One on One (Cayuga Cougars Book 5)

by V. L. Locey

  “What the ever-loving fuck are you doing benching McGarrity?” Victor barked, his pale skin mottled with anger.

  I finished chewing my bite of heaven before I replied. “He cost us that game. He acted in a manner that was directly the opposite of how I told him and the team to react. He treated me with disrespect. I think that warrants a benching. I’m sure Dewey will agree.”

  “Fuck Dewey, this is between you and me.” Vic poked me in the chest, hard. I took a swallow of tea, grimaced, and braced myself for more venom. Kalinski was known for it, after all. “You benching him cripples our special teams. Do you honestly think we can handle those chattering monkey asses without our top players out there for the penalty kill or power play? If you do think that, then you’re a bigger fucking hick than I’d originally thought.”

  That hick one hit hard, but I let it pass. This time. “Victor, I know it impacts special teams, but Mario isn’t above being reprimanded for disobeying the staff.”

  “The man is retiring in less than a month!”

  “Then he should have done what I told him to do, which was let that shit run off. Don’t get into my face asking for special treatment for him because he’s your friend. I don’t do preferential dispensations for buddies. Do you? Or are those rumors I hear about Dan being first line because he’s married to one of the coaches true?”

  And there, I’d crossed the line. I’d known it as soon as the stupid words flew out of my mouth but damn it, it got my point across. That was unseemly of me and I knew it.

  Victor leaned in, all the bluster and noise gone. In its place was Vesuvius about to erupt. His hazel eyes burned with rage and hurt.

  “I’m going to let that one go, because I know deep down you’re a good guy. But, and I mean but, like with a capitol B, U, and T. But if you ever toss that kind of fetid slurry into my face again to drive home a point, I will knock you the fuck down, fellow coach or not. You say what you want about me, but you do not talk shit about Dan. Now, I’m going to find a fucking soccer ball to stab with my pen. We’ll discuss this tomorrow after we’ve both had a chance to cool our motherfucking jets.”

  I nodded, chin up, gaze locked with his. I wasn’t going to back down, but I did understand that we needed space.

  “Apologies for being so uncouth,” I stated with sincerity.

  “Yeah, whatever. Fucking phobic asschimps in this world make me want to hurt someone.” He stalked off to find—and probably batter—an innocent soccer ball.

  I finished my Moon Pie, made myself drink all of my rancid tea, because that was my penance for being so disrespectful to Victor, and then made my way to the away dressing room to find Dewey and lay out what I’d done and why. I ran back to buy a second Moon Pie because it was going to take twice the chocolate and marshmallow to get me through this next happy discussion. I thought for a second and bought two. One for me and one for Dewey. Turned out to be a good call, because if there was anything our head coach loved, it was chocolate. Losing key players for disciplinary reasons not so much, but chocolate he was onboard for.

  After a long talk with Dewey about what had taken place he agreed that we needed to step on attitude from players, but he did not exactly like me laying down a dictate before consulting him. So, we still had Mario on the bench to cool his attitude a bit, but I’d stepped out of line. I accepted that. Hindsight being twenty-twenty and all that, I now saw that I should have talked with the head coach before doling out discipline. My temper—and yes I had one—had gotten the better of me.

  I’d never been happier to see my children waiting for me outside the now empty arena. Son and daughter hugs are amazing. Betty pecked my cheek and explained that James was in Tupelo with a client or he would have been here for the game. We set off for a rib shack that we all loved. No-one but Chaz dared to eat ribs at this hour. Charity had a small bowl of mushroom soup with flaky bread, while we old folks sipped coffee or tea. Betty was on a tangent about this new client James was mollycoddling at the moment. I was nodding along to her rant as I toyed with a chunk of Charity’s bread. An old jukebox in the corner was playing some classic Skynyrd and I was mulling over the night, the slurs, the fight with Vic, and how much bigotry still lived out there in the world.

  “Daddy, you look so sad. It was just one game. You’ll win the rest,” my daughter said with a sunny smile.

