| |
By the time I make it back to my room and hit the sack, I'm resigned to being traded. It won't be the worst thing in the world, I tell myself. I don't have a family. No wife that I have to tear away from the group of friends she has painstakingly built over the years. No kids who will have to change schools and suffer the hell of being 'the new kid' in school.
Hell, I don't even have a house to put on the market, even. What will I do? I'll check out of my hotel room. Big deal. I can just up and go.
Most eligible bachelor is right, I guess. 'Cause I've got nothing. And nobody.
And for the first time, I realize that – it actually sinks in. And it sucks. There's a hole in my heart and it drops lower, it infects my stomach. Damn. And then I start to think, maybe being traded won't be the worst thing. Who knows where I'll end up going. Maybe a dump like Edmonton?
Sigh.
There's a knock at my door. I answer it. It's the GM, Doug Johnson.
“Dougie,” I say, surprised. I feel kind of ridiculous that he's standing there in a suit, and I'm standing here in my boxers.
“Oh, er,” he stammers, keeping his eyes above my neckline. “This a bad time, Tyler? I wanted to talk to you about some ... team issues. If you got a minute.”
Doug's a good GM. And for years, he's treated me well and made it known that he respects my thoughts on the state of the team. As captain, I'm something of the intermediary, the go-between players and management. It's a delicate job with a lot of 'balancing' issues – like balancing the trust that both sides put in me.
But something is obviously in the air. And this is not one of those meetings. It feels different.
“No, it's not a bad time,” I say hoarsely. “Lemme get dressed.”
“Great. Come to my room after.”
I throw on a t-shirt and some jeans. I have an odd impulse to pack my suitcase and bring it with me to the meeting, 'cause I feel like I'm about to get jettisoned off this roster and sent on a non-stop flight to some other city.
But I guess I'm not thinking very logically or calmly right now.
I put on my slippers and walk over to Doug's room. He invites me in and pours two glasses of whiskey. I feel like I'm attending my execution.
“So, uh, what's up, Doug,” I stammer.
“Just wanted to catch up with you. It's been a while since we've had a chat, huh?”
He's right about that. This year, there's been fewer and fewer of our chats. I've been trying to push away the nagging thought that this was a sign that I was losing favor with him, with the team ... but now I'm forced to face the reality. After all, I'm about to get traded.
I gulp. “Yeah. It's been a while.”
“It's been a crazy year,” he says, sipping from his glass. “Stressful year. Disappointing year.”
I stare at my feet and nod. “Yeah.”
“Why would you say that is? Why would you say we're under-performing this year?”
I frown. “I could be more focused, Doug. I haven't been able to lead the team like I know I can.”
“I'm not looking for a guy to hang here, Tyler, I don't need a scapegoat. I wanna talk systemic issues. From your perspective.”
Systemic issues? I ask myself. Well, they all root from the fact that we came this close to winning, only to blow it in the end ... we're hungover from that defeat. It's still too recent to get over. Yet it's so far in the past, we can't even remember what it was we did to get there in the first place. We're fucked.
And it's all my fault.
That's how I really feel. But how do I say that to my boss, in captain speak?
“We uh.” I gulp. “We're uninspired. We lack a catalyst. We need more of a driving force.”
“Fresno played great tonight,” Doug says, taking another sip of his whiskey. “Fantastic game, actually. Only guy who showed up.”
I frown. “Yeah. You're right. He really carried the win.”
“I know you guys love him,” Doug says. He leans forward, his voice lowering. “But, how big a part of that room is he?”
My mouths falls open. The GM is asking me how expendable Fresno is from a team chemistry standpoint. What he really wants to know is, would the guys lose their shit if he was traded? Would they sulk because they lost a great friend, a valuable glue guy?
He wants to trade Fresno? My mind is reeling. No way. That's a mistake.
“Fresno?” I gasp. I knock back the rest of my whiskey. “You can't – can't trade Fresno.”
“Trade?” Doug chuckles nervously and pours me a second glass. “Who said anything about a trade? I'm just curious ... that's all.”
He's lying, but he has to. A GM can't ever tell his players that he's considering moving someone. The fact that he even dances around the topic with me at all shows how much he respects my opinion.
But I'm not in the mood to play along tonight.
“You're lying. I heard you through the bathroom wall last night,” I blurt out suddenly. I didn't stop to think if this was the right move, but it's too late, I'm doing it anyway. “I heard my name come up. Someone from another team is on the outs and you're offering me up in return.”
Doug's cheeks redden. He's an honest guy, and that means he's got a terrible poker face. He takes another drink and a deep breath.
“Shit, really? Those goddamn walls are paper thin!”
