On the Surface (In the Zone) (2 page)

Chapter Two

Tim shouldn’t have been surprised when no one recognized him during breakfast at the hotel restaurant. Hockey wasn’t venerated on the West Coast as much as it was in the east and in Canada, and San Diego loved their Padres and Chargers. He didn’t mind. It was actually a refreshing change. In Chicago, the Blackhawks were like royalty. It was rare that Tim went out in public without being recognized. He’d never really minded that much, but he had to admit it was nice to be able to finish a meal in a restaurant without being asked for an autograph.

After tipping generously, he left the Marriott and grabbed a taxi. The seats were torn and taped, and despite the little air freshener that hung from the rearview mirror, it had that distinctive taxi smell—musty leather, stale food, spilled coffee, cheap cologne and a side of body odor.

“Where to?” the cabby said, turning on the meter. Tim noted the name on the ID card, Umberto Garcia.

“The Cadillac dealership off 163. Here’s the address.” Tim handed him a MapQuest printout. Their destination was about half an hour away. Today he was getting himself a fully loaded Escalade SUV.

Garcia studied the printout. “No problem.” The cabby pulled out into traffic. “Late night last night?” the cabby asked.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror, Tim winced. His eyes were redder than the glass of V-8 he’d downed earlier. He’d had so much on his mind, sleep had eluded him until the early morning hours. He had so much to prove and not nearly as much confidence as he would have liked. Usually the extreme physicality of his job wore him out, but training camp didn’t start for two months. The workout on the stationary bike yesterday hadn’t been nearly hard enough to knock him out at bedtime. He also had a personal appearance today, his first as a Barracuda, and he was nervous. And angry that he was nervous. What mattered was how well he played hockey, not how many fans wanted to meet him.

“No. I just didn’t sleep well,” Tim answered.

The cabby accelerated as they got onto the freeway. “I thought the Marriott had good beds.”

“It’s not the bed. I just have a lot on my plate.”

“Don’t we all. Me, I got a thirteen-year-old daughter who thinks she’s seventeen. Looks like it too, when she puts on makeup.”

Tim nodded. “Makes you want to go buy a shotgun, huh?”

“You got that right.” Garcia met his eye in the rearview mirror. “What’s your biggest problem, man?”

Tim chuckled. “Where do I start?” He propped an ankle on his knee. “I got...transferred here from Chicago. So I’m one of the new guys on the block.”

“But there’s more than one new guy.”

“Yes. A good buddy of mine came here too, actually.”

“So that doesn’t sound like that big of a problemo. Next?”

“Management took a chance on me and are expecting a lot.”

“Can you do what they’re expecting?”

Tim shrugged. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Garcia’s eyes flicked to the mirror. “What are you? Thirty? Jesus. Cut yourself a break.”

“Thirty-three. But in my line of work, thirty is practically over the hill.”

As they passed by Balboa Park and the San Diego Zoo, Garcia asked the forty thousand dollar question. “What’s your line of work?”

“I play hockey.”

Garcia twisted his head to glance back. “No shit! Pro hockey, of course. That explains the Barracuda hat.”

“Are you a fan?”

“Sorry. No. Baseball’s my game.”

Figured
.

“Yeah.” Tim touched the brim of his cap. “I’m a Barracuda.”

Garcia chuckled as he tapped the steering wheel with his thumb. “No shit. You’re a pro. So when you said transferred, you really meant traded.”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name, man? People sometimes ask what famous people I’ve driven and I’d like to add your name to the list.”

“Tim Hollander. I play right wing. I’m a forward.”

“That’s offense, right?”

Tim laughed. So did Garcia.

“Hell, I told you baseball’s my game.”

“Yeah, forwards are offense.”

They continued on the 163 through a large interchange. The signs said they were in Mission Valley now. Tim relaxed, knowing this guy wasn’t going to hassle him about his performance last season or ask about Bottlegate. They talked some more. Garcia was easy to talk to. Part of the job, Tim figured. Cabbies were probably a lot like bartenders, but with wheels. Oddly, the more they talked, the more Tim felt like unloading and he ended up telling Garcia about Bottlegate anyway.

“Wait a second,” Garcia said. “Let me get this straight. The guy actually said that your daughter was better off dead than having a father like you?”