  “I know sugar, it was just…well, sometimes the hate in this world weighs me down.” I tossed the crusty chunk of white bread back into the basket. “Let’s not ruminate on this. You kids tell me something uplifting!”

  “Mm, well, Mom finally gave me her blessing for the Scotland trip,” Chaz piped up, his fingers and chin coated with red sauce. “So now I have to make the payment to my professor and I’ll be gone at the end of the month for six weeks!”

  “Was that a not-so subtle hint for money?” I teased. Chaz did look a bit chagrined, but just a bit. “I’ll pay my half as soon as I get home. Are you still wanting to come up to meet Townsend?”

  “Yes!” all three replied at once, the giggles afterwards helping to lift the blah from my shoulders. Talk roamed then, from Scotland, Charity’s search for summer work, and Betty’s hopes for a cool fall so that she wouldn’t swoon in her satin wedding gown.

  “Did you book the flight to New York yet?” I asked my ex, while the kids were off playing an old-school Pac-Man arcade game in the corner.

  “I did, yes. We’ll be there next weekend, but only for three days. I have a fitting for the gown I cannot miss, and we’ll have to be getting Chaz packed and ready to leave,” Betty replied, stirring her coffee slowly. Her dark brown eyes found mine over the condiments. “Lancaster, if your new friend isn’t ready for us, please tell me. I can fluff the kids off until later.”

  I shook my head. “Nope, he’s fine with the kids, eager to meet them. You’ve got him a little edgy, but he tends to worry a bit. It’ll all be fine,” I assured her when her slim eyebrows tangled into a knot. “He’s playing at a small bar in the next county Saturday night. I’d love to take you and the kids to see him. He’s amazingly talented. He can sing and play, both equally well. Sometimes when he’s playing for me, which is him just plucking along when we’re all cuddly on the couch, I find myself wondering what the hell a man that talented is doing working in the mayor’s office in a tiny little town like Cayuga. Man of his charm and skills should be headlining somewhere, or maybe making records. Do they even make records anymore?”

  Betty smiled warmly at me.

  “What?”

  “You. I just…I do not recall ever hearing you speak of another living soul the way you talk about your Townsend.” She lifted her coffee to her red lips, took a sip, and then placed her mug back on the napkin she’d lifted it from.

  “Oh no, stop. I’m sure I talked about you the same way.” I reached across the table to take her hand. Small and soft, nothing like Town’s, I held her fingers between both of my hands.

  “Mm, you were always polite, and kind, and of course gentlemanly, but even in our heyday you lacked the passion for me that I now see expressed for Townsend. I’m happy for that, Lan. Truly, I am. You’re a good man and a wonderful father. You deserve happiness.”

  “Bless you,” I choked out, lifting her knuckles to my lips. As much as I wanted to argue, she was dead on, as always. I had cared for Betty deeply, loved her in the way a man would love his sister but not as a man should love his wife. I never craved her like I did Town. Even now, after a terrible night on the ice, the thought of him stirred my blood. “I wish it could have been you. If I could choose a woman to lust after, it would be you.”

  That made her giggle a bit. “This man better not hurt you. You tell him that if he does, he’ll be dealing with your ex-wife!”

  “I’ll be sure to tell him all of that but after you leave Cayuga. Poor soul’s fretting enough as it is.”

  “Okay, after we leave, but it better be relayed,” Betty said, and I knew damn well that when Bettina said it better be relay
ed then it had better be relayed.

  We lingered until after midnight, then I had to call the night over. We’d have an early skate in the morning so that the Cottonmouths could have ice time. I hugged my children, kissed my ex-wife on the cheek, and walked them to Betty’s white Saturn. Only after they were in and off did I call for a ride back to the hotel, with a short stop at a corner convenience store halfway through the trip.

  I rode up to the fourth floor of our hotel, a rather nice one that sat a block away from the arena. With my package in hand, I stopped at room 403 and knocked softly. The door creaked open and a bleary Victor Kalinski in saggy pajama bottoms yawned in my face.

  I held out the six-pack of Coke. “I apologize again for being so discourteous. I was not raised to speak like that about anyone, let alone a friend.”

