Ice Time
Page 3
“Takes me back,” Rory said. “I spent two seasons in the AHL, too.” His face darkened. “Hopefully, I’ll move up sooner this time.” He took his keys out of his pocket and got in the car. “It was nice to meet you both,” he said through the window.
Rocket opened the passenger door. “I’ll text you when I get there,” he said to his mom and Maddy.
He got in and waved. Then Rory turned the car on and they drove off. Rocket could see his family in the side mirror, still waving.
“Sorry about all the questions,” Rocket said.
“No problem. Coaches talk about the team being a family. It’s not true. I learned that the hard way. Your mom and Maddy? They’re your family. They’ll be there for you long after hockey is done. The NHL is a business, and we’re nothing but pieces of meat. You can’t play, you get tossed in the garbage. That’s just the way it is.”
Rocket didn’t know what to say.
“I never would’ve made it back to this point without my family supporting me,” Rory said. “I know this is my last shot, though. I’ve been out too long.”
Rocket thought about Megan. “I guess hockey has to end sometime.”
“All I’ve ever done is play,” Rory said. “I thought I’d have at least ten years in the NHL. Now look at me, a gimpy knee and a wife and a baby. This wasn’t the plan.”
“Your knee’s probably stronger than before, with all the working out.”
“Take care of your body,” Rory said. “That’s the best advice I can give. Don’t let anyone force you to take chances with your health. I’d hurt the knee a few games before, but the training staff convinced me it would be fine. Turned out I had stretched some ligaments, which weakened the knee. I was in the final year of my contract, too. They put me on waivers when they knew how serious it was. No one picked me up, so basically, I’m a free agent.”
Rory paused and then laughed. “Hey, bro, sorry for all this wailing about poor me. It’s still hockey. We’ll have some fun on the ice and kick some butt. And it’ll be cool to be back in the room with the boys. I love Angela, but I’m not going to miss changing diapers.”
Rocket laughed, happy to lighten the mood.
Rory shifted in his seat and winced. “Do you drive, by any chance?”
“Sorry. We don’t have a car. I never got my licence.”
“No big deal. Just hoped you could drive at some point. My knee’s bugging me. Whatever. You want to listen to some tunes?”
“Sure.”
“What’re you into?”
“Whatever you like.”
Rory took out his phone. “Let’s go with some old-school R&B to set the tone, then we’ll drift into some house and electronica. Cool?”
“Sounds good.”
Rory turned up the volume.
Rocket looked out the window. His nerves kicked up. Rory’s story had shaken him. One injury and it could be all over.
CHAPTER 6
Rocket was almost disappointed when they pulled up in front of the Pinewood Barns Arena. Rory was a great guy, and they’d ended up talking a lot more than listening to music.
It turned out Rory was just as nervous as Rocket — and just as eager to catch the big club’s attention. They both wanted to play hard and move up.
“You sure this is where they told you to go?” Rory said.
They hadn’t told Rocket anything, but he didn’t want to hold Rory up. It was nice enough that he’d given him a ride. Rocket grabbed the handles of his hockey bag and suitcase.
“I’m good. See you at tomorrow’s practice. And thanks again,” Rocket said.
After Rory left, Rocket rolled his bags into the arena lobby. A man and a woman were chatting by the ticket booth, their heads close together.
“Excuse me, do you know where I’d find the Pinewood Racers’ office?” Rocket said.
The man pointed to a set of stairs. “Up there.”
“Are you with the team?” Rocket said.
“I’m the arena manager,” the man said. “We’re with Floyd Entertainment.”
“Do you mind if I leave my stuff here? I have to speak to someone in the office.”
The man shrugged and turned back to the woman.
“Tell the staff to come early tomorrow,” he said to her. “Floyd wants the offices cleaned.”
“We just did them.”
“Floyd said the dust bothers Queen Stella.”
Rocket climbed the stairs as he listened to them. He’d done some online research about the Racers. The Floyd family had owned the team for something like forty years. Raymond Floyd was the president and executive general manager. Kirk Blywood was the general manager. Rocket had no idea about this Queen Stella.
