“Sometime today, you need to program my phone,” he said, subject closed. “I’ll give you a list of names and you can look the numbers up.”
She’d drop the subject. For now. “Programming a cell is really easy.” Because his phone was lost and he hadn’t backed up his numbers to the Verizon secure site, he’d lost everything. Yeah, it was easy, but finding all his numbers and programming them into his phone would take time. Time that she would rather spend plowing through the fan letters. “You can do it.”
“I don’t get paid to do it,” he said as they pulled into the garage. “You do.”
When they walked into the house, a cleaning service was there vacuuming and washing all those w Cng indows. Mark scribbled a list of names, then handed her his cell. “That will get you started,” he said, then disappeared into the elevator.
Chelsea plugged in the phone to give it a good charge before she turned to Mark’s computer and got back to work. While she answered a fan letter, an e-mail popped in his personal inbox. In case it was a Realtor, she opened his e-mail program. The return address caught her eye, and she opened it.
Coach Mark, it read.
My mom let me read what you wrote I hope you get better really soon I’ve been practicing my stops like you tot me I’m getting good you should see.
Derek White
Derek White? How had the kid managed to get ahold of Mark’s e-mail address? Wasn’t he like eight? If he’d been older, she might be scared. As it was, she was slightly alarmed.
Derek, she wrote.
Good to hear from you. I don’t know if I’ll be at hockey...
Coach Mark
P. S. How did you manage to get my e-mail address?
Friday afternoon, Mark looked forward to a day of doing nothing besides watching junk TV. As was true with his life lately, there seemed to be a conspiracy to change his plans. “That double overtime against Colorado in the regular season was grueling. One of the toughest games I’ve ever played,” Sam Leclaire said as he raised a bottle of Corona to his lips. The light in t
he room caressed the black and purple shiner smudging his right eye.
“It wasn’t pretty. Especially with you sitting out a double minor,” Mark agreed as he looked at the four hockey players lounging on his couches and chairs inside the leisure room. Through the open glass doors, two more of the guys stood on the veranda outside, hitting golf balls across the yard and into the thick, short hedge. Beyond the hedge was the Medina golf course, and Mark hoped they kept the balls off the green or he’d hear about it from the grounds superintendent, aka Kenneth the Nazi. Kenneth was just one more reason he needed to get the hell out of Medina.
“Hensick took a dive on that one. The pansy ass rolled around like a girl. He embarrassed himself.”
Which might have been true, but didn’t mean that Sam hadn’t tripped Hensick. Then punched him for good measure and gave Colorado the power play.
The guys had shown up at his house half an hour ago, unannounced. He was pretty sure they’d organized this little trip without calling first because they knew he’d tell them not to come. He hated to admit it, but he was glad they’d s Fhown up without warning. He’d known most of these guys for a long time. He’d been their captain, but they were more than just teammates. They were friends. Close as brothers, and he missed shooting the shit with them. He hadn’t known how much until now.
Today they all looked rough around the edges. Like warriors who’d just survived a battle. The two defensemen outside looked the worst of the lot. Left guard Vlad Fetisov had a few stitches in his brow, while the team’s enforcer, Andre Courtoure, had butterfly tape closing a cut on his chin. Inside the house, second-in-command, alternate captain Walker Brooks, wore a brace on his left knee. Of course there was Sam’s shiner, but Sam always had a shiner. He was a good guy. Always laughing and joking, but there was something darker inside. Something he tended to work out on the ice. Which made Sam a liability almost as much as a damn good hockey player.
“The rumor is that Eddie is leaving,” forward Daniel Holstrom informed everyone from his position on the side of the chaise. Unfortunately, Daniel had yet to shave off his playoffs beard, and the growth of blond hair on his cheeks and chin looked moth-eaten.
Sniper Frankie Kawczynski raised a bottle of Corona to his lips. “Isn’t he already playing in the Swedish leagues these days?”
“Not Eddie the Eagle. Assistant coach Eddie,” Daniel clarified.
“What?” Walker looked across the room at Daniel, incredulous. “Eddie Thornton?”
“Thorny?”
“That’s what I hear. He’s signing on as the assistant coach in Dallas.”
“Where did you hear that?” Mark wanted to know.
“Around. I bet it’s true. Thorny never did get along with Larry,” he added, referring to the Chinooks’ head coach, Larry Nystrom.
“Nystrom can be a straight-up hard-ass,” Frankie said. He sat in a chair to Mark’s left, a big kid from Wisconsin whose height and bulk had deceived many opposing players. Frankie was as nimble as a ballerina, with a slap shot clocked at one hundred and fifteen miles an hour. Just three miles short of the record holder, Bobby Hull. Mark had helped handpick Frankie when Mark and the late owner of the team, Virgil Duffy, had looked over the NHL draft several years ago.
Mark shrugged. “Larry’s always been a fair hard-ass.”