by Van Barrett
“Hey!” the boys in the room shouted.
“Rust!”
“How are ya, Rust!”
Everyone called him 'Rust' now; he'd dropped 'Rusty' long ago. That nickname stopped feeling right once he started to feel more like a man than a boy. He couldn't imagine being called Rusty today, and he doubted it'd feel right having these children call him that, either. 'Rusty' felt so boyish and grade-school. Rust, on the other hand, fit him perfectly—in fact it made him feel proud. Like an old, classic muscle car that once turned heads, but had since been left out in the elements for far too long, his body was breaking down and deteriorating in a hurry.
“I'm great,” Rust snarled, leaving no room for doubt that he hadn't meant it.
“Uh oh,” one of the boys laughed. “I think Rust is pissed off again.”
Another teammate let out a sigh of relief. “I love it when Rust plays pissed! Takes the heat off the rest of us!”
That was true—the harder that Rust hit anyone who dared touch or even look cross-eyed at his teammates, the louder and clearer he sent the message: leave our guys the fuck alone. If you want to fuck with anybody, come see me.
Rust wasn't a particularly nasty player in his youth. But these days, more than ever, the NHL was a young man's league. Every team in the league wanted speed, which meant they started relying on younger and faster players. Older guys found themselves unable to keep up. Once a speedy guy lost his wheels, he had to learn new tricks and evolve as a player if he wanted to stick in the league. Even that compromise was a losing battle; a guy whose speed was fading would consider himself lucky just to buy himself a few more years.
Rust's legs had started to go around the time he rounded 30. He'd anticipated this, and he'd already compensated for his decline by adding a mean streak to his game. At first, he didn't realize his own strength—turns out all that training he did in Hershey was good for something …
Sometimes he crushed an opponent into the boards so hard, the guy crumpled up like an accordion and needed help to get off the ice. It wasn't a good feeling to cause someone pain and watch him get scraped off the ice and have to leave the rink in a stretcher … but, like an old mentor once said, you were at war with these guys. If Rust didn't do the job, someone else would—and for less money, too.
Hurting a guy required a certain amount of testosterone-addled aggression, or righteous anger and resentment at the world. Those hot-headed emotions were supposed to be harder to conjure up as you aged. The scary thing for Rust was, it only got easier for him. As the years passed, his sense of abandonment grew. And that only helped his anger burn hotter and harsher, like gas thrown on a fire.
“C'mon Rust, ain'tcha going to tell us why you're mad, at least?” a teammate asked.
Rust took off his shirt, balled it up, and pitched it into his stall. He thought it over before giving his short, gravelly answer.
“I hate Texas.”
“Well, you know what they say 'bout Texas,” Smitty began, adopting an over-the-top southern drawl. He hopped on the bench and swung his t-shirt around in the air like it were a lasso. “STEEEEERS AND QUEEEEEERS!”
Everyone laughed. Everyone but Rust. The laughter tapered off when they realized he wasn't amused in the slightest.
“Jesus, he is mad.”
But it wasn't the 'queers' comment that angered Rust—because dumb kids will be dumb kids. Besides, his teammates didn't know anything about his history or his feelings towards men. At least, Rust didn't think they did—though the idea that they might somehow figure it out was a constant source of stress and anxiety. Countless times, Rust woke up drenched in sweat, having had a nightmare that his teammates happened to stumble into his hotel room while he was busy hooking up with a random guy he'd picked up from the gay bar.
Which was a ridiculous nightmare to have, because Rust never went to any gay bars, and he never picked any random dudes up, either. In fact, he hadn't been with another guy besides—
well, you know who.
What made Rust angry was something simpler: being here. In Texas. The home state of that old friend, that old teammate, the same guy who, ten years ago, suddenly retired from hockey and disappeared overnight.
Ten years and not a single soul had heard from him.
