Now I’m just mad that he missed my practice. He sent me the following text this morning:
Coach,
Apologies in advance, but I will not make today’s practice. I drank too much tequila and I’ll puke all over the ice. No one wants that. Bench me or whatever you have to do. I promise I’ll be ready to play for Wednesday’s game.
Sincerely and professionally,
Jack Leslie.
Only my dad signs off formally in text messages because he’s old. Jack’s written me another goodbye letter is what he’s done. Rejected twice by the same person. Even Mom only left me once.
I sent him a lovely little return text:
Get your ass to the rink by nine am, Leslie, or else. I don’t care about your puke.
He never showed. I get the message loud and clear, he’s shoving me as far into “you’re the coach and I’m the hockey player” roles as he can. That’s fine. I’m going to do exactly what I do to brats on my team who want to challenge me.
When practice is over, I leave my team lying on the ice where I’m sure they’re asking any deity at all to just take them now. Maybe they won’t drink so much at the next social. Maybe they’ll learn it’s possible to have a few beers, not get hammered, and still have a good time.
And maybe pigs will fly.
First, I drive to the closest dollar shop for a few items and then I head to the condo and straight for Jack’s floor, banging on his door loud enough he’ll answer just to stop me, so he doesn’t get complaints from the few non-hockey player tenants in the building.
“Holy shit, I’m fucking busy,” I hear from the other side of the door. “Don’t you know how to use a fucking cellphone? Your hands better be broken.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. I can’t wait to see his face when he opens the door to discover I’m not one of his hockey pals.
The door swings open. Jack’s rough, but he doesn’t look anywhere near puking, which confirms my suspicions that he skipped practice for other reasons. He’s shirtless, in nothing but a pair of loose gray sweats and his white ball cap, the brim facing backward.
His face doesn’t disappoint. “Oh, shit.”
I smile like a crocodile. “Hi, Jack.”
He groans. “I’m so dead, aren’t I?”
“Depends on your definition of dead. Get a shirt and some shoes, Leslie. You’re coming with me.”
“I told you just to bench me.”
“Thanks for the suggestion, but you’re on my team, not the other way around.Move.”
“All right, already.”
I’m so tempted to spank his ass for his attitude alone.
He slips into a pair of flip-flops, even though it’s ten degrees Celsius outside, and a large black hoodie. I want to say something about the flip-flops. I should get a medal for keeping my mouth shut.
From there I abduct him and bring him to the arena in my Audi, pulling out the bag of supplies I bought at the dollar store. The rest of the team is just leaving as we arrive. Some look on with dread on behalf of Leslie who’s not as bothered as they are, the unilateral smirk of contempt has been plastered on his face this whole while.
Others—his best pals—snicker, knowing that he’s in trouble, but he’ll live. They’ll probably dream up a thousand ways to poke fun at him between now and when he gets home. I’m sure the text messages have already begun.
I lead him into the abandoned dressing room. The rotten smells of three-day-old jockstraps and damp hockey gear invade our senses. I pull a toothbrush from my reusable cloth bag and present it to him. “You’re going to clean the room with this.”
“What? Are you from a bad seventies movie or something? That’s insane.”
“Nope. Welcome to toothbrush therapy, Leslie. Get to work. I’ll even be kind and fill up this bucket with soap and water for you.”
“So, kind. That’s what it’ll say on your tombstone. Here lies Coach Meyer, unusually kind and helpful,” he says, swiping the toothbrush from me. “That’s called sarcasm in case an unfunny guy like you can’t figure it out.”
