by Van Barrett
“God, no,” she trailed off with a laugh. “I made the mistake of cooking for these guys once, though, and now it's basically my job on Fridays.”
“Hey! I told you I'll hire a cook if you get sick of it!” Clay protested, sounding a little worried.
“I'm kidding, Clay, you know I love it.”
Clay explained to Rust. “One day Sarah made us dinner, and everyone loved it and begged her to do it again the next day. From that day forward it was a Second Chance tradition: family dinner Friday. You won't find a harder working staff than mine and I wanna send them home with full, happy stomachs. Of course, no one has to stay for dinner, but they almost always do.”
“That's really sweet,” Rust said.
“Yeah, well, it's the least I can do.”
***
Rust and Clay joined the others at the table on the back patio with a beautiful view. Rolling green hills as far as the eye could see. The sky above was a thick, fluffy sheet of clouds that looked like a comb had been dragged through it, making neat, orderly rows. The setting Sun splashed the clouds with color from below, from a brilliant yellow that faded to a deep purple.
The conversation was lively, though Rust didn't participate much. He was busily eating—the food was delicious and he hadn't had an appetite like this since before the hit.
Besides that, he didn't have much to add to the conversation. Clay's staff were telling stories of things they saw and did today. What the horses did, what they saw out on the trails, the crazy and hilarious things that volunteers did or said …
But, once those stories had been hashed out and their excitement began to wane, the attention started to shift to Rust.
“So, Rust,” Max said, grabbing his attention. “It's Rust, right?”
Rust had noticed that Max, a young man in his early twenties, had been taking peeks at him. Rust had the feeling he was being watched. Almost every time Rust looked up, he'd see Max looking right at him—right before Max's eyes darted elsewhere.
He figured he knew what this was about, too. After ten years of being a pro, Rust knew what it was like to get spotted.
“Yeah,” Rust replied.
“Are you a horse guy too?” Max asked,
“Oh, no, not really. I mean, I could be, I guess. But this is the most I've ever been around horses and I'm pretty amazed by it all.”
“So how do you know Clay, then?” Jodie piped up.
Ah, and so the interest had suddenly been stirred.
“I'm--” Rust caught Clay's eye to make sure he didn't say anything he wasn't 'supposed' to say. Clay's expression didn't tell him much, though. Better to play it safe.
“I'm an old friend,” Rust told Jodie.
Jodie shrugged, apparently content with that answer—or more probably, just being polite. “Oh.”
But Max wasn't content. He was back on the case, eyes narrowing. “And what do you do for a living, Rust?”
“I'm, ha,” Rust laughed, nervously stuffing a bite of food into his mouth to buy time while he chewed. He swallowed it down.
“I'm in the entertainment business, I guess you could say.”
Clay smiled. He stroked his eyebrow with a single finger. If he was trying to communicate something, Rust wasn't receiving the message.
Max cracked a knowing grin. “Rust wouldn't happen to be short for … Rustin, would it?”
Rust swallowed down another bite of food, making a gulp so loud, he was sure the whole table had heard it.
“Yeah,” he grumbled, head bobbing.
“Rustin Kellar,” Max said with confidence.
Rust forced a smile. “That's me.”
“I thought that was you!” Max said in an excited outburst.
The others at the table were confused. Minus Clay, of course, who held an embarrassed hand to his brow, shielding his eyes.
“Holy shit, we're really sitting here with Rustin Kellar,” Max said, laughing to himself. “How the hell are you, dude?!”
“I'm okay.”
“Clay, do you know who this guy really is?”
“Yes, I know,” Clay muttered, almost with a groan.
“How's the—err—you know.” Max made a fist and rapped his knuckles on his own skull, knock knock. “The noggin?”
“Max …” Clay said sternly—almost like a father's warning.
Rust felt himself slump. “I'm doing okay.”
“Uhh?” Liz laughed. “The hell's going on here, guys?”
Max explained. “This guy is an actual NHL player, y'all.”
