The next four days were shitty, and it had nothing to do with the women in his life.
He had a terrible game five in Detroit, letting in goals he should have saved. They could have clinched the series that night if he hadn’t been off his game. Off nights happened, it was a known fact. But his timing was spectacularly bad.
Going into game six the series was 3–2, which wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for those two back-to-back losses. The team had squandered all the momentum they’d built up early in the series.
Back in Brooklyn, the dressing room was quiet before the game. Too quiet. “Let’s make some noise out there,” Doulie said, walking around the oval to give every one of his guys a slap on the back. “We can get this done tonight.”
They couldn’t, though.
It was only a small consolation that the game six loss wasn’t Beacon’s fault. The defensemen screwed up early in the first period, giving Detroit an easy goal with an odd man rush. Then the forwards seemed to freeze up, and it was downhill for the rest of the game. They lost 5–2.
The series was now 3–3, and the pundits were having a field day. “Brooklyn Chokes” blared more than one headline. The talking heads began to drop statistics like raindrops. “Seventy-eight percent of teams who never led during game six will lose game seven.” And, “No team who’s squandered a three-game lead has ever advanced to the finals.”
Beacon listened to all of this chatter with half an ear. No matter what anyone said, when a series went to game seven, the odds were still fifty-fifty. He didn’t need Elsa’s new math tutor to know that.
Still, it didn’t feel good.
At the briefing the morning after their loss, Coach Worthington practically had smoke coming out of his ears. “Let’s go over the footage again,” he said a million times. He talked plays and habits and formations until every player went glassy-eyed.
After a light workout in the weight room, he walked home to pack for yet another trip to Detroit. On the way he tried Lauren on his Katt Phone.
She answered on the second ring. “Hi there.”
“Hi yourself. Missing you like crazy right now.” He hadn’t sought solace in her bed after their most recent loss, but it sure had been tempting. They texted into the wee hours instead.
“How’s morale?”
“It’s not great. How’s Manhattan?”
“The usual. It’s Sunday, though. So I’m working at home instead of at my desk.”
“Ah. Wish I were there.”
“Soon,” she said, reminding him that the play-offs—no matter how exhausting—didn’t last forever.
“I got a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Any chance you’re coming to Detroit for game seven? A guy can dream.”
She laughed. “I’m not traveling with the team, if that’s what you’re asking. That’s Becca’s job again.”
“They sell plane tickets at the airport, though. I’ve heard that’s a thing. Can I buy you one?”
“Do I get an hour to think about it? I need to look at tomorrow’s schedule and see what I can rearrange.”
“Of course. And, honey—if it’s really not good timing, you can say so. I just miss you.”
“I miss you, too. And I love to watch you play.”
“Take a look and let me know. Either way, we’ll get our chance soon.”
“If you guys make it to the Stanley Cup final, wild horses won’t keep me away.”
“I love you,” he said. He was just going to keep saying that forever, and he wanted her to know it.
“I love you, too. Now let me get some work done and I’ll call you later.”
His feet had reached Willow Street, so he let himself in. He heard pop music from the second floor and NPR in the kitchen. Mike headed for the kitchen and a glass of water, startling Hans, who looked up from the kitchen table with a sheepish expression. He clutched his phone in one hand, the screen lit.
“What’s the matter, bud?” Seemed like nobody in his life was happy this week.
Hans shoved his phone into his shirt pocket. “Nothing.”
“Is it auditions? Or is Justin the problem?”
Hans laughed and shook his head. “Neither. Just poor timing.”
“I’m the king of poor timing,” he reminded the babysitter. “What’s the matter?”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to add stress to your week.”
Oh, hell. That probably meant that it did matter a great deal. “Just try me.”
“Got a text about a really neat gig, but I can’t do it. They want me to sub for one of the musicians in Hamilton.”
“Hamilton?” Elsa came skidding around the corner. “Really? That’s so cool! You have to do it!”
“When is it?” Mike asked.
“Tomorrow night. But they’ll probably call me again some other time.”
Tomorrow night. Game seven in Detroit. “Oh, shit.” Hans had turned down gigs before to accommodate Beacon’s game schedule. But never an important one. He’d already bought plane tickets for Elsa and Hans to fly out for game seven. They left tomorrow afternoon.
“I’ll stay home in New York with Hans,” Elsa volunteered immediately.
Hans was already shaking his head. “You have to see the game. It’s okay. They’ll give me another chance to sub.”
“No! This is big! And you told me Broadway pays really well. I’ll go with you tomorrow night and wait in the lobby.”
“Oh, Elsabelle,” Hans said, his smile sad. “It’s four hours. I appreciate your sacrifices but that’s not practical.”
“I have a better idea,” Mike said. “Can you all give me a few minutes? Hans—you didn’t turn it down yet, right?”
The babysitter shook his head.
“Just give me an hour. I might have a solution.”
TWENTY-SIX
DETROIT, MICHIGAN
MAY 2016
Lauren’s travel companion maintained a stony silence on the ninety-minute flight from La Guardia to Detroit, her earbuds jammed into her ears. From the seat beside her, Lauren stole occasional glances at Elsa, remembering how hard it was to be thirteen.
At that age she’d felt mostly grown up. She’d been the same highly organized, disciplined go-getter at thirteen as she was today. But nobody had been ready to acknowledge it. Parents and teachers still treated her like a child. And her body was doing all sorts of embarrassing new things.
You couldn’t pay her to be thirteen again. No sum would be enough.
At the baggage claim in Detroit, a driver waited with a sign reading BEACON FAMILY because Mike had made all the arrangements. Elsa gave both the sign and the driver a glare, just in case nobody in the Detroit metro area had missed her displeasure at traveling with Lauren.
It’s not personal, Lauren reminded herself during the forty-minute drive to the hotel. When they got there, it was already five o’clock. “Shall we go out for dinner?” she asked Elsa. Though sitting across the table from someone who didn’t speak to you didn’t sound like that much fun. “Or we could eat whatever concessions they have at the rink, but that’s not for two hours.”
“I’m not very hungry,” Elsa said. “We can wait.”