by Sarina Bowen
Tank chuckles. “See? He doesn’t care that we were just trying to eat each other’s faces.”
“I noticed that.”
“Then why do you still sound grumpy?” Tank’s eyes are twinkling.
“It’s just a habit at this point.” I can hear my five-year plan weeping. Spending time with Tank means forcing myself not to think about the future.
He leans in and kisses the corner of my mouth. “We have fun, Bess. Let’s go home and have some more of it together. It doesn’t have to be a life-changing kind of thing.”
“Right,” I whisper, looking into his clear green eyes. That’s the whole problem. “I like your brand of fun.” But please don’t break my heart.
“My place or yours,” he whispers. “We’re going on a road trip tomorrow. I’m gonna need some quality time with you first.”
“Yours,” I say, still irritated at myself. My Tank moratorium lasted all of two days.
He takes my hand, threading our fingers. “Any reason we can’t go now? Anyone you need to say goodbye to?”
“No.” I shake my head. The press of his palm against mine makes me unreasonably happy.
“Let’s get ice cream on the pier. It’s on the way.”
I follow him toward the water, pretending for a little while that fairytales are real.
Nineteen
From: The Puckraker’s Blog
“Tankiewicz Finds the Net for Brooklyn”
Breaking his longest scoring drought—twelve games—Tankiewicz finally puts the biscuit in the basket for Brooklyn. With goals from Trevi as well as Drake, Brooklyn took the game over Buffalo, 3-1.
It’s progress. But Tankiewicz had better make a whole lot more of it if he expects to put down roots in Brooklyn.
And it won’t be long until the showdown in Dallas. Will old Sure Shot be ready in time?
Tank: Did you SEE that beautiful goal???
Bess: Yes baby. That’s why I sent you a text last night that said NICE GOAL BABY in shouty caps. Didn’t it come through?
Tank: It came through. But I just wanted to talk about it some more. Because did you SEE that beautiful goal? When Castro accidentally passed to nowhere but I got my stick on it anyway? And before you could say TANK IS A STUD, I put it in?
Bess: Gorgeous goal, hot stuff! I may have spilled my beer I was so excited.
Tank: Where did you spill it?
Bess: All over my naked breasts.
Tank: Really?
Bess: No. But the purpose of this conversation is stroking your ego, right? So I thought I’d just roll with it.
Tank: LOL! I’ll take it.
Bess: :)
Tank: You were right, by the way. After the game, Castro told me I had to get the Brooklyn Bridge tattooed across my ass.
Bess: Well that’s a good sign. If they’re pranking you it means they like you now.
Tank: I got a goal. They like that at least.
Bess: What did you tell Castro about the tattoo?
Tank: I said, sure, buddy!
Tank: And, get this, I told him that if we connect on ten goals this season—in either direction—not only will I put the bridge on one ass cheek, I’ll put his face on the other.
Bess: OMG. What did he say to that?
Tank: “Let’s not get carried away.” Honestly he looked terrified, which was the point. I told him I was just crazy enough to do it. And then I wondered aloud what the blogs would write about that.
Bess: You are an evil man.
Tank: Never bullshit a bullshitter. But enough about me. Let’s talk about you. Specifically, I need to know if you’re naked right now. Please say yes.
Bess: I’m sitting in my office waiting for a conference call. So that would be no.
Tank: Lie to me, baby! I miss you.
Bess: There’s no need to lie. The next time we’re in the same zip code again, you can make your dreams come true.
Tank: Now there’s a plan I can get behind. Literally.
Bess: Indeed. Got to go now! Call starts in two minutes.
Tank: One more thing, hot stuff. Have you seen Henry again? I keep leaving voicemails, asking when I can visit. He texts me back, but I can’t get a phone call. I just want to talk to the old codger.
Bess: Same. I sent him a present but when I asked to visit he shot me down. Now go beat Florida.
Tank: Maybe you should send me a few motivational photographs to improve my game.
Bess: A good workout followed by a protein drink and then a nap would improve it more.
