“Now,” Uncle Vic says, “she has a point. I did notice a change in the atmosphere after that point, but I couldn’t put words to it like that.”
“2012 Boston Tigers—lost the Super Bowl,” I say, counting off on my fingers. “2008 Seattle Tree Frogs—didn’t make it to the world series, despite obviously having the superior talent, both on the pitch and with coaching. Wimbledon, 2014, Greg McConnor—need I go on?”
“So, what?” Luca rolls his eyes and looks up to the ceiling, like a higher power might agree with him about this. “You watched some tapes and made some callsyearsafter those events passed. I bet any SportsCenter clip could have told you that all those guys counted their chickens too soon.”
“What the fuck? Chickens?” I snap.
“Wren—language,” Uncle Vic says, which makes Luca laugh, a surprisingly warm thing. Vic raises his eyebrows at him and Luca coughs, through his laugh, holding up a hand in apology.
“Sorry—that reminded me of my mom.”
Vic shakes his head and returns his gaze to the sheath of papers in front of him. “Well, even if you don’t agree with her, it can’t hurt to take her advice. Limit the celebrations and focus on not counting the win before we actually have it.”
“I never do,” Luca counters, eyes cool again, the moment of warmth gone. Even though he’s back to the subject at hand, I’m still living ten seconds in the past. For some reason, I have the strangest urge to ask Luca about his mom.
Normally it doesn’t bother me when people talk about their moms—Mine died when I was a baby. I’ve gotten used to it. Uncle Vic’s sister, and completely unknown to me, my mother’s always been more of a ghost than a memory or real person in my life. But there was something about the way Luca said it, something about the warmth and love in his eyes—something that felt like a fissure through the center of me.
But I can’t chase that feeling, so instead I clear my throat, flip to the next page of my notes and say, “Shall we go on?”
“There’s more?” Luca asks, which earns him a disapproving glance from my uncle. I savor that.
“Oh, yeah.” I slip through a couple of pages, letting them spread out over the table. “There’s alotmore.”
***
“What do you have for me?” Grayson O’Connor asks, still managing to look big in this massive hallway outside the locker room. He’s a huge guy—they all are, but O’Connor is uncannily broad. Maybe that’s what makes him such a good goalie.
“Okay,” I say, turning and pulling O’Connor to the side, flashing my tablet at him, “Ferguson has been struggling with his precision, so I wouldn’t worry about him, but Mack, here? Yeah, he’s been gaining a lot of confidence—likely to do with the fact that the end of his contract is coming up—so you need to watchout for him. He scored on you a few times last season, and he’s going to think he can do it again.”
Grayson nods and nods, his hand on the back of his head. “Got it.”
“Alright,” Maverick Hawkins says, appearing to my left and peering over my shoulder at the tablet screen. If Grayson is a golden retriever, Maverick is the opposite, his dark hair long and falling into his eyes. He’s even wearing a leather jacket. He could compete in a James Dean impersonator competition, minus the hair grease. “I’ll bite—do you have anything for me?”
“That depends, are you good at shit talking?”
It’s a pointless question—Iknowthat Maverick is great at riling people up on the ice. I also know that after getting married and having a kid—adopting a kid? Discovering a kid he already had? I’m fuzzy on the details—he’s toned down his attitude a lot. Probably wants to be a good role model for his son, but that’s not going to do us any favors tonight.
His eyebrows pop up, and he laughs, “Used to be—I try not to do that stuff anymore.”
“Well, get back into it.” I tap the screen, showing a little video clip of one of the Blackhawks walking out of a practice facility, slamming the door behind him with an angry shout. He doesn’t even look back when it nearly slams on one of his teammates. “Caden here has a short temper, and if you work him up, he’s going to lose his flow. He can’t play through the mental haze thatcomes with anger. But just watch him—when he decides to deal a low blow, he’ll go for a star.”
“Oh shit, has he done that before?”
“No,” I admit, eyes trailing down to the video on the page, landing on Caden’s red, screwed-up expression. “But I’ve been watching a lot of film on the guy, and I’m convinced it will happen. If not in this game, then when they play the Penguins. Those guys willdefinitelyknock him around verbally, and he’ll take a cheap shot in retaliation. You can tell he doesn’t have the capacity to engage in a witty back and forth, and his inadequacies frustrate him enough that he resorts to dirty play.”
“Well, he’s not going to be taking any cheap shots on our stars,” Maverick says, his eyes going a little dark. “I can promise you that right now.”
“Whenhe does it,” I say, “it will be a blindside attack on a major scorer. Probably whomever scored last, actually. And he’ll target someone the fans love.”
“Like me?”
The three of us turn to see Callum Hendricks standing off to the left, his eyes flicking between us. His curls are slightly damp, and he’s already dressed for the ice.
“Yes, like you.” I turn my tablet slightly so he can see it. “Or like Luca.”
I half expect me saying his name will summon him, but the man doesn’t appear. For the next ten minutes, I stand with the guys in the hallway, showing them all the information I have on the other team, and telling them my predictions for exactly how I think each guy is going to act.
“But more important than the individuals is the bigger picture,” I say, tapping out of the videos and over to the graph I made. “What you need to know is that, overall, the Blackhawks lack a collective mental toughness. Their resilience is low, especially after losing their coach right before the start of the season. If you push them hard at the start, they won’t have the stamina or fortitude to keep up.”
