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After getting trounced by the Lightning, all I wanted to do was lay in bed and watch some stupid TV and forget the night ever happened.
I strip down to my boxers and jump on top of my comforter. I pick up the remote and put on some cheesy crime drama. As soon as I start to get into it, there's a knock at my door.
“Ugh,” I grumble. “Hold on. Comin'.”
I get up and answer the door. It's Doug.
“Hey Doug.”
Although he's still got his trousers and dress shoes on, his Oxford has come off. His plain white undershirt, a size too small, swells over his burgeoning potbelly. It's always strange to see a business professional out of their suits, when that's all you see them in. It's jarring to realize that they're, well, human.
“Got a sec?” he asks.
“Sure.”
I let him in and sit on the edge of my bed. “What's up?”
“Jones got a hold of me.”
“So what's his deal?”
“He told me his flight went fine, that he made it in okay. He saw the chauffeur waiting for him, even, but he panicked. Said that the trade really upset him, and he was in a weird place, and it all happened so fast that he just blew by the chauffeur without thinking it over. Said he accepts full responsibility for his actions, and that he understands he'll have to be punished for it.”
My brow furrows and I want to laugh, or make a snide comment, but I'm actually left speechless. “He ... said all that? Really. Huh.”
That kinda blew me away. I mean, it's rare for a trouble-maker to, you know, own up to the trouble they've just created. Normally they try blaming their fuck-ups on somebody or something else. As worrying as his little disappearing act tonight was, this turn-around is at least a little reassuring.
I guess I can say one thing about Jones: he seems like an odd dude.
Doug continues. “Yeah. Tough, right. I wanted to yell at him, but it sounded like he already beat himself up for it quite a bit. So I guess I went pretty soft. I told him I'd have to think about it, but first things first, I wanted him to rejoin the team ASAP.”
“When's he gonna be here?”
“He's supposed to make it in tonight. He'll be with us on the flight to Chicago tomorrow.”
“Oh,” I say, my brows arching. Somehow I hadn't expected to see him for a while.
“Now, obviously the other guys aren't the happiest with him right now ...”
“You can say that again.”
“On the other hand, I kind of understand where he's coming from. I mean, finding out you're traded, then immediately joining a team on a road trip on short notice like that has to be tough. And, of course, he's young – which doesn't help.”
“Yeah.”
“Then again, I've traded for lots of players, and never had any of them flake out on me like this. So I wanted to ask you first, Tyler. What do you think? Should I suspend him? Or should we gloss over it and just tell the boys that he had some kind of travel mix-up that kept him from getting to the game on time?”
I rub my chin. “Damn. I dunno. I'd hate to bend the rules for a new guy. That could set a terrible precedent. But ... it might not be such a bad idea, given the trouble with the other guys.”
Doug nods. “Not to mention the media, the fans, etc. So now you see my dilemma.”
I shrug. “First things first, let's see if he even makes it in tonight. I guess we'll go from there.”
“He better.” Doug shakes his head and blows off a nervous exhale. The thought of Jones not showing up clearly scares the shit out of him.
Hell, it scares me, too. Losing Fresno for a guy who doesn't even wanna play for us would be a death-blow to this team.
***
KNOCK KNOCK.
The rapping at the door is light. I open my eyes. The lamp is still on, the TV too – and I'm still in my boxers lying on top of the hotel bed comforter. I must've fallen asleep. Now I'm not sure if I actually heard a knock at the door or if I dreamt it instead.
But then I hear a key-card slide into the lock and swipe. The door lock clicks open.
Oh, I think. This must be him.
I stare at the door, in nothing but my boxers, waiting and expecting.
At last the door kicks open and a young man shuffles through with a duffel bag hanging from his shoulder. It's Callan Jones alright. He's wearing a snug-fitting and well-worn pair of blue-jeans. The thighs and knees are thread-bare, and his muscular quads peek out of the tattered denim. His top is a tight, navy blue t-shirt. The sleeves are small and only barely cover his shoulders, which are rounded with muscle and surprisingly well-toned. So too are his biceps – like hard knots that make his sleeves bulge. And his thick forearms, which ripple with a network of veins.
At least he looks like he takes his conditioning seriously, I think, my eyes sweeping up and down his frame.
“Hey, Vance. It's uh, good to meet you,” he says, and I can tell he feels a little skittish. If he had a tail, it'd be firmly stuffed between his legs right now. “Listen captain ... I'm really sorry about today, man.”
I sit up and scowl. “Well where the hell were you, Jones?”
He slides the strap of his duffel bag over his head and off his shoulder. The strap grabs his shirt and pulls the hem up, showing me his bare waist. His abs are hard and chiseled – his obliques, too. His diet must be good.
It's a good sign. Too many guys are naturally good at hockey, so they feel like they don't have to take their workouts or their diets seriously. I don't know what Jones' deal is, but at the very least, he seems dedicated to staying in shape.
He sighs and takes a seat on the edge of his bed. “I don't wanna make any excuses for myself, Vance. I got off my plane, and I saw the chauffeur who was supposed to pick me up, but I just got psyched out, man. I don't know what came over me. I've never been traded before. I just kinda froze. And I ran away. But I'm here now.” He raises his palms. “Here I am.”
I give him an angry look. “We could've used you tonight. Did you see the score?”
“Yeah. Nine to one.” He frowns guiltily. “I know I put the team in a bad spot—”
“Nine to one. You didn't just put us in a bad spot with your little 'no show' act. You demoralized us – right after we traded for you. You made us look bad. Every last one of us – and team management, too!”
“I know. Believe me, I know.” He sighs. “I'm really sorry. I'm actually gonna go to everyone else's room and apologize to 'em before I go to bed—”
“Well,” I gulp, remembering my conversation with Doug. I need to stall Jones. “Hold off on that. Not yet.”
“What? I have to. It doesn't feel right that I've rejoined the team, that I'm in here with you, and they don't even know where I'm at or if I'll ever play for the team. You know?”
Damn it, I think to myself.
“Look, Jones, half the guys are probably asleep already. You wanna wake 'em up and piss 'em off more? Just wait until tomorrow, alright?”
He's quiet for awhile. Thinking it over, no doubt.
“Yeah,” he nods with a defeated sigh. “You're probably right. I just hate the way this feels.”
Good, I think to myself. I want him to hurt for what he's done to us. So he never pulls any shit like that ever again.
“Well, you brought it on yourself. You made your bed, now you gotta lay in it.”
“You're right,” he admits. His shoulders slump.
I've succeeded in making him feel bad. But ... it doesn't feel good. It makes me feel bad.
“And with that said, it's time to sleep.”
“Okay.”
As I climb under my sheets, I peek over at Jones. He pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it on the floor. I reach over to turn out the lamp just as he unbuttons his jeans and wiggles his butt free. He's wearing a pair of boxer-briefs.
My finger hovers over the light switch, but I hesitate to flip it just yet. I watch Jones as he struggles to pull the denim off his thick, muscled thighs.
I'll wait 'til he's undressed to turn out the light, I think.
I'm still pretty pissed at him for the shit he's pulled today. But the sight of him at least makes me feel better. He's jacked. He'll easily be one of the strongest players on the team. He's built like a stud.
No wonder he can hit so hard, I snicker to myself as I shut the light off at last.
“G'night, Jones,” I say.
“Night captain.”