Rust had no idea what Clay was up to or why he'd gone off the grid. Well, obviously, Rust had made that stupid, stupid mistake on the hood of Clay's truck—a memory which, when he had the misfortune to recall it, never failed to caused razor-sharp pangs of hot shame and total embarrassment to repeatedly stab through his very being …
But the shittiest part was that Clay never gave him a chance to redeem himself for that mistake. They went from best friends to nothing at all. No contact. He didn't know if Clay hated him for what he'd done—or if he'd simply forgotten about the blowjob and moved on.
He had no idea what Clay had done with his life. Or hell, if he even was alive.
It wasn't fair. But if that's how Clay wanted things to be—fine. Rust's only option was to not think about it. He had to drill a hole into his heart, throw the memory of that jackass, idiot Texan down inside it, and fill the whole thing with cement.
And that's why he really hated Texas. Being here always made all that shit come right back, like he'd never done the work to get rid of it in the first place.
Rust and the boys had finished suiting up. The coach came in and barked out his game plan. Blah blah, pucks in deep. Blah blah, bang bodies. Blah blah, shots on net. Same shit all the coaches ever say, just with their own way of saying it. You stick around the league long enough, you realize it's all the same.
Rust didn't have to listen anymore. He'd read his job description: he was the wise veteran whose role was to drag this team into the playoffs, whether they were ready for it or not.
The coach finished his pep talk, threw open the dressing room door and told his players to 'go fuckin' get 'em, boys!'
Rust stood up and pounded the butt-end of his stick onto the bench to grab their attention.
“Ready boys?” he yelled, tapping into something deep in his belly, and the team roared in response.
“Hell yeah!”
The team left the room, marched single-file down the tunnel, and stepped onto the ice amid the boos of the Dallas crowd.
Tonight, they were the enemies. And Rust relished that role.
10
Second Chance Horse Rescue
– Clay –
C'mon, c'mon, Clay thought to himself as he kept his gaze trained on the furthest point of the winding dirt road that the eye could see.
It was just past noon. Without a cloud in the blue sky, the winter Sun was bright and almost whitish-silver in color, rather than summer's golden-yellow. The Sun's gentle rays felt crisp and healing on Clay's skin.
Where are you, Travis? Please, hurry.
Clay rolled up his sleeves while he anxiously paced back and forth. The locals might complain that the air was nippy, but Clay thought the temperature was perfect—winter in Texas never really got that cold. Definitely not like the winters in Pennsylvania or New York, or, God forbid, Canada.
It was a beautiful day, really, despite the sad circumstances.
Clay wore his regular outfit: a button-down flannel which he tucked into his Wrangler jeans. He had on black rubber slicker boots, which he wore around the farm so he wouldn't dirty up his leather boots.
His heart quickened when the thing he'd been waiting to see finally came into view: a tiny plume of dust on the old road. Clay cupped his hands over his eyes and squinted, hoping to see a beat up silver Taurus. But from this far away, he'd never be able to tell—the car was only a small dot.
When Clay realized the dirt cloud was far bigger than normal, and its tail lingered in the air far longer through the road's twists and turns, he knew the driver was in a big hurry. And he knew it had to be him.
Not too fast, Travis. Last thing we need today is anything happening to you.
Clay hurried into the s
table, where Liz—the staff vet, and one of the farm's few paid full-time employees—sat by Apple's side, listening to the stethoscope placed on the horse's chest. A handful of volunteers stood and watched Liz work in silence. They were numb, and there wasn't a dry eye among them. Clay felt bad for the volunteers, who surely hadn't imagined a scene like this when they signed up to do some good deeds. But the volunteers were good folk and always ready to help at a moment's notice, should Liz need them to fetch anything.
“Liz,” Clay said softly, grabbing the vet's attention. “He'll be here in five minutes.”
Liz smiled sweetly and stroked Apple's chest. “That's great. We'll still be here, won't we, Apple?”
The old horse blew out a deep, and very tired, gust of air.
Feeling numb himself, Clay quietly backed out of the stable. He couldn't stand to watch scenes like this for very long. They always choked him the hell up, and he hated for anyone to see him like that.
