Page 28 of Playing it Safe

Coach studies me for a long time. Then he takes his gum out and drops it in the trash, which tells me he's really done. "Go home, Mayhem. I’m telling Odin to up your sessions. I need you dialed in for the rest of our games.”

I nod. "Thank you, Coach."

"And try to have fun, or something. You look like hell."

A good boyfriend would stay for the Uprising game. I hear the crowd chanting “rise up, rise up” as the team takes the ice for warm-ups. Spinner stands at the entrance to the tunnel, watching, and he tips his chin at me as I approach.

“They look good out there,” he says. “You staying to watch your girl?”

I shrug, wondering how to leave with any honor intact. “My body is killing me, man.” I wince as I adjust my bag on my shoulder. It’s not a lie. It’s just not something I admit out loud very often. Spinner nods and looks back at the ice, where Ducky has tossed a puck to a screaming fan. “I’m going to watch from my couch.”

No response from my teammate. Not even a jab about perfectly fine couches in the executive suites here at the arena. I make my way to the parking garage, remember I had to park higher because of the rain, and drive home to my cat.

Something seems off as I walk from the garage to the back door. The rain is still coming down in sheets. I’m soaked after the thirty-foot walk to my porch. The gutters catch my eye in the dark. I can’t say why, but they look wrong.

And then I open the door, and everything is wrecked.

Water drips inside my house. I can hear it. I also smell wet plaster, old wood … mineral, earthy, and wrong. I flip the light switch, and nothing happens. I drop my bag and call for Puck, who is nowhere to be seen.

I step hesitantly from the kitchen into the dining room, where I get my first glimpse of what used to be my living room. The ceiling is gone. Not leaking—gone. In fact, a chunk of my bed is dangling through the gaping maw above where the couch used to be.

Water seeps into the walls, pooling on the floor. I don’t know whether a tree fell on my house or the structure just gave up.

"Puck," I shout.

Silence.

"Puck!"

A small, indignant meow comes from the dining room. I find him atop the built-ins, pressed against the wall, his orange fur puffed out in the humidity. His eyes are enormous. A piece of plaster dust rests on his head like a hat.

"Hey." I reach up, and he lets me take him, which tells me he's terrified. He digs his claws into my shoulder, presses his face against my neck, and shakes. "I've got you. You're okay."

I hold my cat and stare at the river running through my home, and I feel … is this defeat? Is this some sort of rock bottom? A reckoning for a debt I didn’t know I owed?

I realize we cannot stay here, and stupid as it might be, I sprint upstairs, wearing my cat like a scarf, and grab my road trip bag. A lot of my shit is still packed from the last stretch of away games. Puck’s carrier is in the basement, but I know better than to go down there.

I lean close to the destroyed bedroom and feel around a corner for the first book I can reach. I laugh out loud when my fingers close around The Tempest.

I shove Puck under my shirt and dash to the garage in a furious splash, tossing my things into my car, wondering what the fuck to do now.

I start the engine, and the Uprising game comes through on the radio. They’re up 3-1, and I smile despite my desperation. I can figure this out.

I remember that I’m rich, and that I have people I pay to help with things, so I text my agent, who says he’ll handle the homeowners insurance.

I send a text to my family, telling them I have water damage at the house and that I’m really feeling the loss, especially to Philly, and asking them to please let me mope in peace. Shockingly, they do not respond. They must be watching Boston play. I wonder if they’re all at the bar together, Ma yelling at the boys not to drink so much while Nicky slips rum into Ma’s soda.

Now I just need somewhere to sleep. Not a hotel — Puck is currently shaking inside my shirt, claws hooked into my chest hair. I don’t think even I have enough money for the kind of pet deposit I’d need to cover his current trauma.

I run through my team's roster, trying to remember who has crashed on my couch recently. Spinner moved his mother in with him, and I can’t handle someone’s ma tonight. Grentley would sooner let me sleep in the rain. Howie moved in with Ella a few weeks back, which means Rookie's apartment has an empty room.

I call Rookie.

He picks up on the fourth ring. The background is chaos — music, clattering, someone laughing, what sounds like a pan hitting a tile floor.

"Mayhem! What's going on, big guy?"

"My roof caved in. Puck and I need somewhere to crash tonight."