  “Huh, well, okay. Thanks.”

  He took the soda and then closed the door in my face. Guess that was that. I turned to leave and the door to 403 opened again.

  “I was informed that I should say that this wasn’t necessary and it’s all water under the bridge.” Vic scratched his bare belly and waited.

  “Ah, well, I’m glad we could work that out. Goodnight, then.”

  “Yeah, night.” The door shut in my face again. This time it stayed closed, so I made my way down the corridor to my room and fell into bed, feeling as if the bad times were mostly over now after such a wonderful time with my family.

  I was wrong. The dark times just got darker. Game two had me seriously questioning myself and my benching of McGarrity. Kalinski was right, Mario was missed on special teams but, in the end, it wasn’t just a missing man on the PK or PP unit that did us in. It was being unable to match the ferocity of the Cottonmouths. They’d outscored us 6-2 in game two, humiliating us with both words and deeds. The ride home to Cayuga was quiet, the players and staff either embarrassed, ashamed, or gnarly with anger. I was one of the gnarly ones. So was our special teams coach. He planted his ass next to mine about an hour from home, offered me a Coke which I took, and we popped the tabs and took long gulps. Then we both belched, me softly and him loudly.

  “I think we need to stop being so damn gentlemanly with your old team,” Vic said nonchalantly.

  “I think you may be right,” I replied, sipping the warm soda. I didn’t care for the film the pop left on my tongue, but I was rather enjoying this bit of camaraderie. “Any idea if Dewey thinks we should let our manners slip a bit?”

  “Who do you think sent me back here?”

  I peeked over the seat in front of me to see our head coach lifting his red can into the air.

  “Guess we take off our satin gloves then,” I murmured and tapped Vic’s can with mine.

  After pulling into the Rader parking lot, I hauled my weary ass off the charter bus then stopped dead when I saw Town waiting for me beside his car. This was the first time that he’d come to the arena in a just-a-boyfriend-picking-up-his-man sort-of way. The whole team got to see me hugging him hard and long. Guess we were officially a dating couple now. That felt really good. Even better than warm cola shared while conspiring to commit discourteous acts upon Cottonmouths.

  7

  The hallmark of a good coaching staff is being able to change things up when a particular tact or approach isn’t working. We in the spiffy Cougars coaching jackets were coming at the Cottonmouths with a whole new attitude. One that gave players the freedom to finish those checks with vigor. They had to be clean, of course, but we wanted to see the boards shaking. I’d not said a word in the pre-game pep talk—that was all Dewey. We’d all met an hour before the game to finalize our approach to game three, but I’d stood with the other coaches, silent, and merely listened.

  When we left, we could hear Sander March shouting something at the men, but what exactly it was faded away as the dressing room door closed. I went to my office to grab my jug of sweet tea and send one last text to Townsend to ask him to wish us luck.

  Radio is on while I help Ben with a speech. We’ll be cheering you on. Tons of luck and love, T.

  Love? I stared at my phone, jug of tea under my arm, as if I’d become dimwitted. Love? Did he mean that in an off-the-cuff way or did he mean it…?

  “Sweet baby Jesus,” I mumbled, eyes glued to my phone until a knock on my door made me refocus on the here and now. Mario stood in the open doorway, geared up and ready for the game.

  “Did you need something, Mario?” I asked, shutting off my phone, then sliding it into the front pocket of my jacket.

  “Yeah. I needed to apologize for giving you attitude. You were right to bench me. My head is…” He clicked his tongue as he searched for words. “Well, my head is kind of in a funny place this season. I’m all kinds of excited to retire and be with my gal more, but there’s this part of me that’s scared shitless, you know?”

  “I do,” I said, then gave him what I hoped was an understanding smile. “I felt the same way when I stopped playing. It’s such a large part of your life for so long that you’re not sure what you’ll be when you hang up your skates.”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s it in a nutshell.” He scrubbed at his short red hair with his gloved hand. “But, anyways, my shit shouldn’t splash on you or the team. I’ll be the player you need out there, charming the cups off them sweet Southern boys right before I check them into the second level. Clean checks, of course,” he quickly added.

