by Van Barrett
“Well I'll be damned,” was Rust's stunned reply.
“Yeah? Is it okay?”
“Yeah. So far.”
Clay looked at his former best friend. He wore pajama bottoms, a plain t-shirt, and several days' worth of facial hair. His face had the soft, puffy roundness of someone who'd been sick in bed for days—but the smile on his face was just so genuine, so Rusty. So boyish and cute and happy.
It felt so good to see him again. Of course he'd seen him a lot over the past ten years. On TV, on a computer screen, in interviews and magazines and product ads. He knew how well his handsome face had aged, how he never outgrew the boyish red flecks on his cheeks and nose. He'd seen how Rust's body had hardened into one hell of a man's physique. And despite it all, he'd never lost that youthful, innocent charm.
So, thanks to Rust's fame, Clay knew exactly what he looked like these days. But to see him in person? Face-to-face?
It brought him indescribable joy. Just being here, seeing him, healed parts of Clay that had broken apart long ago.
“I really feel alright, Clay,” Rust said. He shook his head as if he couldn't believe it himself.
Clay could tell by the sound of his voice that this was a very big deal. And he couldn't be any happier to be part of it.
18
Only Half
– Rust –
To be sitting here—in the light of a lamp!—and not be doubled over in pain? This seemed like a break-through. A huge one.
Rapturous joy bubbled and burst in Rust's heart—but who to share that joy with? Clay? Every time he looked over at Clay on that couch, he felt a sinking in his stomach. Why the hell was he even sitting there?
He was, after all, the guy who brought him all the pain. And now, judging by the smile on his face, Clay thought he was the reason that Rust was feeling better. Did he really believe that he had cured Rust of his ails by finally showing his stupid, cowardly face?
Fuck that.
Rust was sure it had to be a coincidence.
But he wasn't ready to test that theory by kicking Clay out just yet. He hadn't felt this good since the night of the hit. Rust realized he had no choice but to sit and talk with Clay.
And, as they started talking, Rust's anger started losing its edge, like a knife trying to saw through marble. Because Clay seemed like he actually understood that he'd put him through pain. He was never demanding or pushy. He was patient. Respectful.
Maybe even sorry.
But then why had he done it in the first place?
That the was the big question. The one Rust wasn't ready for yet. First he wanted answers to the smaller questions.
“So, the game. Why were you there in the first place?”
“I, ah.” Clay rubbed his palms across his knees nervously. “I've gone to a few of your games over the years.”
“Why?”
“It felt good to see you again. It was comforting to know that we were in the same place, the same building, again.”
Rust scoffed. “Must've been nice.”
“You're right. That was selfish and unfair of me.” Clay sighed. “I don't know how to explain it, Rust. I'd have to go back to the beginning—”
“Don't. I don't want to think about the past. It'll give me a damn headache.”
“Okay, I won't. I'll just say this. I loved watching you turn into the player you are today. You're better than I ever thought you'd be, too, which is saying a hell of a lot. 'Cause I always knew you'd be a stud.”
Rust groaned. “Please.”
“Well? It's true. You are.”
“I feel like I'm half the player I should've been, Clay.”
“Half? Are you serious? Why half?”
Because you weren't there with me, idiot, is what Rust thought to himself while he rolled his eyes at Clay.
“Can't you see the anger in my game?” he asked.
Clay took a second to think it over. “Okay. Yeah, I guess so, if you want to put it like that—'anger.' But I always thought what you said in that one interview with Don Cherry was true—about how you wanted to add a physical edge to your game to be a more imposing defensive presence, and better all around player.”
Jeez, he really has watched me over the years, Rust thought to himself, recalling that specific interview from years ago.
“Yeah, that part was true, Clay. But to be that good at fighting? To be that good at wrecking guys? The anger to be able to do that to a guy has to come from somewhere.”
Rust watched as those words hit Clay in the gut like a sack of bricks. His brow sank, his bottom lip jutted out, and his face crumpled. He looked devastated.