Instead, he rushed back outside and waited for Travis. He could hear the teenager's loud, droning muffler in the the distance, as the old car raced up the road's final mile.
***
Clay knew Travis was a good kid, but he didn't always think that. Three years ago, Travis couldn't keep his nose out of trouble, and was the stereotypical 'bad kid' at high school. When he bothered to attend school, which was apparently quite rare, he wasn't the slightest bit interested in learning. Failing grades, terrible attitude, and—worse—Travis had a habit of picking fist fights with the kids who actually were there to learn something.
Their paths crossed when Travis, along with some buddies of his, got caught trying to shoplift. A judge ordered Travis to serve community service on Clay's horse rescue farm. Travis showed up the first day and, just like at high school, showed no interest in participating. Clay gave the kid a shovel and told him to start scooping, or it was going to be one long day of standing around with his thumb up his ass.
What did the kid do? Dropped the shovel on the ground, folded his arms, and gave Clay a 'what're you gonna do about it?' type stare. Clay offered a few other chores, but he refused them just the same.
Clay had dealt with enough problem kids that came through his volunteer program. He didn't have the time to hold somebody's hand and force them to do some shit they didn't want to do. Clay sent Travis home and told him not to bother coming back tomorrow. He handed Travis a letter to give to his judge that explained his behavior.
A few days passed. The judge wasn't exactly pleased to get this report. He sent Travis right back to the farm, and ordered him to do his community service or else.
The second time around, Travis' attitude improved, but not by much. He did the bare minimum not to get in trouble, and he did it all with a teenager's infamously miserable attitude: the sulky body language, the constant eye-rolling, the swearing and muttering under his breath any time he was asked to do the smallest of things.
But Travis' second chance coincided with the same time that Clay brought Apple home to the farm. Apple was a dapple gray horse who'd been through a lot in her 30 years, and it showed. When Clay unloaded the hobbling, one-eyed horse from his trailer, one of the volunteers remarked that she looked like the chewed-up underpad below an old carpet. Sadly, Clay could see what the volunteer meant. She wasn't a prize horse by any means.
Apple also came to Clay's farm with a broken shoulder, an injury she suffered after getting hit by a car—which was the second such accident of her life. Her owners couldn't care for her anymore and their only other option was to put her down. Liz was reasonably confident she could treat the break, so long as the horse wanted to pull through. But the horse seemed broken, spiritually, like she figured she was at the end of the line and had already given up.
Then, a strange thing happened. Travis set eyes on Apple and fell in love. That boy saw that poor old horse, the horse that had been through hell and back, lost an eye, hit by cars, badly needed some basic level of love and care … and he saw something in her that no one else did.
For the first time, Clay saw the boy's eyes light with glimmer of actual interest. Travis hurried to the horse, talked to her—“Hey girl, how are you? I'm Travis.”—petted her neck, and started asking questions.
“What's her name?”
“Apple.”
“Hi Apple,” he said, speaking softly to the horse. “Why is your name Apple?”
Clay answered on behalf of the horse. “Her owner said she loves to eat apples.”
“Got any?” Travis asked Clay, not missing a beat.
Clay chuckled. “Yeah. We've got a whole orchard of apple trees out back.”
Travis would've known that, had he been a little more attentive since day one, but Clay wasn't about to rub the kid's snout in his mess now. He needed a little encouragement.
“Would you like to walk her out there?” Clay asked. “It's not far.”
“Yes!”
“Can't ride her. Broken shoulder.”
Travis' face crumpled with sympathy. He rubbed Apple's muzzle. “Broken shoulder? Poor girl.”
And so the two walked the horse out to the orchard, and Clay watched as Travis hand-fed her all the apples she could ever want to eat.
That was the day Travis' life turned around—and Apple's, too. Liz went through with the surgery and the horse recovered well. She could never be ridden, but she was in otherwise good health and could get around with minimal pain. After Travis' community service sentence ended, he still made his way out to the farm every other weekend to help out around the farm and visit with his horse, Apple. He'd managed to graduate high school and was working as a technician at an oil change place. He told Clay that he was saving up to buy some land of his own, so he could take Apple full time.