Upstairs, a woman was vigorously mopping the hallway. Rocket knocked on Blywood’s office door.
“No one is in,” the woman said.
“Thanks,” Rocket told her. He texted Blywood. He didn’t hold out much hope for a response, since the guy hadn’t returned any of his texts today.
He should have listened to his mom. Stupid to just show up. Blywood could be anywhere.
Rocket went back down to the lobby. The man and the woman were gone.
“Thanks for watching my stuff,” he muttered.
He sighed and rolled his neck, then googled hotels in pinewood.
Hotels were expensive. He tapped on the cheapest, which was eighty-nine dollars a night. There was no way he could afford to stay there for more than a day or two. He’d have to catch Blywood before practice in the morning to ask for some recommendations.
Rocket wheeled his stuff over to the main street to hail a cab. He had no idea where the hotel was. It hadn’t looked far on the map, but it was hard to tell.
He waited and waited, but no cabs went by. Finally, after ten irritating minutes, he searched for a company on his phone, filled out a request form and sent it in.
Using his hockey bag for a seat, Rocket scrolled through the Pinewood Racers’ website to pass the time. Their leading scorer was Cam Conner, and he looked like a serious player. He’d been in the AHL for almost ten seasons and had been an all-star a bunch of times. Over the years, he’d also played some games in the NHL.
A car pulled up. “You call a cab?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been waiting at the rink.”
“I wrote that I was on the street.”
“You said the rink. Why not wait at the front door?”
“Because I was already on the street.”
“You should’ve been where you said you’d be. You wasted my time.”
“I am where I said I’d be!”
“Forget it.”
The taxi drove off.
“Thanks, jerk!” Rocket yelled. He grabbed his sticks and gave his hockey bag a whack. Then he called the cab company.
“Sunnyside Taxi, what’s the address?”
“I called a cab and he drove off on me,” Rocket said.
“What’s your phone number?”
He told her.
“You weren’t waiting at the rink,” she said.
“I filled out the form …” He groaned. “Can I get another one?”
“Where are you?”
“Exactly where I said I was!”
The line went dead.
Rocket closed his eyes. So far life as a pro player sucked.
He waved at a cab as it raced by, but it had people in it. Behind it was a small Honda Civic. It stopped. There were four boys inside.
“Yo, bro, where’re you going?” a kid asked, leaning out the passenger-side window.
He looked like a high-school student.
“I’m going to a hotel. Not sure of the address. Hold on,” Rocket said. He checked his phone. “Do you know where Lakewood Avenue is?”
“This is Lakewood,” the kid said.
“Do you know the Lakewood Hotel?” Rocket said.
The boys laughed.
“It’s just down the street — that white building,” the kid said.
“I guess I’m a bit disoriented. I’m new in town,” he said, picking up his hockey bag and sticks.
The rear window opened. “Who do you play for?” a voice called out.
“The Pinewood Racers.”
The car exploded in cheers.
“Awesome, bro. What’s your name?” the kid in the front said.
“Bryan … Rockwood.”
Behind the driver, in the back seat, a boy shook a yellow-and-black scarf out his window. The wind caught hold, and it stretched out — Pinewood Racers.
Rocket grinned. “Go, Racers!”
“I’m Crawford,” the kid in front said. “This is Rino driving.”
Rino honked the horn.
“Chaz is behind me,” Crawford went on, “and Griff has the scarf. He loves that thing.”
“Nice to meet you guys,” Rocket said.
“I think I’ve heard of you,” Crawford said. “You played for the Axmen.”
“Guilty,” Rocket said.
“We’ll see you at the opener on Saturday,” Crawford said.
“What number are you?” Chaz asked.
The boys reminded Rocket of someone — himself. Hockey obsessed.
“Not sure about the number, or the game. We’ll see. Tomorrow is my first practice,” Rocket said.
Rino honked the horn a few more times.
“Good luck!” Crawford said.
