If she was messaging me and asking me to call her after the game, there was only one thing this could possibly be about.
God damn it all. Her motherfucking cancer was back.
I STILL HAD about a dozen of my students’ spelling tests to finish grading, but I couldn’t seem to focus on my work. And this time, I couldn’t even blame my lack of focus on Dani and her pregnancy issues or the way she was trying to stick her nose where it didn’t belong. Tonight, my distraction was entirely due to having the Storm game on while I was trying to work. Every time the commentators mentioned Blake, I looked up to see what was happening with him.
To say he’d been having a rough night so far would be an understatement, although his mistakes hadn’t cost the team on the scoreboard—yet.
He’d only won three face-offs the whole game, which was so far below his average as to be laughable if it weren’t such a serious issue for the team. Every time he sent a pass toward a teammate, it got picked off by an opponent that he had apparently not seen. His shots all sailed well wide of the goal or soared so high that they hit the netting over the boards that protected the spectators. He even seemed to be skating slower than usual.
To cap it off, he’d already been sent to the penalty box for three minor penalties plus a fighting major, and it was only halfway through the second period.
Following yet another Hurricanes shot that Storm goalie Nicklas Ericsson managed to fend off and cover, one of the refs finally blew his whistle for a TV time out.
I realized I’d been biting down on my tongue due to the anxiety of watching Blake struggle so much, so I forced myself to loosen my jaw. It ached. A lot. I couldn’t let myself stress out over him and his game—it wouldn’t do either of us any good.
Ninety seconds. The commercial break meant I had ninety seconds to grade three papers before the game would return. I could do this.
I buried my nose in my work and quickly powered through my marking, making a mental note to spend more time with my students tomorrow going over some of the exceptions to traditional spelling rules. Almost every paper I had graded so far had a variety of misspellings for words like eight and thought. The silent gh was tripping them up, and the fact that ei could sound like a long a hadn’t seeped in for a few of my kids yet, either.
I was just finishing up the third student’s paper when the game returned, so I set my marking aside and switched focus.
“That’s right, Storm fans,” the commentator said. “Blake Kozlow is in the penalty box again, and we’re going to show you why.”
Then they proceeded to air some footage that had taken place during the TV time out.
It seemed harmless enough at first. The play came to a stop, just as I’d remembered it happening. But as the players on the ice headed toward the benches and the arena’s crew came out to shovel the ice shavings, Blake was straggling behind the rest of his teammates.
For some reason known only to Blake, he stopped before reaching the bench. He was blocking the arena’s crew. It looked like the man asked him to get out of the way so he could finish doing his job in a timely manner, and Blake just…lost it. There wasn’t any other way to describe his response. He yelled so much that the poor man was cringing away from him, as if maybe he feared Blake would go postal and use his stick as a weapon or something.
Two of Blake’s teammates came over and literally hauled him onto the bench, but the damage was already done, and one of the refs had his arm in the air while skating toward the Storm’s bench.
That was where the replay ended, and then the broadcast’s cameras zoomed in on Blake sitting in the penalty box. He looked livid, but something told me his anger was fully directed at himself.
But now I really had to wonder—what had gotten into him tonight?
This wasn’t normal. Yes, sometimes he lost his cool. And more often than he’d probably care to admit, he ended up doing and saying things he wished he could take back, as evidenced by the Twitter debacle that had landed him in my classroom.
But this seemed to go beyond his usual sort of mess up—similar to the Twitter debacle, only this time it was in a game situation instead of being a social media faux pas. This directly affected his career, whereas the other was less tangible.
My gut clenched as I watched his expression change every time the camera panned over to him again during the Hurricanes’ power play. And when the horn sounded and the goal light flashed, he skated back across the ice to rejoin his teammates with his head hanging low. One of the commentators said something about it being the “skate of shame,” and I wanted to punch the guy through the TV screen.
It was probably a good thing that the broadcast team didn’t have any microphones on the Storm’s bench, because the coaching staff appeared to be ripping into Blake so badly I could almost feel him shrinking away.
After that, I couldn’t look anywhere else but at the TV. Certainly not at the spelling tests I was supposed to be grading. I shoved them aside and watched the rest of the game, mainly to see two things: what would happen with Blake, and how would he respond to it?
Answers: he was glued to the bench for the rest of the game, and badly. By the time the game finally—mercifully—ended, the Storm had lost by a score of five to one, and Blake hadn’t been allowed back on the ice for even a second. The coaches had benched him through the rest of the second period and for every moment of the third.
He’d been practically vibrating with the need to burn off some energy, to get out on the ice and fix the problems he’d created. It was visible and obvious, at least to me, but I knew the danger signs for someone with ADHD. But instead of allowing him to use all of that pent-up energy and frustration by channeling it into something with the potential to go either way on the ice, they’d forced him to wallow on the bench in the misery of his own making.