Liz blinked. “Is that a sport league or something?”
“Do you guys know about anything besides horses?” Max huffed.
“Not really,” Cheryl chimed in.
“Oh, for Pete's sake,” Max grunted. “Yes, it's a 'sport league'—hockey to be exact. And Rustin here is one badass defenseman.” He whipped his focus back to Rust. “I practically grew up watching you, dude.”
Rust always loved these reminders of how old he was growing, thanks to these 'I grew up watching you' type comments—which he was hearing more and more often these days …
“Thanks, Max.”
The others at the table suddenly had their interest piqued.
“A professional hockey man at dinner? Well, that's a first …”
“Sounds like we have a celebrity here among us!”
But their interest inevitably led back to Clay.
“So Clay, how is it that you're friends with an NHL player, exactly?” Max asked.
“I've told you before,” Clay began quietly, “that I played hockey.”
“Umm—yeah. But I assumed you meant like, in a rec league. You never said anything about making friends with NHLers.”
“Making friends with NHLers,” Rust repeated with a laugh. He leaned his chair back from the table with a grin. “You mean Clay never told you guys?”
“Tell us what?” Max asked, totally hooked.
“I'm not the only NHL player sitting at this table.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Max waved his hands through the air as if he couldn't even understand what he was hearing.
But Clay scoffed. “I wasn't an NHL player.”
“Yes, yes you absolutely were.” Rust wagged a finger at his old teammate. “Don't listen to him, guys. He's got twenty-two NHL games played, to be exact. You can look it up for yourself.”
The girls at the table tittered with disbelief. Max, meanwhile, whipped out his cell phone and tapped away at the screen like a mad-man. And then he burst out laughing.
“Holy shit! You guys!” He flashed his glowing phone screen around the table. “It's true, I found his stat page! Clay Grayson, 22 GP, 0 G, 7A, -3. Sure, you didn't score any goals, but hey, seven assists! Not too shabby, Clay!”
Clay rolled his eyes. “Gee, thanks.”
“Oh my God!” Max laughed again. “Look—there's pictures!”
The girls' chairs scooted backwards in a hurry as they all popped out of their seats at once. They rushed over to Max and huddled behind him, staring over his shoulder. They squealed with glee when they saw the pictures of young Clay in his hockey gear, young Clay throwing an opponent to the ice, young Clay throwing his hands in the air after a goal …
There were even a few pictures of Clay and Rust together, as defense partners for the Hershey Bears.
Clay wore a good-natured, though bashful, smile through it all. Now that his employees were interested in his past, Clay fielded questions and ended up telling a few stories from their hockey days—making sure to always downplay his abilities. Rust filled in on color commentary, pointing out the details that Clay was too modest or too embarrassed to say.
“Well I'll be damned,” Max repeated after the episode had finally blown over. “Clay was a goddamn NHL player all along. That's really nuts.”
“And here we thought you were just some old cowboy,” Liz taunted him, and everyone laughed.
But the question that Clay never quite seemed to answer, was why he hadn
't ever bothered to tell them he was once a pro hockey player. Clay tried to pass it off as if he was embarrassed at how his career had gone, but no one seemed satisfied with that answer.
And Rust had a pretty good idea why that was.
It wasn't that Clay was embarrassed with his career. It was that he was ashamed at how it had ended.
And again he began to feel stupid for thinking anything had changed.
He's so ashamed of what we did together, he's created this entire other life to escape it.
23
You Owe Me
– Clay –
After dinner, Cheryl and Sarah were the first to head home. The others—Liz, Jodie, Melissa and Max—stayed to hang out a little longer. The Sun had set and the sky darkened, and soon the cool night air plummeted more than a few degrees. Clay jumped at a chance to build a fire in the stone fire pit, and the group moved to sit in the fold-out chairs around it, holding their palms up to the toasty heat.
As the night passed, the others began to leave one by one, hopping into their cars and starting the drive home.
Liz, one of the last stragglers, checked her watch.
“Good God, it's getting late. I should get going.”
