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I did know that. Note that I did not play in two of those games. ~ M
Note that I also did not play in two of our preseason games. ~ B
Noted. So you only lost to me? I’m honored. ~ M
Enjoy your gloat. We’ll see what happens next Friday. ~ B
We know the outcome. You’ll be in my dojo, little frog. Big frog vs little frog. ~ M
I searched out a GIF of a big frog eating a smaller frog and then took a happy little sip of my iced tea with lemon.
You do know that the bigger one is a toad, right? ~ B
Was it? I pulled the phone closer. How the hell did a person know the difference? Damn him and his amphibian knowledge. Wait. Was it really a toad or was he just saying that to make me feel stupid? Shit. Now I had to bob and weave so not to appear unknowledgeable about toads.
I glanced around to find something to distract him. My sight fell on the large white envelope containing Kyleen’s school picture proofs. Yep, that would do it. He loved seeing pictures of my daughter. I’d never met a man our age who was so into kids. Most guys who weren’t married and fathers didn’t really give children much thought. Kids were something that they either wanted in the future or didn’t want at any time. Baskoro was not at all like that. While he looked stony and determined on the ice, he was a big softie when it came to kids. And cats, something that I had also learned when he spied Goldberry in one of the images of our pumpkin carving fun a few days ago.
School pic proofs are in. Want to see? ~ M
Totally! ~ B
Saved once more by my daughter’s adorableness.
***
“Marcus, Schwinn Porter from the Wilkes-Barre Bugle. Can you tell us what your game plan is tonight?”
I glanced around the locker room at the crush of reporters gathered around me. I had to wonder if Baskoro was facing the same mob of hungry press who were eager for any drop of gossip about the warring goalies. That was how my team was hyping the conflict that used to be brewing between Huda and me. Things were different now, personally, and as much as I wanted to correct the news outlets, my team, and the Gladiators, were making big bank off the rivalry. So much so that the Comets had invested beaucoup cash into a video that would be released on social media in about an hour. A return volley of sorts for the now famed legit fan favorite. Well, fan fave if you cheered for Watkins Glen. Our supporters would get their swipe at the Gladiators shortly. I hoped they enjoyed it.
“The game plan is to not let the Gladiators score,” I replied and gave the guys packed in around me a sassy grin.
“Well, obviously,” Schwinn pressed, reaching up to adjust his dark horn-rimmed glasses. “But how do you plan to deal with the pressure of facing your arch nemesis down at the other end of the ice?”
Arch nemesis? Was Sauron in the other crease? Would we be facing orcs, trolls, and other dark beings on skates? Seriously, this whole thing was starting to get a little out of hand. Baskoro was a nice guy, really nice, and incredibly attractive. How had we gotten caught up in this nonsense?
“Well, I plan on not thinking about him and doing my job, which is stopping pucks.” There. That should end that.
“Of course, but Huda has already come out and said that if he ever gets the chance to clean your clock, he would.”
Schwinn studied my reaction to that pronouncement. I’d not read that comment and, to be honest, that did not sound like Baskoro at all.
“Tick tock,” I tossed out.
Chumming the waters worked. The gathering of sports reporters all chuckled, eyes gleaming, like great whites getting a whiff of fetid tuna chunks. Thankfully, after their sound bite, they rushed off to talk to other members of the team, leaving me to my own devices. Two hours to game time. I padded out of the locker room, eager to find a place where I could center myself. I found a small corner where someone had parked a rolling cart filled with clean towels. Wedging myself behind the cart, I dropped down into a crouch, then lowered my ass to the cold floor, the chill seeping slowly through my padded pants and thick socks. My sweater and skates were back in the dressing room. Knowing I had to get my head in the game and not on a stupid flippant remark about clocks, I nonetheless sent a text to Baskoro instead of searching for some guided meditation.
So clock cleaning? ~ M
I didn’t expect a reply. He was just down the hall with his team, slipping into his mindset, so when the ping from my phone filled my dark, tiny space, I jumped on it like Goldberry would a mouse.
????? ~ B
Huh. Did he really not know what I was talking about?
Did you say you would clean my clock? ~ M
Dude, what century are we in? ~ B
So you never said it? ~ M