“Damn. I'm so sorry.”
Rust tutted. “Oh well. What's done is done.”
Another long silence came between them. Again, Rust was the one to break it.
“So, how's life with Manon?” he asked, feigning a curiosity that was too genuine to be true.
“Manon,” Clay repeated the name under his breath with the hint of a laugh. “I wouldn't know.”
“No? See, sometimes I imagined you two ended up married with kids. Maybe you guys moved to Montreal and raised two beautiful French-speaking daughters.”
“That's oddly specific.” Clay cracked a smile. “But no—safe to say that nothing like that ever happened.”
“Sorry it didn't work out between you two.”
“I guess things don't always work out the way we imagine they will,” Clay reflected.
“Yeah, you can say that again.”
“… I'd tell you more about it, but you said you don't want to hear about the past.”
“Hmph—that's right,” Rust agreed.
He didn't need to hear the details, anyhow—he was sure the story of Clay and Manon's failed love probably had something to do with finding out they didn't have much in common, besides their hot, wild, and totally out of control! sex lives.
“So … how about you? Are you seeing anybody?” Clay asked, somewhat hesitantly.
Rust shook his head. “Nope.”
“Oh. I see.” Clay paused. He motioned with his fingers over his chin and jaw. “You look good with a little stubble there, Rust.”
“Thanks. Not really something I planned on growing. But maybe I'll keep it and grow a beard.”
Rust swept his eyes over Clay, looking for something to note about his physical appearance. That's when he realized something funny—Clay was wearing brown leather cowboy boots. Those boots, with the flannel shirt and the jeans, made Clay look like a caricature of a modern-day cowboy.
“Why are you dressed like a cowboy, Te--” Rust stumbled. He'd almost called him Tex, that old nickname. After making such a big deal out of being called Rust instead of Rusty, it felt more than a little hypocritical. “--I mean, Clay?”
Clay shrugged nonchalantly. “It's just how you dress for the job, I guess.”
Rust's jaw fell open. He was as equally shocked as he was amused.
“Wait, are you saying you're a cowboy?”
“You really that surprised? We always joked about how that was my future after hockey ended, didn't we?”
“Yeah, but it was always supposed to be a joke. No way you're an actual cowboy.”
“Okay, technically, no—I don't herd any cattle like my old man did. So no, you wouldn't be right if you called me a cowboy. But I do spend my days riding and tending to horses.”
Rust's eyes narrowed. “So what the hell do you do?”
Clay grinned. “Come with me and I'll show you.”
“Clay …” Rust shook his head.
“Come! It'll be good for you to get some fresh air, I bet.”
Rust shook his head. “You know I can't.”
Clay snapped his fingers. “Ah. Damn. It was worth a shot.”
“And even if I was healthy enough to go with you? I'm not sure I'd want to.”
Rust studied Clay as his bombs hit their target. Clay looked hurt, but he absorbed the brunt of that rejection well. He nodded with understanding.
> “I know you're not exactly thrilled with how things went down, Rust. And believe me, I don't blame you. But it's really good to see you again, man.” Clay peeked at his watch and sighed. “I should probably get going.”
Shit, Rust thought. Even though he knew he'd been stand-offish and not exactly the warmest this whole time, he didn't want part with Clay just yet. It seemed like there was still so much to say.
“I'm uh, I'm not kicking you out,” Rust said lamely, his voice a touch apologetic and shaky.
“I hear you.” Clay frowned. “But I actually came out to Dallas on business. I'm running late for an appointment.”
“But … you just got here?” Rust said meekly, embarrassed at how his voice went up at the end.
“Last night, yeah, that's why I texted you then.” Clay looked like he felt guilty as hell. “I'm real sorry, Rust. If I had known you were actually here? And willing to talk to me? Believe me, I would've made more time for you. I just—I don't know. I didn't think I had a shot in hell at actually finding you here. Or that you'd want to talk to me.”
They stared at each other.