Tank: Says you.
Bess: I am a professional. I know things. Get some rest! I’ll be watching tonight.
Twenty
A Day Late and a Dollar Short
Tank
November
Slowly, I inch toward greatness. I grab an assist in our game against Chicago. And then another goal a week later.
But it’s a slog. And what’s worse? It’s a job. I used to play hockey because I loved it and couldn’t imagine doing anything else.
I guess I still can’t imagine doing anything else. I’m too deep inside my own head, though. And on the nights when I can’t see Bess, I’m lonely.
As autumn drags on, I keep asking Henry Kassman when I can visit or at least call. He keeps saying, “Soon, but not today.” And I try not to care.
Then, on an unseasonably warm weekday, my phone rings as I’m walking away from a restaurant where I’d eaten a late lunch. When I answer, there he is. Finally.
“Tankiewicz,” Henry growls into my ear. “How are you, boy?”
I stop in my tracks on the sidewalk so I can listen a little more carefully. I didn’t know how much I needed to hear this man’s voice. “I’m okay, Henry. I’m doing fine for a guy whose life is still blowing up all over the place.”
“How was practice today?” he asks, taking a wheezy breath in between the words. The sound of it makes my chest tighten in sympathy.
“Fine,” I say quickly, wondering if he’s okay to talk on the phone.
“Fine,” he echoes. “Don’t give me that bullshit. Tell me the truth.”
I smile in spite of myself. “Practice? It was mediocre in parts and dreadful in others. Coach is still yelling at guys who can’t adapt to my style of play. And when I try to adapt to theirs, Coach yells at me instead.”
Kassman laughs, as if I’ve said something funny. “It’s early in the season, Tank.” He takes another audibly difficult breath. “I say this every year, because you’re always in need of hearing it. But you still have time.”
I make a grumpy noise, because I don’t really believe him. Every frustrated look on the coach’s face feels like another nail in my coffin. I need to impress that man or I’m going to be traded again.
“Got something for you,” Kassman wheezes. “Wasn’t sure how to put this, because I’ve never given a man his divorce decree before. But your papers are here and executed.”
Whoa. “It’s done?”
“Done,” he says.
“I don’t have to sign?”
“Nope. The judge signed, and that’s that. I’m gonna send ’em to you by courier I guess.”
“Nah—keep them,” I say quickly. “You can give them to me when you let me visit.”
“I’m so sorry, kid,” he says quietly.
“Don’t be. I’m fine.”
“I know you are. But nobody enjoys failure. I have my own divorce to prove it. And it’s not easy to start over in a new city alone. I’ll bet the gossip is a drag.”
I grunt, because he’s right. This very morning I’d seen another rumor of my infidelity on Twitter, of all places. “People say I cheated.”
“People are idiots.” Henry’s voice sounds stronger all of a sudden. “They don’t know you. Just remember that. They don’t know Mark Tankiewicz at all. Say it.”
“They don’t know me at all,” I repeat. And he’s right. It helps to say it out loud. “Who writes shit on Twitter about people they’ve never met? Who has the
goddamned time to spend on that?”
“Assholes,” he says firmly. “Who needs ’em.”
“Not me,” I say, feeling better already.
“You find an apartment yet?”
“No.” I laugh. “I haven’t even tried. The new hotel your assistant found for me is so nice. I may never leave.”
“Find a place, Tank. Try to make New York your home.”
As if that would even be possible. The only time I feel like myself is when I’m hanging out with Bess and we’re grabbing dinner or watching TV or rolling around in her bed. We’re not a typical couple. I’m a cynical pain in the butt, and half the time we’re in separate cities. But I still look forward to every hour we spend together.
“If you can’t find a place in DUMBO, try the Heights or Manhattan. I’d help you look if I could.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I say, just to make him happy. “When am I visiting you?”
“Don’t come here,” he says with a wheezy sigh. “It’s fucking depressing. Bess Beringer came up here, and I scared the poor thing to death. And that woman doesn’t scare easy. You know Bess, right?”
