5. Chapter Five

I’d not slept well after that encounter with Newley in the elevator.

Tossing and flopping about, I finally drifted off well after three in the morning, only to be jarred awake at six by my phone alarm.

“Nooooooo,” I groaned into my pillow, slapping my rubbery hand at the bedside table until my fingers found the phone. After silence returned to my world, I rolled onto my back, rubbed at my sticky eyes, and slowly sat up. Lying back down seemed to be the right thing to do, but I knew Liam would be at the door any minute filled with that Bryn Mettler gung-ho drive that he’d been ingesting since birth or darn close to it. The morning was barely here yet. Not even the sun was properly awake. A coolish air drifted in through my bedroom window, carrying the smell of the lake as it brushed over my face. Closing my eyes, I breathed it in, tucked my legs into a tidy lotus, and closed my eyes. Meditation was a key factor in my success, and the success of many other goalies, for it not only relaxed, it helped with mental clarity and focus, which is something we tendies had to have tons of. Also, it was just super nice to start—or end—the day with some mindfulness. A few peaceful moments with no outside world, no internet, no hockey, no family or friends, just yourself and your breath.

Drawing in three deep breaths through my nose, then releasing them through pursed lips, I could feel the tension from last night starting to ease away from my shoulders and neck. I rarely used music or chanting. I simply let the sounds of the lake and nature take me to that serene place where—

“Basky, dude, you awake?” Liam called after scratching at the door. I opened one eye, rolled it hard, and then closed it. Maybe he would think I was still asleep and go away. My head was a foggy mess, the paths that I’d walked for so long now shrouded in thick mist. Marcus Newley wasn’t the bigoted jerk that I’d thought he had been for several years. I’d spent so long being certain that the man was anti-Asian, or anti-queer people, that it had grown into a sort of disgusting but comforting alien life form that I’d formed a bizarre symbiotic relationship with which was giving me the shivers just thinking of but yet…yeah, it was sort of the truth. Only the alien life form wasn’t trying to take over the Federation like in the “Conspiracy” episode of Star Trek: TNG. “Basky, hey, man, we have to dip pretty soon.”

“Dude, chill. Give me like ten minutes here,” I called out, eyes squeezed shut.

“Okay, cool, but check the blogs when you’re spanking off,” he replied and then left, the floor creaking as he pit-patted out to the kitchen.

The blogs. Great. What the hell was the local sporting press and bloggers on about today? Seriously, if they were riding my ass about one stupid preseason loss, I was going to…

Nope, stop. Focus. Relax. Inhale and exhale. Find your breath. Locate the core of your mindfulness and embrace it. What the shit were the bloggers saying?

“Damn it,” I huffed, totally unable to recenter. Opening my eyes, I unfolded my legs, stepped into some shorts, and went to join my roommate in the kitchen. I’d find my Zen tonight. Right now, I needed to know what was going on in our village. Scanning through my social media, I found one small mention of my name that was linked to Marcus Newley and that was it.

My roommate was rummaging through boxes of coffee pods, his back to me. His blond hair was a mess, his sleep shorts and tee wrinkled as hell, and his feet bared. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard me open the dishwasher to get a mug.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt,” Liam said as he dropped a pod into the Keurig and then hit the mongo size cuppa button. The smell of hot chocolate filled the tiny food prep area. I angled around him, my eyes on my phone, and chose a pod of dark roast from the handy pod rack my mother had bought for me last year for Christmas. I drank a lot of coffee as did everyone in my family. I really loved kopi the most but hated dealing with the traditional pot and socks for the beans so I just drank extra dark, mega-caffeine coffee with tons of sugar and canned milk.

“I wasn’t jerking off,” I mumbled as I waited for my turn at the coffeemaker. “What are the bloggers saying? I can’t find anything.” I looked up from Insta and glanced at Liam. He was just removing his mug, so I nudged him aside to get to the coffeemaker. I was not human without coffee, which was why I should have known morning meditation would tank.

“Wait, man, you’re like walking undead until you get that crude oil into you.” He waved his phone under my nose, took my mug and K-cup, and then made my coffee while I read over an article from Milton Sheffield, the sports staffer at the Chemung Challenger over in Horseheads. An old paper, one of the few newspapers still being printed and sold around here, it had a good reputation. Milton was an older guy, an old-time sports beat sort of guy.

I gave the first few paragraphs a fast read, frowned, and glanced at Liam sipping his cocoa as he watched me over his cup, his brows beetled while I began to read out loud.