“So if that's why you asked me here – to make up your mind between trading me or trading Fresno—”
“Settle down, Tyler.”
“—Then I'll make it real easy on you, Doug. Just trade me. Fresno's a huge part of this team, way bigger than I could be. He scores more goals than I do. He'll be a better leader for this team in the long run.”
“Shutup already, willya?” He groans. “Look. I normally wouldn't say a goddamned thing about this to a player. You know how damaging it can be when rumors get around. But I'm a couple drinks in and damnit, I've always liked you, Tyler, and respected your honesty.”
I stare at him with a grimace.
“Someone around the league – a good, young player – is available. I can't say who. But they want you in return. But I'm not gonna trade you. Yeah, I thought about it – that's my job Tyler, you can't take it personally – but I told 'em I couldn't do that trade.”
I feel a rush of relief – but a cynical part of me holds back. That's if he's telling the truth. Then again, I don't see him getting his bad poker face. So he must be.
“I told 'em you weren't on the table, but I'd be willing to move Fresno. After his game tonight? They're sold. I got 15 minutes to pull the trigger on this deal. If I don't, they're trading him to another team. They've got back-up deals already in place.”
I click my tongue and shake my head. “You can't, Doug. Fresno means too much to the team. End of story.”
“Are you comfortable saying that, without knowing who the other guy—”
“Doesn't matter who the other guy is.” I fold my arms defiantly. “It could be the best player in the league and I'd still say no. Fresno is that valuable. The guys would riot if we lost him. A thousand new problems would crop up with him off the roster.”
His mouth cinches up into a tight circle. He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Okay. That's kinda what I was thinking. But thanks for your input. It helps.”
“No prob,” I say as I stand up and make my way to the door. But, with the door open, I turn and ask. “... Who is it, by the way?”
He shakes his head. “You know I can't say.”
Then I remember the game on TV at the bar. The Jets' suspicious move in making Callan Jones a healthy scratch. Could he the player on the outs? He just had a monster game against us, though ... it doesn't make any sense.
I close the door and lower my voice. “... Wait a minute. It's not Callan Jones you're talking about, is it?”
Doug gets that uncontrollable smile, that terrible poker face of his. He tries to bite his cheeks to make it go away. “I can't confirm or deny any rumors.”
“Oh my God, it is Jones, isn't it?” I walk into the middle of the room and start pacing around. “Callan Jones? Really? Whoa. Why? Why would they give up on him so young?”
Doug chuckles. “I dunno. And that's part of the risk in trading for him. Whatever he did, it's bad, because the Jets want him off the roster by midnight. So I don't have much time to mull it over.”
“Fresno for Jones? Straight up?”
Doug reluctantly nods. “That's the deal on the table.”
All I can see is Callan Jones' cocky smirk. His boyish face. His short, golden hair. His blonde five o'clock shadow, which is probably more like a five-day shadow. All I can think about is how he's the straw the stirs the drink. How much we need a guy like that. How much I need a guy like that. To help me carry this team.
“Well. That changes things,” I mumble.
Doug guffaws. “A minute ago you said it didn't matter if it was the best player in the league coming our way. Callan Jones is nowhere near the best player in the league, Tyler.”
“Nah. Of course not. But he's still damned good, and he's the best at what he does. And ... I think he's just what this team needs.”
“But the guys can't stand him. They hate him, Tyler. That's obvious.”
“Yeah, they hate him. They hate him because he's that good at what he does. They'll get over it. I'll make sure of that. And whatever issues the Jets have with Jones, whatever problems he's got? I'll make sure he grows out of 'em.”
“... I can't believe I'm talking about this with you,” Doug groans, rubbing his face.
And I can't believe I'm ready to throw Fresno to the wolves, I think. Damn.
“Look, no guarantees, alright? They might get a better offer or I might decide against it.”
“You have to do it,” I say sternly. “Look, you know I love Fresno. But when he doesn't play well, he's moody, and his mood infects the rest of us. And he only plays well when we're playing like garbage. I hate to say it, but ... he's not on the same page as the rest of us.”
Holy shit, I think. I just said that.
“Damn.” Doug stares at me, astonished.
“Yeah,” I agree. “I know. I'm surprised at myself here, Doug. I guess that's how bad I want this Jones guy on our team.”
“If I do this,” Doug says before I leave. “If I do this, you're responsible for smoothing it out with the team. And making sure Jones fits in that dressing room. Understand?”
I gulp. That's my job as captain, I know it. And I know it's a tall order. That I might fuckin' hate Jones as much as Donovan does once I have to be around him ...
But it's a risk we have to take.
“Understood.”