Blake had always had a tendency to lose it sometimes—I’d realized that about him before I’d ever met him, and the things he’d said and done since we’d gotten to know one another had only further proved the point—but this seemed to be more. It was bigger somehow.
Even though I ought to turn off the game and finish grading these papers, I found myself reaching for my cell phone and shooting off a text message.
Call me later once you’re allowed to use your phone. I’ll be up. You need to talk about whatever it is that’s bugging you.
I thought about telling him I missed him before deciding against it. This wasn’t about me—it was about him.
But sending him a message wasn’t enough to help me regain my focus. It was now directed squarely on Blake, so attempting to grade more spelling tests or do some lesson planning would be an exercise in futility. I set all my work aside to finish tomorrow, and I waited by my phone.
Having him in my life was proving to be like passing a car wreck: no matter how gruesome it got, I couldn’t look away.
I WAS ABOUT to board the team plane for our flight down to Florida when Webs caught me securely around the shoulders with a grip brimming with old-man strength, and he hauled me off to the side, well away from the rest of the guys.
“Bergy’s seriously talking about benching you next game,” he said.
I shrugged, even though that wasn’t the sort of thing I could just shrug off. This was my fucking career, and I could feel it slipping through my fingers, but there didn’t seem to be any way to stop it. I was caught in a downward spiral, much like I’d experienced in my first stop in the NHL.
Hell, until the Storm traded for me, I’d thought that my career was already over. I thought I’d already burned up all my chances.
Jim Sutter had given me one more shot, though, and now it seemed as if I was squandering it. Everything I did was wrong, even when I was trying to make it right again.
I couldn’t get my head on straight. Couldn’t find my footing. I’d been tossed into the deep end and it was either sink or swim—but I had lead weights on my ankles, pulling me under. No chance to swim.
“Guess
he’s going to bench me then,” I muttered. “He’s the coach. It’s his call.”
“That’s it?” he growled at me. “You’re just going to shrug and say it’s his call like you don’t even give a fuck?”
“I give a fuck,” I bit off.
Maybe I gave too many fucks. That was probably my biggest issue in all of this.
“You’re already walking a fine line with him after your Twitter shenanigans. You can’t afford to lose your shit in a game like you did tonight. Not again, Koz. You’ve got to get your head on straight.”
“I know it. I just don’t know…”
“What?” he asked when I didn’t finish my thought.
“I’m trying, okay? But the shit in my head is getting to me.”
“What kind of shit in your head?”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s my problem to figure out.”
Webs gave me a look that made me think of the ones Grandma used to give me when I’d fucked something up and wouldn’t let her help me set things right again.
That look made my skin crawl, especially coming from Webs.
“What kind of shit?” he demanded again.
He was usually the member of the coaching staff that guys would go to when they had a problem and wanted advice on how to tackle it. He’d been one of us back in the day, and he still felt like a bit of a go-between for us and the rest of the coaches—someone who could see our side even if he had to make us see their side. He was kind of like a dad in that way—or at least he’d been the closest thing to a dad that I’d ever had.
I doubted he knew that, but it was the truth.
Still, I wanted nothing more than to get away from his scrutiny right now, because the last thing I needed was something else making me think about Grandma, who was the only parent I’d ever known—my real parents had spent the majority of my life in and out of prison and drug treatment facilities.
I hadn’t called her yet. I couldn’t bring myself to do it just now. Besides, I’d rather wait to hear the news when I was alone in my hotel room. Didn’t want the rest of the guys to see me fall apart, and that was exactly what would happen once she told me the news.
Maybe I already knew it, but it didn’t seem real yet since I hadn’t heard her say the words.
Some small part of me seemed to be under the impression that if I put off making that call for long enough, if I waited to hear it come from her mouth, then maybe I could avoid the inevitable. Ridiculous and unlikely, sure, but there was a bit of hope lingering somewhere near my stomach.
Webs pinned me with the same sort of glare he’d given Babs years ago whenever Katie had been around. The same glare he sometimes still gave Harry. The same glare I’d seen him giving Colesy recently—since our D-man had started openly dating Luke Weber, our assistant coach’s only son.
“Don’t know why you’re giving me the don’t-be-an-asswipe look when I’m not chasing after one of your kids,” I grumbled, wishing I could somehow avoid the heat of that stare.
“Well, you’re still being an asswipe, and it’s my job to tell you that you need to knock that shit off.”
“I won’t take so many penalties next game,” I argued.
“That’s not what I mean.”
It wasn’t? I shrugged, not following. I glanced over to where the rest of the team had almost finished boarding the plane, wishing I was already in my seat so I could put on some headphones and attempt to disappear.
“Something’s getting to you,” he said. “That’s why you were a loose cannon out there.”
“And?” I hated that I sounded so defensive.
“And I’m trying to help you out,” Webs said. He glanced behind me and quickly returned his gaze to me, but the furrow to his brow had me curious.
I took a look over my shoulder and caught sight of Bergy shooting a glare in my direction. Yeah, I was pretty sure between my Twitter debacle and tonight’s craptastic performance, I’d be in Bergy’s doghouse for the rest of the season. No chance of me climbing my way out of that hole.