“Several reputable sources, including this reporter, overheard the Comets goalie saying that he had not only physically outplayed Huda on the ice but had verbally browbeaten the young Asian goalie during their unfortunate time stuck in the hotel elevator.” I threw Liam a tired look. “Why am I always the Asian goalie and not just the goalie?”

“Same reason I’m always the bisexual goalie or Marcus is the Black goalie.”

“It’s so stupid,” I huffed and returned to the article. “The Challenger has reached out to the Gladiators as well as Baskoro Huda for comments. A spokesman for the team replied that they’re thrilled to hear that the players are this fired up for the season and that they encourage each fan to follow their players as they gear up for combat.” I rolled my eyes. “Seriously, this is bullshit.” I handed Liam his phone, my sight latching onto the thin stream of dark as Satan’s butthole coffee dribbled out of the Keurig.

“I know.” No, he didn’t, not really. I’d thought that Marcus and I had reached some kind of accord or something last night. Then the first thing he does when he’s not around me is start being a dick again. “On the upside, everyone in Watkins Glen is hyped about the bad blood between you and Newley. It’s all everyone on the team’s Insta and TikTok are talking about. My dad sent me something from Facebook as well. Everyone is keyed up for the season.”

“Cool,” I muttered, feeling as if I’d just been gut-punched yet again by Marcus Newley. “I’m going to chill on the patio for a bit.”

“You want company?” Liam nudged my shoulder softly with his. I gave him a weak smile.

“No, I’m good. Just need to process.” My friend nodded and took his cocoa to his room where he would probably pull out his yoga mat to work on mindfulness like Coach Miles wanted us to do. Yet here I was, feet cold, standing on my porch overlooking the lake, frothing internally. Steam rose from the warm waters of Seneca Lake as I sipped and mulled over what to do or even how to proceed. A text rolled in, then another, the first from Marlene Blass, the head of Gladiators Public Relations asking me to come to her office after morning skate to discuss the team’s new and inventive plans to stoke interest in the little good-natured rivalry between myself and Marcus. I read over the text several times before replying back with a meek little affirmative. What choice did I have, after all?

The next text was from Marcus. I stared at it blankly. How did he get my number?

First, I got your number from Crispy who got it from Bean. This cool? ~ M

I guess. ~ B

So about the whole browbeaten comment… ~ M

It hurt to think that he’d mouthed off like that right after we had our little détente. My reply was less than kind.

Sounds just like you. ~ B

He was typing immediately. A Great Blue Heron flew past, long legs gliding behind it as it searched for a place to land and fish. This one was possibly migrating.

Come on, man. I’m far too cool to use a word like browbeat. My great-aunt would use it but me? Please. ~ M

I chuckled. Okay, yeah, he had a point. No, it didn’t sound like him. It sounded like someone my parents’ age. It sounded like a middle-aged reporter.

Okay, I guess that’s true although your coolness is up for debate. ~ B

Dude, I am crushed that you would doubt my swagger. ~ M

You’re a tool. Did you say something like that to the press? ~ B

No. Totally not. Never spoke to press. I did kind of talk shit to the guys but not to the press. ~ M

I paused, lowered my phone, and watched that heron circle and then land on a short stretch of shore in front of a multimillion-dollar summer home, all closed up for the winter. I pondered why I gave two shits about what this man said to his teammates about me. Was I any different? Given the chance, I’d do the same, and had, many times. Another ping rang out, pulling me from the bird standing still as a statue as the water lapped over its feet.

Seriously, I said nothing to the press. ~ M

Okay, I believe you. About this. Not buying your other claim. Prove me wrong. ~ B

I can recite the entire speech that Aragorn gives to the Army of the West outside the Black Gate. ~ M

Damn. Okay, that was pretty cool. Still, he needed to have that ego checked, and it was up to me to do it since no one else seemed to be willing.

Meh. I can recite the entire speech that Picard gives while defending Data in “Measure of a Man.” ~ B

There, let him chew on that for a second. Three dots appeared, stalled, and then reappeared as my toes—and my coffee—grew progressively colder.

Kirk is the better captain. Prove me wrong. ~ M

Holy shit, this guy was a first-class shit stirrer. Shaking my head as I smiled down at the screen in my hand, I had to marvel at the size of his hubris. How the man could stuff his swollen head into a mask was a mystery. Good thing they’re custom made or he’d be out on the ice with only his bravado to protect his smug, handsome face.

Next time we play, I’ll do more than prove you wrong about many of your bloated notions. ~ B

He replied with about five dozen laughing emojis.