“I'm sure I could make it back out here next weekend, though. If you'd be open to seeing me again, that is.”
“Um.” Rust swallowed tensely. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Cool.”
They both stood. Clay stepped toward Rust. “Can I have a hug?”
Rust wanted the hug too, but part of him was afraid. Afraid of what, he didn't know.
“I guess so, yeah,” he said anyway.
Clay neared and wrapped his arms around Rust. Clay might've been smaller than he was during their Hershey days, but he was still just as strong. Clay mashed their chests together and gave Rust a lung-crushing squeeze.
Rust shut his eyes. Damn. This is what he was afraid of: that being in Clay's arms would not just feel pleasant, but that it'd feel good and right. Just like it always had.
“I'm so sorry, man,” Clay whispered, his breath warm on Rust's neck.
“It's okay,” Rust heard himself whisper back.
They stayed locked together, their fists occasionally pounding into the other's wide back with a great, sturdy-sounding oomph.
Until, finally, they separated. They had to. They always did and they always would.
Clay backed away, hesitantly, and headed for the door.
“Wait!” Rust said, stopping Clay just before he walked out.
“What?”
“I'm worried you're going to walk out that door and my migraine's going to come right back.”
“Can that happen?”
“Hell if I know. It basically hasn't let up in two months. Until you showed up.”
“So …” Clay kicked at the floor. “Come with me.”
“I told you, I can't.”
“Why not?”
“I have a specialist I see almost every day. I have an appointment with him soon, actually. I'd have to talk to him first.”
“Well? Can't you call him and ask?”
Rust's head bobbed from side to side as he weighed the idea in his head. “Well, yeah …”
“So do it.”
Rust grabbed his phone, dialed the number, and got his specialist on the line. Dr. Davis had reached the point where he was clearly getting frustrated with Rust's lack of progress. He didn't know what to do. Sometimes, he acted like he thought Rust was exaggerating his symptoms—as if! The last thing Rust wanted was to be cooped up in a dark hotel room for months at a time … he wanted to be back out on the ice with the boys.
And right now, strangely, he wanted to be out with one of the old boys. Clay. He never would've guessed this turn of events, but here he was.
Dr. Davis answered. Rust explained: he was doing fine, an old friend had showed up, and his symptoms had mysteriously and suddenly improved. Did he think he could go out into the world with his friend?
Dr. Davis, sounding somewhat confused, encouraged Rust: of course he should stay with his old friend, if he was feeling better. The scientific understanding of concussions was still quite small, and frankly, no one knew what could alleviate or cure one of their symptoms … anything that helped him feel better was worth pursuing!
Rust hung up the phone and gave Clay a stare.
“Well?” Clay asked.
“He says no problem. I can go.”
Clay broke into a big smile. “Well hey! That's great.”
“Just let me change into something else first.”
“No problem.”
Can't believe I'm really doing this, Rust thought as he ran off to his room. Hanging out with Clay Grayson again?
It was exciting, nerve-racking, and scary all at once. He had no idea what Clay had in store for him. But somehow, Rust had the feeling that he could trust Clay just enough to go along with him.
19
Modie
– Clay –
Rust reappeared from his room wearing blue jeans, a heather-gray hoodie with the hood pulled over his head, a ball cap, and a huge pair of sunglasses. He looked like one of those celebrities when they're trying to have a day out in the city without being noticed.
“Is this how you travel, now that you're big time?” Clay asked with a smile.
“Har har. Only when I'm concussed and useless.”
“Sorry. Bad joke.” Clay frowned sympathetically. “Do you get noticed when you're out, though?”
“Depends,” Rust said as he shut the suite door and the two began to walk for the elevator. “I don't get noticed too much in Columbus, nor in St. Louis. Or maybe people are more polite in the Midwest and don't want to bother me. But in Boston and Washington, people noticed me more.”
“So … do you like it? The fame and everything?”
Rust blew a gust through his nostrils and shrugged. “I guess.” Pause. “I just want to play hockey, that's all, Clay. I never cared for the other stuff.”