The boys began to chant, “Go, Pinewood, go! Go, Pinewood, go!” as the car pulled away, Griff’s scarf flapping madly in its wake.
Rocket crossed the street and walked down to the hotel. After checking in, he flopped on the bed as soon as he got in the room. He was tired. The past few days had been a blur — sent down by Landry, telling his family, meeting his friends, getting ready to go, the drive up, trying to find a place to stay.
He texted his mom and Maddy, so they wouldn’t worry: Everything is great. Psyched for practice tomorrow. Speak soon.
He texted Megan: Good 2 see U yesterday. All’s fine here. About 2 look up some courses and see what’s available.
Then he tossed his phone aside and turned on his laptop. He typed Pinewood Racers into the YouTube search bar. Videos from last year popped up. The first was called C.C. Storms the Ice. It was about Cam Conner, so C.C. had to be his nickname.
Rocket clicked on the video. He’d look up online courses later.
CHAPTER 7
The dressing-room door opened. In walked a large man with wavy blond hair, a square jaw, long, thick arms and massive thighs — the absolute picture of a pro hockey player. He shook hands with a bunch of the guys. Rocket knew him from the website — Cam “C.C.” Conner.
“R.C. Cola,” C.C. said as he greeted Rory. A huge grin was plastered across his face. The two men embraced.
Rocket laughed to himself. Rory Colbert — R.C. Cola — a good hockey nickname.
“Bro, I was so psyched when I heard you were here. How’s the knee?” C.C. said.
Rory bent his right knee and stomped the floor. “Good enough to smoke you on the outside.”
“I don’t doubt it,” C.C. roared, and they high-fived. “Goldsy, come say hi to a real hockey player.”
“Nice to finally meet one,” Goldsy said.
Rocket recognized him, too — Ben Goldsworthy, left winger. He’d played on C.C.’s line last season.
“Meet another player,” Rory said, nodding at Rocket. “This is Bryan Rockwood. I think people call him Rocket.”
C.C. and Goldsy shook Rocket’s hand.
“Have you spoken to Coach Mack yet?” C.C. asked Rory.
“Nah. Got the lowdown from Blywood this morning, though,” Rory said.
Rocket wondered how. Blywood still hadn’t returned any of his texts about places to stay. And he hadn’t been around when Rocket got to the arena early that morning. Instead, Rocket ended up talking to the trainer, Nadav, who told him guys find their own places — not what Rocket wanted to hear.
Before practice, Rocket had found a few places online and booked some appointments for that afternoon.
A man walked into the dressing room, and Rocket did a doubletake. It couldn’t be. Their eyes met.
“The Rocket’s in the AHL? Seriously?” The man chuckled and looked around as if he couldn’t believe it. “I cut this kid in minor bantam, no kidding. I was coaching a AAA team. Takes me back a few years.”
C.C. looked uncomfortable. “Coach Barker, this is Rory Colbert,” he said, changing the subject.
“The one and only R.C. Cola. Awesome to have you,” Barker said. “I’m new to the Racers, too. I’m here to get this crew to play some defence. The Racers are going to be about puck possession this year. We’ll be a NHL-style team, so it’s cool to have a real NHLer.”
“Looking forward to being back on the ice,” Rory said.
Barker looked over at Rocket. “By the way, this isn’t junior, Rockwood. I’ll be introducing you to your own end.”
“We’ve met,” Rocket said, as sarcastically as he could.
Barker grunted and his eyes narrowed. “We’re on the ice in fifteen minutes.” He clapped his hands a few times. “Let’s get going.”
C.C. and Goldsy went to their stalls to get dressed. Rocket pretended he had to retie his skates so he could hide his rage.
This was bad in so many ways. Sure Barker had cut Rocket, but then he’d asked him to come back. Rocket had refused, and Barker had hated him ever since. Things hadn’t improved when they’d both moved up to junior — every time their teams met it was nasty.
“Don’t worry about that guy,” Rory said quietly. “First-year coaches always act tough. They want to establish a rep. He’s no big deal.”
