Read Online On the Surface (In the Zone) by Kate Willoughby - Free Book Online
Authors: Kate Willoughby
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You’re cornered by thugs? Of course. But in a game...?”
Tim exited the hospital parking lot. His car rode smooth and the leather upholstery was buttery soft. The center dash looked as if he could probably program a course for the planet Vulcan.
“Okay, it’s like this. One of your teammates recently tore the ligaments in his ankle. He’s only just now healed enough to play again. But some fuck—” He caught himself a second too late. “Sorry. Some bastard from the other team deliberately slashes him with his stick. Where?” He glanced at her.
“In the ankles?”
“Bingo. The ref doesn’t see it, of course, because Slasher’s too sly for that. But I see it. In fact, I see the son of a bitch going back to his bench with a smirk on his face.”
She frowned, seeing his point now. “Okay, you know what that is? That’s sweep the leg!” she said indignantly.
The Karate Kid was one of her favorite movies, mainly because it was one of her big brother’s favorite movies and he’d made her watch it more times than she could count. At the climax of the movie, the coach of the evil karate kids ordered someone to “sweep the leg” of the good karate kid, Daniel, even though, or maybe especially because Daniel almost withdrew from the tournament because of a leg injury earlier in the day. It had always made her furious to see such underhandedness, even if it was fictional.
“Exactly,” Tim agreed. “Sweep the leg. That’s what happens sometimes. No way we can let guys get away with that. So next shift, someone goes out and checks the guy.” Tim made a horizontal pushing motion with his forearm.
“I’m sorry, checking is like a hit, right?”
“Yeah, a body hit.”
“Because I know what hits are. Friends of mine told me.” She rested her elbow on the armrest. “Well, I hate to admit it, but I can see a primitive justice in that kind of situation.”
“If a team knows you won’t put up with shit, they won’t try as much, especially against smaller players.”
Tim pulled into a driveway on the side of the arena and flashed an ID pass at the guard. They parked near a nondescript door that looked like a dozen other nondescript doors. A man with perfect hair strode toward them. He wore a nicely tailored suit and was tapping the screen of his phone and slipping it into his pocket as she and Tim got out of the car.
“Tim. Erin. James Atwater. Thanks for coming.” They all shook hands. “Erin, have you done this type of thing before? For the hospital?”
“No, never. I’m really nervous.”
Atwater smiled as he opened a door for them. He led them through a maze of industrial midnight-blue corridors. “You’re going to be fine. This is nothing more than a conversation. That’s all it is, and I’ll be right there to crack the whip if the media beast starts rattling the cage too much. Just be yourself, you know? Or...” He snapped his fingers. “Who’s your favorite actress?”
She blinked. “I don’t know. Anne Hathaway?”
“Great. Pretend you’re Anne.”
“I don’t have that good of an imagination,” she muttered.
Atwater chuckled as he turned to Tim. “Tim, you know the drill, but I’m going to remind you anyway. You’re sorry that all of this happened, but you saw it as your duty to defend Erin. You were afraid he was going to really hurt her.”
Tim didn’t look happy about being given a script, but he nodded.
“And if they bring up Bottlegate—”
Erin interrupted. “What is that? Bottlegate. That guy today mentioned it too, but I have no idea what that is.”
They paused outside glass doors that said Press Room A. One whole side of the room was glass. Erin saw a large backdrop with the Barracuda and NHL logos all over it. Directly before that were two tables that looked exactly like the ones at Q Burger earlier except for the intimidating microphones. Scarier than the microphones were the twenty-odd reporters.
Atwater shook his head. “You know, it’s
Tim exited the hospital parking lot. His car rode smooth and the leather upholstery was buttery soft. The center dash looked as if he could probably program a course for the planet Vulcan.
“Okay, it’s like this. One of your teammates recently tore the ligaments in his ankle. He’s only just now healed enough to play again. But some fuck—” He caught himself a second too late. “Sorry. Some bastard from the other team deliberately slashes him with his stick. Where?” He glanced at her.
“In the ankles?”
“Bingo. The ref doesn’t see it, of course, because Slasher’s too sly for that. But I see it. In fact, I see the son of a bitch going back to his bench with a smirk on his face.”
She frowned, seeing his point now. “Okay, you know what that is? That’s sweep the leg!” she said indignantly.
The Karate Kid was one of her favorite movies, mainly because it was one of her big brother’s favorite movies and he’d made her watch it more times than she could count. At the climax of the movie, the coach of the evil karate kids ordered someone to “sweep the leg” of the good karate kid, Daniel, even though, or maybe especially because Daniel almost withdrew from the tournament because of a leg injury earlier in the day. It had always made her furious to see such underhandedness, even if it was fictional.
“Exactly,” Tim agreed. “Sweep the leg. That’s what happens sometimes. No way we can let guys get away with that. So next shift, someone goes out and checks the guy.” Tim made a horizontal pushing motion with his forearm.
“I’m sorry, checking is like a hit, right?”
“Yeah, a body hit.”
“Because I know what hits are. Friends of mine told me.” She rested her elbow on the armrest. “Well, I hate to admit it, but I can see a primitive justice in that kind of situation.”
“If a team knows you won’t put up with shit, they won’t try as much, especially against smaller players.”
Tim pulled into a driveway on the side of the arena and flashed an ID pass at the guard. They parked near a nondescript door that looked like a dozen other nondescript doors. A man with perfect hair strode toward them. He wore a nicely tailored suit and was tapping the screen of his phone and slipping it into his pocket as she and Tim got out of the car.
“Tim. Erin. James Atwater. Thanks for coming.” They all shook hands. “Erin, have you done this type of thing before? For the hospital?”
“No, never. I’m really nervous.”
Atwater smiled as he opened a door for them. He led them through a maze of industrial midnight-blue corridors. “You’re going to be fine. This is nothing more than a conversation. That’s all it is, and I’ll be right there to crack the whip if the media beast starts rattling the cage too much. Just be yourself, you know? Or...” He snapped his fingers. “Who’s your favorite actress?”
She blinked. “I don’t know. Anne Hathaway?”
“Great. Pretend you’re Anne.”
“I don’t have that good of an imagination,” she muttered.
Atwater chuckled as he turned to Tim. “Tim, you know the drill, but I’m going to remind you anyway. You’re sorry that all of this happened, but you saw it as your duty to defend Erin. You were afraid he was going to really hurt her.”
Tim didn’t look happy about being given a script, but he nodded.
“And if they bring up Bottlegate—”
Erin interrupted. “What is that? Bottlegate. That guy today mentioned it too, but I have no idea what that is.”
They paused outside glass doors that said Press Room A. One whole side of the room was glass. Erin saw a large backdrop with the Barracuda and NHL logos all over it. Directly before that were two tables that looked exactly like the ones at Q Burger earlier except for the intimidating microphones. Scarier than the microphones were the twenty-odd reporters.
Atwater shook his head. “You know, it’s
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