She stepped next to Clay's chair to say bye. She bent over for a hug, and Clay started to rise, but she stopped him.
“No no, don't get up.” She hugged him while he sat in his chair instead. “Thanks for dinner, Clay.”
“Sure.” He patted her on the back. “Thanks for all your help today, Liz.”
“Oh, always. I had a really fun evening, you guys! You cracked me up all night.”
“See you tomorrow, Liz,” Clay said.
“Nice to meet you, Liz,” Rust added.
“Bye Liz,” Max said.
Clay turned his head slowly to Max and gave him a scowl.
“And then, there were three,” Clay said in a tone that oozed, 'take a hike, kid!'
“Yeah, and two of us around this fire were NHL players. Isn't that wild!” Max said, his eyes full of wonder.
“Two of us?” Clay chuckled. “You mean, everyone here but you?”
“Well, yeah. You know what I mean.”
Max shifted gears and turned his focus to Rust. He knew about Rust's concussion, obviously, and now he had questions about his recovery. Rust answered carefully, not wanting to say too much. But when Max began to understand that Rust was feeling better only recently—specifically since meeting up with Clay—Max turned to Clay with a familiar, crazed excitement in his eye.
“Shit, Clay! I just got a new business idea!”
“Oh, lord.” Clay smacked his forehead. He informed Rust on the side, “this kid's always yammering about some far-fetched business idea.”
“Hear this one out, Clay. So, you've obviously proven you can rescue horses. But we both know there's not much money in saving horses.”
“Oh boy,” Clay grumbled.
This was a look at the dynamic between these two, a game that they often played: Max made frequent proclamations that the most important thing in life was money. But that obviously wasn't true in Max's case—or else he would never be working for Clay! Clearly, he did it because he knew he could get under Clay's skin.
Max continued.
“But, what if you opened a recovery center for professional athletes with concussions out here? Dude! Think of the money we could make!”
Clay noticed that Rust's eyelid twitched, hearing that—as if that idea of Max's had bothered him so strongly, his body was subtly revolting.
Fun time was over, as far as Clay was concerned.
Clay rose out of his chair. “Alright, Max. Glad you could stay and hang out with us.” He grabbed the youngster's jacket and thrust it into Max's hands. “Here you are, bud. I'll see ya tomorrow.”
Max reluctantly took his jacket and Clay started prodding him towards his car.
“Okay, buddy, you drive safe now.”
Clay returned. Rust was sitting on a large granite rock, big enough for two people to sit, but Clay sat on the fold-out chair next to him instead.
“Sorry about that,” Clay chuckled as he crossed his legs. “That kid's a trip.”
But Rust didn't reply. He only stared into the fire, occasionally shaking his head. Clay noticed the creeping smirk that spread across his face.
“Hey, you alright?” Clay asked, worried.
Rust took a deep breath before replying.
“It always comes back to money, doesn't it,” he said, his voice gravelly and cynical.
“What?” Clay asked, surprised. Rust didn't answer. “Talk to me buddy. What's going on?”
Rust took another deep breath before continuing.
“You know. I couldn't figure it out at first: why you invited me out here. Part of me started to wonder if I was just another reclamation project for you. Another part of me actually wanted to believe that you really had turned out to be this great guy, this boss that everyone loved.”
“Whoa, where is this coming from?” Clay laughed, but it was a confused and worried laugh. “You feeling alright, Rust?”
“Yeah, bud. I feel great. Like I'm finally seeing things clearly.”
Whatever Rust was seeing so clearly, it sure sounded like it pissed him off. Clay held out his palm, begging for an explanation.
“I thought, maybe you just saw me as some other old, banged up horse, down on his luck and needing a healthy dose of pity. Another life you could help turn around, because you're such a great guy now. But that's not it at all, is it? No—it's money. See, I get it now. That's what you want, isn't it?”
“What?” Clay asked, aghast. “You think that—because of what Max said?”
Rust raised his eyebrows as if to say, well?
