Carl. I’m finished getting slaughtered by your firstborn. Let’s eat before we head to the airport?”

Dad jumps up.

I rise, too, but slowly. “Have a good trip. Dinner soon?”

“Yes!” I get a bear hug. “Take care of yourself, son. Let me know how it goes tomorrow.”

“No problem. The surgery is no big thing. It’s all about the recovery time.”

“Then I hope the physical therapy gods are feeling beneficent.” Dad gives me one more slap on the back before he goes.

After the older men leave, I sit down across from Max, offering him a cracker.

“Play a game?” he asks.

“Nah. We already know how that would turn out.” My childhood was spent trying to get Max to shoot hoops or kick the soccer ball around, while he tried to get me to lose at Monopoly or poker. We never liked the same things. Never.

“Is it a long surgery?”

“No, it’s only a long recovery.”

Max grimaces. “Sounds like a blast.”

“Oh, it’s super fun.”

“You could ask Alex,” Max says.

“Ask her what?”

“To sign you out of the hospital,” he says. “Fair’s fair. You got her out of a jam once, right?”

I did, and I don’t regret it. But there’s no way I’m asking her. She still hasn’t returned my call, and I don’t make a habit of being pathetic.

Still, it doesn’t mean I’m not curious about her. “How’s she doing, anyway? Did she get her paperwork signed?” I do the math. If her baby is coming around New Years, that’s less than two months away. She must have a big round belly by now.

I shouldn’t be sitting here wondering how that looks on her. But I am.

“Not yet.” Max shakes his head. “Soon, though. It’s taken longer than we’d hoped.”

“Shit, why?”

“Tatum hasn’t been approached.” Max picks up the dice and drops them back in the velvet cup, where they make a satisfying click.

“I had trouble getting dirt on him. None of his ex-girlfriends would admit to any abuse. One of them looked terrified when I first said his name, but she wouldn’t tell her story.

She said they broke up because he left blobs of toothpaste in the sink. ”

“Seriously? Do you think he paid them off?”

Max shrugs. “Not necessarily. Women learn fast not to speak up against a rich guy with a mean streak. And then the cycle is self-perpetuating, because the asshole gets away with it again.”

Jesus Christ. “What happens if he can’t be pressured into signing?”

“Oh, he will be. The reason we waited so long is that he’s launching a road show for his next round of funding. He’s desperate for cash, and he’s lying to potential investors in his disclosure materials. Now we’ll get ‘im. Either he signs, or we embarrass the hell out of him.”

“But…” That doesn’t sound like enough leverage to me. “Isn’t every business presentation full of half-truths?”

Max gives me another of his maddening shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. He’s bet everything on this startup. He can’t afford to lose it.”

I shift in my chair, unsatisfied with this scenario. Although nobody asked me.

My brother smirks. “You still have a thing for Alex, don’t you?”

“No,” I grunt. Of course I do. But every guy knows better than to give his big brother more ammunition. “I just know how worried she must be.”

“You shouldn’t have gone there with her.”

“She’s a big girl,” I grumble. “Didn’t need your permission.”

“No kidding. But it’s just so messy. Her dad is one of our dad’s oldest friends. She’s my client. I’m legally prohibited from saying a word about her to anyone. And my mopey brother is sitting here pestering me for details.”

“I’m not mopey,” I mope.

He grins.

“I’m just having a shitty week.”

“I can tell. Why don’t you let me send one of my guys to pick you up at the hospital tomorrow?”

“Nah. I got it covered.” Sort of. My new plan is to ask the Bruisers intern to do it.

“Hang in there, Eric.”

“Thanks.” But I wish people would stop saying that to me. I get up slowly from the chair, while my knee screams.

“Want to have breakfast before I leave tomorrow?”

“Can’t eat before surgery, Max.”

“Ah.” He makes a face. “Sorry.”

“Yeah. Night.”

I go home alone.