“Yes,” Tim said. The Philly fan had actually said much more than that while Tim had sat in the penalty box. He hadn’t shut up for a full minute, criticizing Tim’s play, or lack thereof, and eventually getting personal.

“What an asshole.”

“Thing is, my daughter had died only a few weeks before that.”

Silence.

“She
died?
”

“Yeah. Leukemia.”

“Shit, man.” Garcia met Tim’s gaze briefly in the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry to hear that. Really sorry. That’s fucked.”

“Thanks.” Tim gave him the tight-lipped smile he always did when people offered their sympathy.

A few moments passed. “You know what, man? I admire your restraint. I probably would have done a lot more than hit him with a water bottle. I’d probably have killed the guy.”

“I wanted to. Believe me.”

By this time, they were exiting the freeway.

“Well, Tim—can I call you Tim?”

Tim waved a hand.

“Tim, I have feeling things are going to turn around for you,” Garcia said. “I think you’re a determined guy and whatever you put your mind to, you’re gonna do. When’s the season start?”

“Regular season starts in early September.”

“Well, tell you what. You train like hell and you do whatever you have to do to become part of that team, because I’ll be watching that first game. You’re gonna hit a grand slam, or whatever it is in hockey.”

“A hat trick. That’s three goals in one game.”

“A hat trick, then. I’ll be rooting for you.” They pulled up in front of the dealership.

Tim pulled a hundred out of his wallet to pay the fifty-three dollar charge. He also made note of the cab number for later. “Thanks a lot for the vote of confidence. It means a lot. Keep the change.”

“Thanks, man.” They shook hands firmly. “Good luck.”

Shortly thereafter, Tim set eyes on his brand-new sports-utility vehicle. Damn she was pretty. Because the blue hadn’t been to his taste, he’d chosen “radiant silver metallic” in honor of the Barracudas whose colors were silver, white, and light and dark blue. He hadn’t had a new car in over a decade, so he had gone all out. His new baby had every electronic gauge, safety and entertainment feature imaginable, and even a few he hadn’t imagined. The interior resembled that of the first-class section of an airliner, complete with little DVD screens for passengers and cup holders that kept drinks hot or cold.

Before driving off the lot, he turned on the GPS and requested directions for Power Play, the independent training center where he was meeting Jason and Alex. His SUV gave him turn-by-turn directions so he didn’t have to take his eyes off the road to check the map. He hadn’t had a GPS in his old truck. Hell, he’d barely had heat. The thing should have been junked long ago. In fact, his teammates had needled him about his ride constantly, pretending they were afraid it was going fall apart on the road. Tim, a creature of habit, had been attached to the old jalopy. But that was then, this was now.

As directed, he got on the 805 North. He turned on the radio and listened to some pop station, bobbing his head slightly to the rhythm. Cruising like this, he could almost forget the pressure he was under. He felt like going to the beach. If Mollie had still been alive, he would have for sure. They would have had a picnic and built a sandcastle and dug up sand crabs and stayed until she couldn’t deny being cold or tired any longer and was practically asleep on her feet.

But Mollie wasn’t here, and he couldn’t afford to blow off the workout. He had to prove to everyone, including himself, that he wasn’t washed up. His best hockey years were ahead of him, damn it. He was going to break some records, blow the media’s collective mind and show his new team they hadn’t made a mistake. In fact, Tim hoped one day they’d look back and thank God they’d signed him.

* * *

The Power Play training facility was located in a nondescript industrial center. Only a small sign identified it. Jason and Alex were just getting out of their cars.

“Nice ride,” Alex said.

“Just drove it off the lot,” Tim said.

“I think Chassy drives one of those,” Jason said.

They entered the facility where a man and a woman greeted them, both in their twenties. The interior was clean and organized. Tim saw a lot of the usual equipment, like weights, ladders for footwork and a straight track—and a few things he hadn’t seen, not in a training room, anyway, like the loops of rope hanging suspended from a metal frame on the ceiling.

“Meet Nick Young and his sister, Kyla,” Jason said. “They own Power Play. Nick played in the AHL for a while, then a year and a half for Ottawa before he blew his knee out and had to retire.”

“Fuck, man, that’s a tough break,” Tim said, shaking hands with him. Alex echoed the sentiment.