“I know Bess,” I say, smiling as I walk down Front Street.
“She’s a great agent. Great person. You need another agent, Tank.”
“Someday,” I say lightly. There’s no way I’m going to discuss those plans with him. It’s morbid.
“Find an apartment, then. Soon. Get a cat.”
“A cat?” I laugh out loud. “What for?”
“Even grumpy men deserve pets. A cat won’t take any shit from you. But it will still be happy to see you, even if he won’t show it.”
“You are full of advice today.”
“And now you are obligated to listen to it,” he growls. “If I kick off before we speak again, you’ll regret not listening.”
“I’m listening,” I promise. I’d say anything to stop the talk about dying. I’m nowhere near ready for Henry to go.
“Good,” he rasps. “Now go home and call the realtor.”
“Fine,” I grumble. “Text me a date when I can stop by, though. I’m heading to California for a three-game road trip. But after that, I’m around for a while. I’ll bring you lunch or something and you can give me my divorce papers.”
“All right, kid.” He sighs. “Soon.”
“I’m gonna hold you to it.”
After that, I let him off the phone. He’d sounded exhausted, and I feel blue. I head towards the team headquarters, where I have an appointment. And I try to summon some enthusiasm for calling the real estate broker.
When I pause at the next stoplight, I check my phone and see a new message that grabs all my attention. It’s from Patrick O’Doul, of all people, and the subject is Apartment for rent.
No way! Thanks, universe.
I open that sucker immediately. It’s addressed to both me and the Finnish kid—Ivo Halla. Hey guys—Ari and I are almost ready to rent out the studio, starting December 1st. I don’t know if either of you are still looking for a place to live, but before I tell the whole world, I want to offer it to my teammates first. Rent is $3,900 a month. If one of you is interested, please stop by tonight. I’m home. —P.
Whoa.
On my way, I reply immediately. And then I turn on my heel and reverse my steps toward Water Street.
He’d sent the message only ninety minutes ago. It takes me five minutes to literally run over there. When I get to the front desk, I have to stop to catch my breath before I ask the doorman to buzz me upstairs.
The guy picks up the phone, but before he speaks to anyone, Ivo Halla appears from the direction of the elevator banks. He’s smiling, of course.
When he spots me, his smile slides off. “Ah, nej,” he says. “Sorry.”
Patrick O’Doul appears behind him, and when he sees me he winces.
“Hey, men,” I say as lightly as I can manage. But is this the worst day, or what? “I’m too late, huh?”
“It wasn’t supposed to be a race. I didn’t know if either of you was still looking.”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “I haven’t even started looking. I gotta get on that.”
O’Doul shakes Halla’s hand and waves goodbye. The kid lopes out the door looking as happy as I’ve ever seen him. Which is, to be fair, always pretty happy.
“Dude, I’m sorry,” O’Doul says again. “I wasn’t even sure if he could read my email.”
“There’s always Google translate,” I say drily.
O’Doul shakes his head. “He just signed the lease without reading it and handed me a check.”
“He’s a good kid,” I say, looking out the door where he’d disappeared. “And it’s no big deal. I could have gotten here quicker, but…” I actually laugh, because I’m a fucking mess right now. “I just got off the phone with my agent, who’s dying. He called to tell me that my divorce papers are ready.”
Now O’Doul looks really uncomfortable. “That’s terrible. I work with Tommy Povich. If you need somebody eventually, I could…”
“Nah, it’s okay. I’m going to work with Eric Bayer.”
O’Doul’s eyes widen. “Really? That’s cool of you, man. His first client. He’s gonna be really good at that job.”
“Yeah, great guy.” Not like I’m worried. Bess will have my back, anyway.
“You want to grab a beer or something?” O’Doul asks, rubbing the whiskers on his chin. “I could tell Ari that I’m stepping out for an hour.”