I quiver in anticipation. ~ M

“Asshole,” I muttered to the gentle winds blowing over the warming lake.

Got to shower and catch the bus. Sorry about press. Not sorry you lost. ~ M

I hurried to change his name in my contacts from Marcus Newley to Grand Asshole of the Ice. Yeah, that fit.

***

“Baskoro, thanks for coming up so quickly. Please sit down.”

I nodded at Marlene Blass, a very pretty, slim brunette woman of about forty or so, wearing a sleek pair of rust-toned trousers and a white blouse.

“I would have been here sooner but Coach wanted to work on special teams drills,” I explained, lowering my bulk into a chair that looked like it would have trouble holding my nephew, the pudgy cutie that he was.

“PR concerns always come after Coach concerns.” She smiled over her desk at me and then removed a tiny pair of glasses that had been sitting on the tip of her nose. “So, it seems you’ve become quite the sports sensation of late. This little spat between you and Marcus Newley has given our season ticket sales a nice boost. All home games against the Comets are already sold out!”

“Oh, well, that’s good,” I commented, unsure of what she wanted from me.

“It is. We all love the sport, but asses in seats keeps our doors open. Since the pandemic, it’s been hard to stir up interest in minor league hockey. Many teams have folded, so this boost in sales makes everyone up here,” and she waved a hand in a circle to indicate management and the owners who had offices looking down on the players and fans, “incredibly happy. So happy, in fact, that we’ve been working on some ad ideas to stoke the flames a bit.”

“Flames?” I asked, hands resting on the knees of my jeans.

“Yep, flames. The fire that you and Marcus have ignited. Our fan base is riled up. Something that can only be good for ticket sales. So, what we’d like to do is push you into the limelight. Let the fans get behind you and possibly razz the Comets a bit on social media. Nothing too outrageous of course but good-natured poking back. To that end, we’d love to have you and Liam star in a short booster video, something that we can share online to keep the fans involved.”

“Oh, uhm, well, I guess that’s okay by me, but Coach will want—”

“The owners are firmly behind this. Memos were sent to the coaching staff asking for their full cooperation, which we’ve already secured.”

“Oh, okay. I’m not great at acting or anything,” I confessed, feeling oddly out of sorts with this whole thing. I was a hockey player, not a sales rep.

“You’ll be fine. Honestly, with your face and Liam’s on the screen, people won’t be paying much mind to acting skills. You two are adorable.” I blushed to the tips of my hair. “Our first project won’t require acting, anyway.”

“No?”

“Nope. Not a lick. How are you at rapping?”

***

“Rapping?” Liam blinked light green eyes at me as if I’d just asked him to perform Swan Lake with the New York Ballet Company. “Are they serious?”

“Totally.” We were seated down at the dock in the late afternoon, our day officially over. The sun was close to setting but lingered in the sky, casting a bright red glow to the peaceful waters of the lake. “They gave me the lyrics. Shooting starts Friday.”

He plucked the papers from my hand, eyes widening at the lengthy song. “I’ve never rapped a day in my life, and this song is…” he glanced at me and I shrugged, “it’s crazy long. Three days to memorize all these lyrics?”

“I know. I said that too, but Marlene was sure we could do it. She said they’d pick the best bits and then edit in some of our killer goalie moves, like a montage, that they would release on social media on opening day. I mean…” I drew in a breath, wishing now that I’d worn more down to the water. This time of year, a sweater felt nice in the morning and at night, but during the day, you wished you’d skipped the damn sweater. “It’s kind of a cool idea. And the song is amazing.”

“Sure, I mean it’s a classic and works well with the message they’re trying to send, but…Friday? Seriously, that’s crushing. I didn’t study this hard in college.” Wind rustled the printouts in his hand. My skin pimpled.

“I feel you. So, yeah, that’s happening. You cool with it?” I looked over at my roomie.

“Sure, I’m down. I mean, they could have given us more time to lock the lyrics but…dude, you look frozen.”

“Yeah, I’m cold. I miss summer already,” I moaned as I hugged myself.

“See, this is why you should have grown up in Pittsburgh. Sixty degrees is still shorts and tank top weather.” He waved the papers at his clothing. “Shit, I’ll be wearing shorts until Christmas.”

“You’re a freak,” I grumbled, playfully bumped his shoulder with mine, and eyed the stairs leading up from the dock to our house high on the hill. “Guess we better get upstairs and start rehearsing.”

Liam nodded and plodded up after me, making amends to the greatness that is MC Hammer for what we two were about to do to one of his songs.