“Help me out how?” I forced myself to ask, once more looking over at Webs.
“I know you’ve never really had any sort of father figure in your life—”
“What, you aren’t getting enough father-son time with Babs, Harry, Colesy, and Luke?” I butted in. “Did Babs put you up to this? Or Harry? Maybe Harry’s threatening not to let you have time with your grandkid if you don’t get me in line?”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wished I could take them back. Because the truth was he was trying to help me out. I just couldn’t control myself—especially not with my brain going crazy with worrying about Grandma.
Webs didn’t deserve me treating him like this. He was trying to act like the father figure I’d always seen him as, and I was biting his head off.
“I just thought you should know you’ve got people in your life who care,” he said. “That’s all.”
Grudgingly, I nodded, unsure what to say. He grunted and headed for the plane.
“I think my grandma’s cancer is back,” I called out after him. But then I wasn’t sure why I’d done it, and I wished I could take the words back.
Especially since they caused him to stop in his tracks.
But they were out there, and my throat felt as if it were closing in on me. To be honest, I wished it would. I wanted it to close off so I couldn’t breathe anymore. Because I didn’t want to think about a world without my grandma in it.
She’d already kicked cancer’s ass once. But it had taken a hell of a lot out of her. I wasn’t sure she could do it again, and that scared the shit out of me.
Webs slowly turned around, an inscrutable expression clouding his eyes.
I swallowed hard, but the lump in my throat wouldn’t budge. My eyes stung. Fucking cancer. And fucking tears.
“You think?” Webs finally said, his voice gravelly.
“She told me to call her after the game. Wouldn’t say why.”
“Have you called her yet?”
I shook my head.
“Why not?”
I shrugged again.
“Whatever she needs to tell you, you need to hear it,” he said.
“Don’t want to.”
“But you need to.” He closed the distance between us, draping an arm across my shoulders in a father-like gesture I’d seen him use with kids so many times I could probably see it in my sleep.
It made the lump in my throat even bigger.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s call her now.”
I took my phone out of my pocket and powered it on. I pulled up her number from the contacts list. But then I couldn’t make myself press the button. “I’d rather do it in my room once we get to the hotel later. Sometime when I’m alone.”
“That’s not the kind of phone call you make when you’re alone,” Webs grumbled. Then he took the phone from me and pressed Send before shoving the phone up against my ear.
Well, hell.
“You can’t be in Miami yet,” Grandma said almost before the phone had finished ringing.
“Coaches thought I should call you now. Before the flight leaves.” My tongue felt too thick to belong to me. I wasn’t sure how I was managing to get any words out at all. “So what’s up?” I asked, my tone much lighter than I felt.
“Just wondering if you might be able to carve out some time to come and visit me when your team comes up this way in a couple of weeks.” She sounded winded.
In a couple of weeks? That sounded…ominous. She’d never asked me to come for a visit during the season other than maybe over the All-Star break. But she’d only done that once. This couldn’t be good.
“Grandma, are you sick again? Because if you are, I need you to just tell me.”
“The doctors found some more cancer,” she said slowly.
“When? And where? Is it the same as before?”
“It’s breast cancer again.”
“But you already had a mastectomy.”
>
“Well…it spread.”
The words felt like an anvil falling on my skull. “Spread where?”
“To my lungs. And my brain. And they found some in my bones, too.”
A wave of nausea hit me and nearly took my legs out from under me. The only reason I remained on my feet was because Webs tightened his arm around my shoulders and hauled me up against him, lending me his strength because mine was gone.
Grandma was my strength. She was the reason behind anything good in me. If I lost her, I’d lose everything.
“Are you telling me you’re dying?” I choked out.
“You think I’m gonna let a little cancer keep me down?” She laughed, but it wasn’t as full and robust as her normal laughter. “What do we do when cancer comes knocking on the door?”
“We give it the finger and tell it to go fuck itself,” I said by rote, thinking of the matching tattoos we’d gotten the first time she’d been sick.
“Well, that’s what I’m doing. But if you can come to visit…”
“I’ll find a way,” I said. “I’ll talk to…” Hell, I didn’t know who I needed to talk to about it. Couldn’t think clearly enough to figure it out.
“We’ll work it out,” Webs said, with a hell of a lot more confidence than I felt. I doubted he even knew what he was promising to work out, but right now, he was the only thing holding me together. His arm around my shoulders was my lifeline to reality.
“I’ll work it out,” I said to Grandma.
“That’s good. But don’t you go playing like you did tonight in that next game. Got it? Too many penalties.”
“I always take too many penalties,” I said, and I couldn’t stop the grin from coming through. It was the first time I’d felt like smiling in hours—and I wasn’t even sure why it was happening now.
“Got to clean up your act, Blake. You need someone to keep you in line.”
“That’s your job.”
Free Agent Page 13