“Trust me, Rust, he didn't mean anything by it. Like I said, the kid is always coming up with these crazy business ideas, because he knows it grinds my gears. If you ask me, he's just scared of his own sensitive side. He loves those horses as much as anyone—maybe more so. He likes to pretend that isn't the case by always coming up with these plans to turn the farm into a billion-dollar venture … but deep down, he's a horse lover like the rest of us.”
Clay thought that the more background he gave on why Max made that joke, Rust would see he was telling the truth. But Clay knew that Rust wasn't buying it.
“Man, I'd love to trust you, Clay.” Rust shook his head and gave a cynical laugh. “But I'm afraid I can't anymore. Those days are long gone.”
“Rust—Rust, I …” Clay trailed off, surprised at this sudden turn. “I'm not interested in your money. I swear.”
“Oh no? But you've already told me how you need so much more money to build more structures, so you can double the number of horses you can take out here. You've told me that your truck was donated, and that fund raising is hard, and so on. I'm actually embarrassed I didn't see it earlier.”
“Yeah, Rust. And that's all true. But you're connecting dots to draw a picture that isn't really there. I would never dream of asking you for your money. No way.”
“Okay, so you wouldn't ask for it. But what if I offered it? Because I was so amazed by what you're doing out here with your rescue operation?”
Clay raised his hand as if he were giving a vow. “I wouldn't take it.”
“Why not? You know I have it. Millions of it. How much do you need? I'll write you a check.” Rust shrugged nonchalantly. “My money could solve all your problems.”
“Rust … it's like we were talking about earlier. No matter the number of horses I rescue, whether it's 50 or 100—or hell, 1,000!—there's always going to be plenty more horses out there that I can't save. At some level, that's my burden to bear. That's what I have to learn to accept: that I'm doing what I can to make the world a better place, but that it won't ever be perfect, and I can't drive myself crazy trying to make it that way. I'm doing what I can, day by day.”
Rust stared into Clay's eyes, his eyes probing deeper and deeper, as if he could see right into h
is soul. After a tense stare-down, Rust deflated like a balloon. His shoulders dropped, he hunched forward, and he let out a sigh.
“Fuck. Whatever. Maybe you're telling the truth after all. I can't think straight, I can't tell heads from tails anymore. That concussion really fucked me up. Jesus.”
Clay chuckled. “The way you say that? It almost sounds like you want me to be some con-man who's after your money.”
“Maybe I do,” Rust said. “It'd sure be easier for me to hate you, anyway.”
Clay took that like a punch to the gut.
“Sorry,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I don't blame you.”
Clay paused before continuing.
“But seriously, Rust, money is not why I brought you here. You could have all the money in the world, and I still wouldn't want anything to do with it.”
Rust rolled his eyes. “Well why not? That's stupid.”
“I'd be afraid of it getting in the way.”
Rust went quiet before he gave Clay his shamed, doubting eyes.
“Getting in the way of what?” he asked at last, sheepishly.
“Well—err—” Clay stammered.
If it were light out, Rust would've seen the color rising in his cheeks.
“You know. Me and you. Getting to know each other again,” Clay said.
Rust laughed, a hiss like pressure dumped from a blow-off valve. “You really want that?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Rust's reply came like a burst of gunfire. “Why now? Why now, after ten years of silence? Ten years of not knowing how you were doing, where you were, or hell, if you were even still alive at all?”
Clay frowned. “I'm sorry. I don't know what to say, but I'm sorry, again and again. I had my reasons and I … I thought what I was doing was the right thing.”
Rust shook his head. “You know. On one hand, it was great to come out here and see how you're doing. Saving horses, that's so noble. And I can tell your employees love their jobs too, and they love you. Adore you, even. Just like me and the boys did back in the day, when you were our fearless captain.”
Clay lowered his eyes to the ground.
“It's like you have your own family, Clay. And I want to be happy for you. But at the same time, it's hard for me to be happy for you, and this great life you've carved out. Because I was left trying to figure out what happened to you.”