“Yeah?”
Jim nodded at the security guards standing outside the locker room, and one of them opened the doors to allow the two of us to pass, even though the rest of the press wasn’t being given access just yet. “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll have Rachel set something up with you in the next few days.”
I could hardly believe my luck with how it was all starting to come together. “Thanks, Jim. That sounds amazing.”
“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” he said. Then he veered off to join the coaches in Bergstrom’s office—I glanced inside long enough to see Ben with his handheld camera trained on Adam Hancock, the assistant coach who was currently speaking—and I made my way in to see the team’s reaction and make sure Dave and the rest of my guys had repositioned themselves already.
Sure enough, Dave had his tripod set up not far from Nate’s stall, and the other members of the crew were scattered throughout the locker room with their equipment ready to go.
Most of the guys were quietly taking off their uniforms and equipment, but Nicky Ericsson was standing in the middle of the room with their ugly purple umbrella hat in his hands.
“There are a few guys who deserve this fucking thing tonight,” he said, flipping it around so it spun in the air almost like a top. “I could give it to Ghost, for basically putting the game away when they were trying like crazy to tie it up.”
Several of the guys clapped or made murmurs of assent. I glanced over and caught a slight hint of embarrassment in the way Nate ducked his head as he unlaced his skates.
“I could give it to Harry, because I have to tell you—I haven’t seen a defensive game like that in so long I don’t remember it. How many fucking shots did you block, anyway?”
Harry looked down at his left leg, which appeared to be turning purple from top to bottom. He shrugged. “A few.”
“Maybe next time, let me handle a few more of those,” Nicky teased. “At least I’ve got the right gear on for it.”
The team laughed, and a few of them said some things that I might end up bleeping out if we used this footage because of the young fans watching at home.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ben and most of the coaching staff making their way out of the coach’s office and into the locker room.
“But there’s someone else that I think deserves to wear this umbrella more tonight,” Nicky said. “Harry wasn’t the only one who saved my bacon tonight. I got myself out of position during that scramble at the end, and 501 didn’t even think twice when he took my place. He didn’t have the mask or the pads. Hell, he didn’t even have a goalie stick. But the son of a bitch planted his ass on that goal line, and there wasn’t anything getting past him. By my count, he had four saves before I was able to get back into position. Whoever tracks the stats is probably giving those saves to me, but I didn’t touch that fucking puck. That was all 501.”
“Damn it, 501,” Jamie Babcock said, winking at his brother.
“Don’t forget to fucking hashtag it,” Levi said, taking the umbrella hat and putting it on his head while the rest of the team applauded and ribbed him.
With that out of the way, Riley Jezek turned up the volume on his iPod, letting the strains of “Uptown Funk” fill the room while the guys finished changing out of their gear. A few minutes later, the coaches let the media in. The room was swarmed with the biggest crowd I’d seen around this team outside of the Stanley Cup Finals last season.
Sure enough, the majority of them headed straight for Nate. A few stragglers scattered around to talk to Jamie Babcock and Nicky Ericsson, and one went for Levi Babcock before he was able to hide the purple umbrella hat among his things.
My guys slipped into position, virtually unnoticed by anyone but me.
Since everything seemed to be going according to plan, I thought it would be an excellent opportunity for me to find somewhere quiet to get off these stupid crutches and put my ankle up. I headed into the hall, well away from all the press, and found a bench not far from the recently vacated coach’s office.
At least, I’d assumed it was recently vacated and I was away from all of the press. One reporter was in Coach Bergstrom’s office, with a handheld voice recorder shoved into David Weber’s face.
“So you don’t have any idea at all about what sort of announcement your son is planning to make?”
“None,” Weber said. “Maybe some NHL team offered Luke the opportunity to sign on as a free agent, so he’s electing to forgo his senior year. If that’s it, I can tell you it wasn’t the Storm. I don’t know, though. You’ll have to ask him.”
“But if he was signing with an NHL team, surely he would have said something to you about it. To his family.”
“Well, that could be why he’s waiting until next week to announce whatever it is,” Weber said, exasperation coming through in every word. “Maybe he wants to speak to me and his mother first, before it becomes official.”
“So you don’t think it’s anything…” The reporter trailed off.
“Anything what?” Weber demanded. “Why don’t you save us both some time and get to whatever it is you’re hinting at?”
“There are rumors floating around campus at the University of Minnesota.”
Weber raised a brow and crossed his arms, taking on a posture that should have left the reporter quaking. Lord knows I would have been if I were on the other end of that glare. “You’re seriously standing here and grilling me over some rumors about my son right now? This team just won a playoff series. We’re getting ready to face our next opponent, whoever that may be. I don’t have time to play around over some silly rum—”
“They’re saying that your son, Luke Weber, has been seen at some gay clubs in Minneapolis,” the reporter cut in.
“They’re saying,” Weber repeated darkly. “Who’s they? Or is it just you?”