“We have a bit of a history,” Rocket said.
Rory slapped Rocket’s shin pads. “We both have to turn the page and start fresh.”
Nadav came in. “Ice is ready if you want to get out there,” he said.
Rocket reached for his sweater. He’d been number 18 since he was a kid, but it was gone. Instead, he’d chosen number 36 — he’d be twice the player he used to be. He put it on, grabbed his stick from the rack and headed out.
The moment his skates cut into the glistening ice, his problems seemed to disappear. Hockey was like that. Life was the hard part.
He skated leisurely around the net. A few more guys came out. Barker was stacking piles of pucks on the boards by the bench. Rocket veered off to get one.
“Can you lift the puck off the ice yet?” Barker chirped.
Rocket stickhandled in on goal, reared back and blasted a slapshot into the top right corner, just under the crossbar.
“Chew on that, Bark-Breath,” he said.
His friend Adam had come up with that name for Barker way back — during their tryouts for that bantam team. Wait until Adam and their friend Ty heard Barker was in the AHL.
It had been a while since Rocket had talked to Adam and Ty. All three of them had made it to junior, but only Rocket was still playing. Ty had been a high first-round draft choice and played three years. He’d hurt his knee, though, and after surgery, he decided to quit. He was in university now, apparently thinking about law school. Adam had quit after two seasons — said he wasn’t into it. He was at university, too, but he didn’t take his studies that seriously. He was more into having fun.
Ty and Adam didn’t have to worry about the future. Their families were rich.
A short, pale man came onto the ice. His thin jet-black hair was brushed straight back, as if every hair had been glued in place. His eyes were close together, but big, almost too large for his face. He was looking all over the ice, first the stands, then the benches and then behind both nets. He skated slowly, maybe even a bit awkwardly. A whistle hung from a string around his neck.
On second glance, Rocket realized the man was Anderson McGill, the Racers’ head coach. McGill wasn�
��t a typical coach because he’d never played hockey at a high level, not even junior. He’d started out coaching minor hockey, then community college and university, before landing the Pinewood job last year.
McGill stopped at centre, and the guys formed a semicircle in front of him.
“No point talking about that last exhibition game,” he said. “Effort level wasn’t bad, but we didn’t have the puck enough. We lost way too many draws. We can’t control the puck if we give away possession so much.”
“We lost fifty-seven percent of the draws in our end,” Barker piped in, “and sixty-two percent in theirs.”
McGill looked tired. “We’re going to correct that. Anyway, I believe we have a couple of new guys … Coach Kaufman?”
Rocket hadn’t seen Kaufman yet. He was the special teams coach. With his broad chest, thick legs and big forearms, he looked more like a hockey player. He wore a Racers baseball cap and sweatshirt.
“Thanks, Coach Mack,” Kaufman said. “Everyone say hello to Rory ‘R.C. Cola’ Colbert.”
The guys banged their sticks on the ice.
“Hi, boys. Good to be here. Hope we have a great season,” Rory said.
“And …” Kaufman paused to look at his clipboard. “Bryan Rockwood. Where are you?”
“Right here,” Rocket said.
Kaufman nodded. “Hi, Bryan. You’re a centre, right? Hopefully, you’ll help with the faceoffs.”
“We’ll see about that,” Barker quipped.
A few guys laughed. One player to Rocket’s right, number 22, didn’t look too amused.
“C.C., get everyone down to one end,” McGill said.
“You got it, Coach Mack. Let’s move it, boys,” C.C. said.
He skated off to the far net, the guys following behind. Rocket felt a stick slap his shin pads.
“Time to bring it,” Rory said. “C.C. filled me in. Management is looking to make changes. Floyd — the owner — is insane. He wants a championship this season, and McGill is under serious pressure to produce. Floyd’s not happy with their first-round loss in the playoffs last season, and the Racers only won two exhibition games this year. That’s why Floyd replaced the defence coach with that Barker guy.”
“Okay, so we’ll both bring it,” Rocket said, slapping Rory’s pads.