***
Travis' car skidded to a stop on the gravel driveway, right next to Clay. He jumped out of his car, slammed the door, and Clay welcomed him with a tight hug.
“Hey buddy. I'm so glad you could come. And I'm so sorry.”
“Is she still hanging in there?”
“Yup. Let's go.”
Clay rubbed the young man's shoulder as they walked towards the stable.
“She's lived a good, long life, Travis,” Clay comforted the young man. “And you were a huge part of her life towards the end. She really loved you.”
“I know,” Travis replied softly.
Apple's last few years had been good—but she'd recently fallen sick, stopped eating, and wasn't improving. Earlier that morning, Liz had told Clay he'd better call Travis to say goodbye. Travis needed somebody to cover the rest of his shift, but as soon as he managed to take care of that task, he drove out immediately.
Travis stepped into the stable and saw his dying horse lying peacefully on the ground. Travis broke down, threw his arms around her and gave her a hug.
“Hi sweety. Brought you an apple.”
He set the apple at her muzzle, but of course she'd lost her will to eat days ago. She sniffed at it nonetheless, and let out a breath of air that sounded like a sigh of relief. Clay was sure the young man's presence had comforted her.
“That's okay if you don't want it.” … “I'm here for you.” … “Sorry I couldn't get that land after all.”
Once Travis got there, the tears really started rolling.
“Eh,” Clay grumbled under his breath. His throat tightened and went dry and he had to fight back tears himself. He felt those emotions as strongly as anybody else in that room, but he couldn't stand the thought of letting it show.
Quietly, he turned and left the stable. Out front, he stood and stared into the horizon. A couple minutes later, Liz appeared at his side.
“How are you holding up, Clay?”
Liz never cried. She loved these animals maybe more than anybody else, and she'd do anything in power to help them, but Clay had never seen her shed a tear. He wished he could be more like her. One strong lady.
“I'm fine.” Clay cleared his throat. The pain in his pelvis had begun to fl
are up, so he shifted his weight to his other leg. “So, ah, if you're sure Apple's going to pass today--”
“She will. I think she was holding on for Travis.”
That last bit made Clay's throat even achier, but he ignored it as best he could and continued on.
“Ah, okay, so I'll hitch my trailer and head on over to the kill pen just outside Dallas. Right now they've got a three year old bay pinto mini gelding, he's really a beautiful boy, and--”
Liz cut him off with that sweet, caring smile of hers. She had that power. Clay was sure that she was an excellent mother, and that her children never got away with anything, 'cause she'd see right through them.
“--What?” Clay asked.
“Are you sure you'll be okay to drive by yourself?”
Clay laughed the question off. “Of course. I'm not drunk.”
A wily sparkle appeared in Liz's eye. “Maybe not, but they say that driving in times of emotional duress can be just as dangerous.”
“Look, this sucks, okay? This isn't the way I prefer to see a stall open up for us. I wish I could find a good home for every last one of these horses. But sitting around and crying about it isn't going to help. The only way to honor that horse's life is to go out there and find another one we can help. And lord knows there's plenty of them … our waiting list can't get any longer.”
“I know, Clay.”
Clay shrugged. “So what's the problem?”
“There's no problem. I just hope you know it's okay to let yourself grieve. Don't let it all bottle up, okay?”
“I'm—I'm fine.” He paused, and then quietly admitted, “I mean, sure, I'm sad.”
“I know you are.”
Liz rubbed her hand between his shoulder blades. A long pause passed between them and oddly, Clay felt inspired to say something.
“The part that gets me the worst is that Travis had this idea he could someday buy land and adopt her.” Clay rolled his eyes at himself. 'Talking' and 'sharing' was supposed to make a man feel better, but somehow it only made him feel like he only had more to share. “There, you happy?”