I wished I’d had Ben remain in the coach’s office instead of heading back into the locker room among the players once he’d finished filming the coaches’ discussion. Or that I had a camera of my own. Something. Anything. But I didn’t, and there was no time for me to rectify the situation, because now that he’d gotten started, this guy rushed to get the rest of it out before he lost his nerve.
“That’s been the big talk on campus since early last semester,” the reporter said, not bothering to answer Weber’s pointed question. “Everyone’s speculating that he’s going to come out next week, that he wants to put an end to all the rumors and admit that there’s truth to them.”
Within the span of a few seconds, the initial shock that registered on David Weber’s face evaporated, to be replaced with an expression of utter disdain. “And?”
“And what do you have to say about that?”
Stone-cold glare. It went on for so long I was shocked the reporter didn’t give up and excuse himself or move on to something else. But the guy stood there, handheld recorder pressed up next to Weber’s face, and waited him out.
Despite myself, I was impressed. That took some serious guts.
Finally, Weber said, “I don’t have anything to say. I don’t know why my son is holding a press conference next week, and even if I’m lying to your face, even if I do know, and even if you’re right, there’s not a chance in hell that I would tell you so. Because if that’s what my son is holding a press conference to tell the world next week, then it’s his news to tell. Not mine.”
Then without another word, Weber pushed past the reporter and left the coach’s office, giving me a curt nod as he left. To let me know he knew I’d heard every word of it? Or to give me the go-ahead to use what I’d heard?
But it didn’t matter. I hadn’t gotten it on film. I couldn’t use it. I could only do my best to prepare my team to capture whatever might be on the horizon next week, if these rumors turned out to be true.
There was a part of me that was glad I hadn’t had a camera on him then.
Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this job after all. Maybe my guys were right
.
I was still mulling it all over a few minutes later when Nate sat next to me. When I glanced over at him, he grinned, making me wish I could talk to him about my predicament. But since he was one of the reasons behind the dilemma, it didn’t exactly seem fair to dump it on him. I needed to figure out someone else I could talk to about it, but I didn’t have the first clue who that would be. Maybe I could call Dad tomorrow. He should have the day off since it was Easter Sunday.
“How’s the ankle?” Nate asked.
I shrugged. “Better than my armpits.”
He burst out laughing. “They really need to figure out something better for when you hurt a leg. Crutches are a bitch.”
“Nice couple of minutes at the end, there,” I said.
He shrugged. “All in a day’s work.”
“Yeah, sure. All in a day’s work if you’re a super-elite athlete giving everything he has…”
“So, are you working on the flight home tonight?”
“Maybe. Are you studying?”
“Maybe. Mind if I steal the seat next to you?”
I shook my head.
“Would you be offended if I tried to casually put my arm around your shoulders on the plane? I’m pretty damn smooth. You might not even notice me doing it until it’s too late.”
This was one of those moments I was glad my skin wasn’t as fair as some of my cousins. My blushes didn’t show up very well, so he might not realize I was thoroughly embarrassed and excited. I tried to keep cool. “I wouldn’t be offended by that as long as you wouldn’t get upset if I let my head fall on your shoulder.”
He nodded, his lips pursed in thought. “I think we could work something like that out.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
No matter how calm and collected I might appear on the outside, inside it was like the butterflies in my belly had started a conga line. I had no idea where this was heading, but I had every intention of seeing it through to whatever end.
“YOUR COUSIN TOLD me you’re being unreasonable,” Dad said over our Easter brunch. We were doing brunch instead of breakfast because the team plane hadn’t landed at PDX until about three in the morning, and there was no chance I was getting up before ten at the earliest. He reached for his mimosa and winked, not that I needed confirmation that he was teasing more than admonishing me.
“Padma?” I asked. Not that it really mattered which cousin, but I assumed it was her since she’d been on my back recently.
He nodded.
“Why are you talking to Padma about me?”
“She called me. I have no idea why she thought it would help, but she seems to be under the impression that I could—or would—attempt to convince you to do the right thing, whatever that may be.”
While a mimosa sounded great, I’d settled for coffee. Not decaf this time, either. I’d asked our waitress to brew a fresh pot extra strong…and to leave the pot. “I’m sure she did.”
“Do I want to know what you did this time? She never filled me in on that part of it, and I never asked.”
“Only the same as always. I refused to apologize to my mother when she’s the one who should apologize again.”
“Padma seems to think you’re cutting off the entire family.”
“Padma needs to see that it’s the family cutting me off and not the other way around. But I doubt that’s ever going to happen. Not while my mother continues to spread her woe-is-me garbage among her relatives.”
Dad studied me for so long it left me squirming, but then he reached for the salt shaker and doused his eggs without saying a word.
“You should really try to eat more like you tell your patients they need to eat, you know,” I muttered. He raised a brow and pointed to his plate that was filled with proteins and not many carbs. I pointed at the salt shaker. “You want them to cut back on salt and eliminate caffeine and alcohol. Oh, and let’s not even bother to think about how much fat is on your plate right now. Probably as much as you allow them in a day.”