“And Kyla is a sports therapist and personal trainer,” Jason said.

“Double whammy,” Tim said, shaking hands with her too.

Nick was a strong-looking guy, exactly what Tim would expect for a personal trainer. Kyla had a great body too, toned, but still womanly. Behind the reception area hung numerous diplomas and certificates and a photograph of Nick in a Senator uniform. Tim didn’t recall playing against him, nor did he look familiar. He also noticed quite a few youth team photos.

“We’re so excited to meet you,” Nick said after all the introductions had been made. “Jason, thank you so much for bringing them and taking a chance on us. We really can’t thank you enough.” Nick turned to Tim and Alex. “See, we’ve only—”

“Enough chitchat.” Jason clapped his hands together briskly, startling everyone. “I don’t have a lot of time today, so let’s get started.”

Kyla and Nick looked at each other and then nodded. Nick said, “So, what we’d like to do eventually is establish a baseline for you like we have with Jason, so we can monitor your progress, but since today is more of a toe-in-the-water session, we’ll forgo that for the moment.”

“I still want to know about your most recent injuries,” Kyla said. “What they were and whether they still bother you. And be honest. I’m not going to cut your ice time if you tell me your shoulder hurts.”

“The most I suffered last season was a wrist sprain,” Tim said. “But my lower back bothers me sometimes after playing a more physical team.”

Alex confessed to a herniated disc and a groin muscle that acted up once in a while.

After the powwow, Nick and Kyla rotated them through a series of exercises. Each one targeted something different. Agility, stability, especially on one leg, and explosiveness were the focus. Nick and Kyla explained the reason behind each activity as they demonstrated, making adjustments in their form as Tim and the others tried it themselves, sometimes individually in rotation, sometimes together. They encouraged them to push themselves, subtly challenging the three to outperform each other, but still work as a team. Tim found himself digging a little deeper, trying a little harder.

Afterward, the Youngs went to a kitchen area to make post-workout smoothies. While they were busy, Jason asked Tim and Alex what they thought.

Jason said, “I’ve been coming here since the season ended and I think I’ve made some real progress. Of course, I won’t really be able to know for sure until we get back on the ice, but I’m telling you I feel different. Better.”

“I thought it was a good workout,” Tim said. “I hit some muscles that haven’t been worked in a while. Both of them have a way of motivating you.”

Alex nodded. “I’m all right now, but I think come tomorrow, I’m going to be feeling it. Do any of the other guys on the team come here?”

“No. To tell you the truth, I’ve been keeping it to myself.” Jason wiped the sweat off his face with his forearm. “It’s not very team-spirited, but like I said the other day, I’m fucking thirty-four. I need an edge on these young guys, you know what I mean?”

“Hell, yeah,” Tim said.

Nick and Kyla approached with three disposable cups. “So this is pineapple, banana, Greek yogurt, milk, orange juice, honey and some flax,” Kyla said. “When Jason started coming here, we did a lot of research on how we could better serve clients like you, and found a lot of articles and studies about pre—and post-exercise nutrition. This is a new one, Jason. Tell me what you think.”

They all took a sip. “This is great,” Jason said. “Tastes like the tropics.”

Tim agreed. It didn’t taste like health food. If he had his druthers, he’d add coconut. He loved coconut.

“It’s good, but it needs rum,” Alex said.

Kyla laughed, but Alex probably wasn’t joking.

“Anyway,” she said, “I have this idea that when we can expand, we’ll hire an extra person. Add a smoothie bar, especially if this thing with you grown-ups works out.”

Tim exchanged a quick glance with Alex. “Ah, grown-ups?”

Nick and Kyla exchanged a glance with each other, and Jason suddenly found something interesting on the floor to look at.

“What thing with what grown-ups?” Tim asked.

Nick rubbed the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “Jason didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

Jason made an impatient noise. “Okay. Here’s the deal. Up until now, Power Play catered to kids and teens. We’re the first real adult hockey players they’ve worked with.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Is this a joke?”

Tim had thought all those youth hockey team photos indicated sponsorships. Now he realized they were probably clients.

“No, it’s serious,” Nick replied. “We’re dead serious about this business and dead serious about helping you guys reach your full potential.”