Clay nodded sagely. “I hear ya.”
They left the hotel and walked through the parking lot. It was a bright, sunny day in Texas, just past noon.
“How's your head feel? Is it too bright out here?” Clay asked.
“I can't believe it, but I feel fine, Clay. I'm not taking off the sunglasses, though. Too afraid. The migraines have a habit of sneaking up on me, and I don't want to do anything to trigger one.”
“No problem, buddy.”
They arrived at the very back of the parking lot, where Clay's vehicle had taken up several spots.
“This is yours?” Rust chuckled as they approached the truck and attached trailer.
“Yup. The truck's a little bigger than the one you remember.”
Rust went around back to peek inside the trailer. He got a whiff of it and stumbled back.
“Well I'll be damned, Clay, you weren't lying. Thing stinks like hay and horses, alright.”
Clay smiled. “I wouldn't lie to you.”
The two men climbed into the truck and belted up.
“Daaaamn,” Rust cooed as he scoped out the expansive leather interior of the newer-model F-350. “Nice wheels, Clay. I guess you're doing well with whatever it is you're doing.”
“Oh, no. Don't get the wrong idea. It was a donation from someone's estate. But I do alright, I mean, my needs are taken care of. It's just not really about the money.”
“A donation?” Rust stroked his chin contemplatively. “So are you going to tell me what you do, or are you going to keep dragging this out? Or am I supposed to sit here and try to guess what you do?”
“We're going about an hour outside Dallas.” Clay grinned. “I'll try to explain on the way.”
***
“So, you could tell my hip was bothering me earlier,” Clay began.
“Yeah.”
“Well, I've gotta backtrack before I explain that one. After I left Hershey, I headed back home. I wasn't sure what else to do with my life. Hockey was an obvious dead-end for me.”
That bit seemed to make Rust uncomfortable. “Clay, I don't know,
I think you could've—”
“It's okay.” Clay waved his hand through the air. “I came to terms with it a long time ago, man. That's a story for later, anyhow.”
Rust shrugged. “Alright …”
“Point is. My whole life up to that point had been one-half working at Pop's cattle ranch, and the other half playing hockey. And you know my story: that I left high school to play Junior at age 16, never went to college, blah blah. Well, in the grand schemes of things, that was a gamble that I'd make a career out of hockey. If you can't hack it in the NHL? Let's just say there aren't a whole lot of career options for guys with no education, and who spent their early working years toiling in the minor hockey league.” Clay paused. “Thankfully, you're good enough, so you never had to experience that.”
Rust let out a quiet breath of air. He silently watched as Clay found a pocket in the traffic and merged onto Route 144.
“Don't worry. I'm not jealous. I'm just saying. Once I knew hockey was over for me … I was kind of thrown into a panic. So, I did the only other thing I knew how to do: I went home to help Pop on the ranch.”
“How was that?”
Clay shrugged. “Same as it ever was.”
“Was he happy you were back?”
“More like …” Clay trailed off, staring into the horizon beyond the road. “Happy I'd given up on a stupid dream that I never should've had in the first place.”
“Uh. Whoa. I had no idea it was like that.”
“Yeah, well.” Clay gave a sniff and a shrug. “Doesn't bother me.”
“But you did make it to the NHL. I mean, 22 games played … that's good, Clay, you know that's an achievement to be proud of.”
“Sure. I guess. But from Pop's perspective, I was nearing 30, when a man's career and life is supposed to start taking off, and he's providing for his family. But my career had just ended, I only had a few grand saved up, and I certainly didn't have a wife or family. Besides some feel-good sentiment about the fact that I played a handful of games in the NHL, I had nothing to show for throwing my 20's away, chasing a child's dream to play a sport for a living. And besides that, he'd always assumed I'd be around to help him with work on the ranch. When I went off to Junior, he definitely wasn't happy about it. To him, it was kind of like a son's ultimate betrayal.”