“It’s not about what I allow or don’t allow. It’s about them learning to eat in a new way that their bodies can handle after the changes to their digestive tract. They can’t handle much fat because of the surgery. Besides, fat isn’t what makes people fat. Carbs are. But after surgery, too much fat will make them sick. Their stomachs can’t process it. I haven’t had bariatric surgery, so I eat a generally healthy diet for someone whose digestive tract is normal.”
“Plus ten times as much salt as you should have.”
“My cardiologist says my heart is perfectly fine and I don’t need to worry about my salt intake.”
“Mm hmm. For now,” I said, but I dropped it. For the most part, Dad took really good care of himself, so I shouldn’t nag him about those few things he did that were unhealthy. We all had faults, and he was no different. “Just be glad your patients don’t watch you eat. They’d be all over you about it, I bet you anything.”
“I know one of them would, for sure.”
“Yeah?” I raised a brow, scooping up some oatmeal. “Who’s that?”
“Beatriz Castillo. Bea’s a little over a year out from bypass. Lost about 140 pounds so far. She’s a firecracker. Every time she comes in for a checkup, she spends half the time telling me all sorts of things I could do to get my staff to be more efficient and offering to bring in some of her students so they could teach us.”
I raised a brow, refilling my mug of coffee. “Her students?”
“She’s a special education teacher for one of the local high schools. She’s always trying to find ways to get her kids out into the community, but I’m not sure volunteering in a bariatric surgeon’s office is ideal.”
“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging. “Might help teach them empathy for other people, or maybe show them they aren’t the only ones who’re different. Those things can be problematic for kids with autism and whatnot.”
“Which Bea is all too happy to point out at every opportunity she gets.” Dad winked. “Along with anything and everything else that comes to her mind, usually as soon as the thought strikes her.”
“She sounds like a woman who knows what she wants.”
“She does. And right now, what she wants is something I have no idea how to give her. Clothes that flatter her new body.”
I raised a brow, my mind racing back to that conversation I’d overheard between Katie and Dani the other day. “I suppose she’s got lots of problem areas after losing so much weight?” I said.
“They always do. Some of my patients have surgery after their weight loss to remove the excess skin, but a lot of them can’t afford it. Insurance doesn’t cover it. Even if they can, they have to live with the excess until their weight stabilizes.” Dad studied me. “Your mind is going a thousand miles an hour. What’s going on in there?”
“Just an idea.”
He frowned.
“All right. Fine. I might be able to hook Bea up with someone who can design her a new wardrobe. If I can, will you put me in contact with her?”
He reached for the salt shaker again and doused the sausage patty he was about to eat. “I can do that. On one condition.”
“What kind of condition?” I asked warily. My father wasn’t the manipulative one out of my parents, but if he had any thought of forcing me into doing something with Mom…
“I want to meet your new man.”
That was the last thing I’d been expecting. It took me so thoroughly by surprise that I dropped my fork, and it clattered against my plate.
Then it was Dad’s turn to raise a brow. “You didn’t think I knew, did you?”
“Knew what? What new man?”
“Nate Golston. That hockey player. The one who had a banana peel thrown at his feet a couple of weeks ago.”
“Why do you think he’s my man?”
“Just something I saw on Twitter.”
Now he’d really thrown me for a loop. “What are you doing on Twitter?” I couldn’t wr
ap my head around the idea of my father doing anything on social media. He abhorred using the computer, and he only did because it made life easier in his practice. He didn’t own a tablet of any sort. Somehow, he still had a flip phone instead of a smartphone. The man was as technology-phobic as they came, unless it involved a new medical advance in his field.
“Trying to figure out how many of those assholes who post things about you are people I really need to worry about,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ve been talking to my lawyer to see if there’s anything we can do about all the threats being made against you.”
I was pretty sure my jaw would be sore tomorrow, it had dropped so hard and fast. “They’re not real threats.”
“How can you be sure?” He took another bite of bacon, going about his meal as though he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on me.
“Because they’re just idiots who think they can say anything they want because they’re protected by the anonymity of the Internet. The police won’t bother looking into it. It’s too complicated to try to track someone down over what are almost always baseless threats just meant to scare someone.”
“But sometimes these people really act on their threats,” he insisted. And he was right, even if I’d rather not admit it. There’d been enough reports in the news for me to know the truth of the situation. Reports of women—often journalists in traditionally male-dominated fields or outspoken feminists—who’d been subjected to online threats, which were then acted out. My father was right, darn it. “Who’s to say that next time, instead of some racist buffoon throwing banana peels on the ice, it’s not going to be some sexist ignoramus following you to your car? These things happen, you know.”
“Not that often,” I said, with full knowledge of the feebleness of my argument. The fact that it happened at all was enough to convince my father to worry. Admittedly, the idea of Dad being concerned enough to check Twitter to see what people were saying about me and had been talking to a lawyer meant he was an awesome dad. Maybe he was a bit intrusive, but his curiosity was forgivable in the long run. Especially because it meant he cared enough to delve into this part of my life.
Game Breaker (Portland Storm Book 14) Page 10