  “Then go charm them out of their cups.” I offered McGarrity my hand. He grabbed it and shook it strongly. We made our way to the chute, Mario peeling off to slap asses with his team mates, me to hunker in the corner with the coaching staff until the home team was introduced by the arena announcer.

  The home crowd was loud. When the Cougars hit the ice, the noise level rocketed. Sander, the cocky so-and-so, ramped up the fans by skating in a circle pumping his fist into the air. We generally didn’t condone showing off like that in hockey, but this was just what the team needed right now. Energy. It hummed from the men as we stood for the anthem. They were like greyhounds at the gate, just rippling with enthusiasm.

  We stood back and let our men do what it was they knew they needed to do. Play hard, play clean, and shove back when they shoved us. Two minutes into the game, Mario delivered a hip check to one of the Cottonmouth defensemen that sent the opposing player up and over in a cartwheeling motion ending with him and his ass meeting the ice soundly. The fans went apeshit. Mario skated off to rejoin the play, which was now us taking a high-quality shot on goal. That was the message delivery system, in a manner of speaking. The Cottonmouths understood the letter from McGarrity, and the next one, a hit from Dan Arou that knocked his man off his skates and into the glass, where he then bounced back like a pinball into his own man.

  “Mail is here!” Victor shouted in delight.

  Those two hits turned into many more, the shift in our attitude sparking all kinds of squabbles and minor skirmishes. Our boys kept things clean, the chirps that we heard on the bench anyway were sharp but not inflammatory. I knew better than to think that, on the ice, the men weren’t slinging terrible things at each other. At least we were now responding with checks and not fists. And then it happened. Sander March stole the puck from a Cottonmouth winger then shuttled it to Dan Arou-Kalinski. Dan, being the kind of player he is—a hornet buzzing around the oppositions net all the time—somehow managed to corral the wobbly puck and then backhand shoot it through his legs at the Cottonmouth net. The puck slipped gracefully though the five hole and glided into the net as pretty as can be. The red light flared to life, the goal horn sounded, and the Rader erupted.

  I threw my fist into the air as Dan’s line-mates gathered around him, slapping his helmet and back. The celly was short but sweet, and that was the only goal scored in that game. Our guys were battered and sore but ebullient when they filed into the home dressing room. Even I was caught up in the jovial mood, sauntering over to congratulate Dan before the press was given access to the area.

  “You know the pros
are going to be ringing you up soon if you keep razzle-dazzling like that,” I shouted to be heard over the boisterous group of sweaty men.

  “I know that,” Dan grinned back, the flaps of the Cougar Cap dangling down over his shoulders. “Nice to hear you say that though, Coach!”

  We shook hands and I moved along to chat with some of the other players, feeding them praise, joking, and sharing in the sweet victory we’d so earned.

  Stepping outside the dressing room, I stopped to talk with a blogger, Sandy Tack, from Watkins Glen, nice girl who knew her hockey. When Sandy was done with me, I made my way to Victor’s office to see if he’d like a Coke or something cold from the machine, my treat. He lifted his gaze from his laptop when I knocked then nudged the cracked door open.

  “You up for a celebratory drink?” I asked, jerking my thumb at the soda machine right outside his door. “I’m buying.”

  “Nah, I’m good here.” He held up a sweaty red can.

  “Good enough. I’ll drop by the film room and give them a goose about the game films.”

  “You got a second?”

  “Sure.” I stepped in and leaned on the wall while I tugged my tie out from under the collar of my shirt.

  Victor spun his laptop around. On the screen was a picture of his boy, Jack, in a sandbox, his round cheeks and belly coated with sand, his smile brilliant. The kid was a handsome lad. I smiled at the image. It so reminded me of my son when he was that age, flaming ginger locks aside, of course.

  “You see that game winning goal of Dan’s tonight?” He slid the laptop around so that he could gaze on it again. The AC kicked on, blowing cold air over the back of my neck.