For a moment, the invitation tugs at my brittle soul. O’Doul isn’t a bad guy. He might even be a good guy. But I don’t think I can sit in a bar and make small talk today. He doesn’t really want me to say yes, either. He’s just doing his job as captain to make my grumpy ass feel welcome.
“Can I take a rain check? I got this appointment I’ve been dodging for a month now.” It’s the truth, too. How convenient.
“Let me guess—Doc Mulvey? The team shrink?”
“That’s the guy,” I grunt. Most teams have a psychiatrist who every player must visit a couple times a season. It’s a pain in the ass.
“Say hi for me,” O’Doul says with a wink. “I love that guy.”
See? I knew Brooklyn was bonkers. Nobody likes seeing the team shrink. “Will do.”
“And we’ll get a beer next week, you and me.”
“Thanks. Good plan. See you tomorrow.” Next week it won’t be different, though. I’ll find another excuse.
We say our goodbyes, and then I head toward the shrink’s office.
Doctor Mulvey is an aging Brooklyn hipster. He’s wearing a black plaid shirt over a white tee, and a beanie. And then there’s his carefully tailored mustache and beard. If he wants us to meditate together, I’m outta here.
“Nice of you to keep your appointment this time,” he says, standing up to shake my hand.
“Sorry. I’ve been busy busting my ass at the rink.”
“Let’s talk about your busted ass,” he says, settling into his chair, and picking up his…knitting? Seriously? The doctor slides one needle against the other, then wraps the yarn around it. “How is the adjustment coming?”
“Rocky,” I admit, because this man already knows. He has all our stats, and probably a file containing my life story. “I’m a different kind of player than the team is used to. They’re fighting my style.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, calmly making another stitch. “What about the rest of your life? Have you found a place to live?”
“Not yet. I had a lead on something, but it fell through.”
“What kind of place are you looking for?”
“Um…” It’s not like I’ve given this a lot of thought. “One bedroom. Maybe two. I guess even a studio would be fine.” My mom will probably visit later in the season. But we’re not very close. She’ll stay at a hotel. “Why? Do you live in the neighborhood? If you know anybody who’s trying to rent…”
“Sorry.” Dr. Mulvey shakes his head. “But it’s interesting
to me that you haven’t narrowed down your search.”
“I’ve just been busy.”
“You’re very busy,” he agrees. “But that’s what real estate agents are for. Do you feel overwhelmed?”
“Well, sure. Who wouldn’t? New city. New team. Bad on-ice dynamics. Of course I’m overwhelmed.”
Dr. Mulvey sets down his knitting and looks me in the eye. “Anyone would be. And that’s why you’re having so much trouble visualizing.”
“Sorry?”
“You don’t have a picture in your mind of the apartment you need. Brooklyn doesn’t look anything like Dallas, right?”
“Right,” I agree. “Exactly. That’s why it’s hard to start looking.”
His piercing eyes bore into me. “Your on-ice problem is just the same, I think.”
“Uh, what?” I thought we were talking about apartments.
“You said the team was struggling to adapt to your style of play.”
“Right—they want me on the blue line like O’Doul. It’s a failure of imagination.”
“Exactly,” he says again. And then he gives me an evil grin. “Your imagination.”
“What? No. That’s not what I meant.” And this is why everyone hates the team shrink. They talk you in circles.
“It’s all about visualization,” he says. “If you can’t visualize connecting the pass, you can’t connect the pass. If you can’t visualize your life in Brooklyn, you can’t make a life in Brooklyn.”
“I connect passes all the time,” I say irritably.
“Of course you do. That’s muscle memory and training. But you’ve forgotten that visualization matters. If you can flex this muscle again, your teamwork will smooth right out.”
“You lost me,” I grunt.
“How old were you when you started hockey?”
Oh brother. They always want to talk about your childhood. “I was six.”
“Did the six-year-old Mark ever stand around with a toy stick, pretending to score the winning goal for… Who was your team?”
I laugh. “Well, sure. And we rooted for Vancouver. That’s where my dad grew up.”
