by David Skuy
“Bryan is a hockey player. He is playing for the Racers,” Ritchie said.
A young boy came running out of a bedroom.
“You play for the Racers? Cool,” he said. “What position? Have you played in the NHL? How many goals did you get last year?”
“One question at a time, Rafa,” Ritchie said, his eyes dancing. “Please excuse my young son. He is what you call a hockey fanatic.”
“That’s good. We’ll get along then,” Rocket said. “I’m a hockey fanatic, too.”
“Leona, come say hello,” Ritchie said.
Leona peered out of a bedroom, her lips curled in a mischievous smile.
“This is my little angel,” Ritchie said. “She has five years.”
“Papá, in English you say, ‘She is five years old,’” Rafa said. “It’s not like in Spanish.”
Ritchie laughed. “I am always forgetting. And Rafa is seven years old.”
“Good, Papá,” Leona said. “That was perfect.”
“So, answer my questions,” Rafa said to Rocket. He looked ready to explode with excitement.
“Enough, Rafa,” his mom said. “Ricardo, you should show Bryan the room.”
“Yes, yes, come with me,” Ritchie said, pulling Rocket’s arm.
He opened the door and Rocket peered inside. It was a small room, not much bigger than a closet, really. The bed took up almost the entire space, but there was a big window. Posters of hockey players covered the walls.
“So, you will stay here,” Ritchie said. “Two meals are included in the rent: breakfast and dinner. We are not often here for lunch. The children are at school, and we are working. The rent is $550 a month. Is that fair?”
The other places were two to three times higher, and they didn’t come with food — or a bed.
“When would I be able to move in?” Rocket asked. “I’m staying in a hotel right now …”
“Oh, that is too much money,” said Ritchie. “The room is ready. If you like, you can move in tonight.”
Rocket would save a ton of money living here. The location sucked, but so what if he had to take the bus? He was used to it. Ritchie and his family seemed really nice, too. May as well stay here for a while. If he needed to, he could take his time and find something better later.
“Sounds good,” Rocket said. “I’ll take it.”
“Wonderful news,” Ritchie proclaimed. “Mi amor, Bryan will be taking the room.”
“Yay!” Rafa said. “Now can you answer my questions?”
“Shush,” his mom said. “Bryan, I won’t be here when you return. I must go to work. But we’ll have dinner ready for you.”
“Thanks, Mi Amor,” Rocket said.
Ritchie and the kids began to giggle. He got the feeling he’d said something silly.
“Did I say that wrong?” he said.
Ritchie and the kids burst out laughing. Rafa was laughing so hard, he bent over and held his stomach. Leona draped herself over his back.
“Mi amor means ‘my love’ in Spanish,” Ritchie said, finally.
“That’s what Papá calls our mamá,” Leona said.
“My name is Mariana,” her mother said, laughing also.
Rocket joined in. It felt good. Somehow it felt like he hadn’t laughed — really laughed — in a long time.
“I’ll zip back to the hotel and get my bags — before I say anything else embarrassing,” Rocket said as the laughter wound down. “Hopefully, I’ll learn a little Spanish while I stay here. How do you say ‘I’ll see you soon?’”
“Hasta pronto,” Leona said.
“Hasta pronto,” Rocket repeated. He shook hands with Ritchie and Mariana and left.
He felt ten times better already. While he waited for the bus, he took out his phone and texted his mom the good news.
Is it in a good area? she texted back immediately.
He leaned against the bus shelter and replied: It’s real nice, and so is the family. Don’t worry. All good.
CHAPTER 11
Rocket spun his helmet in his hands. Floyd was never going to shut up. He’d been lecturing them for the past fifteen minutes.
Nadav came into the dressing room. “Coach Mack, Zamboni’s almost done. The guys have to be on the ice for the introductions.”
Floyd turned to face him, his face twisted in rage. “I’m right in the middle of talking,” he roared. “Why don’t you go on the ice for the introductions?”
Looking confused, Nadav backed up and left.
Rocket had heard that Floyd was a difficult guy — a total jerk was more like it. And obviously not too bright. The team had to hit the ice.
“Who was that?” said the woman next to Floyd.
Rocket had decided she must be Queen Stella — Floyd’s wife. She wore a floor-length, tight-fitting red dress, and she was draped in diamonds. Her blond hair fell below her shoulders in soft curls, and her face was heavily made up. Rocket had never seen such long eyelashes.
“He’s the trainer,” Blywood told her.
“Why we can’t hire people born in this country?” Floyd said.
“I believe he’s from Pinewood,” McGill said.
“I mean his family,” Floyd shot back. “Anyway, what was I saying? This is a veteran team, and we don’t have an excuse not to win — and we will win. I pay some of the highest salaries in the league, and I expect results. I won’t hesitate to make changes if it’ll help the club.”
Blywood nodded gravely.
“You’ll notice that Stephen Strauss isn’t here,” Floyd said.
Rocket had been wondering.
“He’s gone. Say hello to Terrence Day,” Floyd said. “We picked Terrence up on waivers. He’s a twelve-year AHL veteran. He’ll take over centre on Strauss’s line.”
“Hey, boys. Happy to be on the team,” Terrence said.
Rocket hadn’t heard of him, so he was fairly sure Terrence had never played in the NHL.
“You don’t perform, you’re outta here,” Floyd said. “We had to let Strauss go — we like guys with experience who don’t make dumb mistakes. This is what happens when you lose every faceoff. So, take note. And that goes for each and every one of you. Last year will not be repeated. Do you understand me? We will not lose in the first round again. We will not. That was totally ridiculous.”
McGill had his arms crossed, and he was leaning against the wall. He’d barely moved while Floyd ranted. Blywood nodded slowly. Barker had a satisfied smile on his face. Most of Rocket’s teammates looked grim.
“You’re all too full of yourselves and too full of your NHL dreams. If we don’t start winning, you won’t be going anywhere. Coach Landry and I talk all the time, like every day, and if you guys jerk me around, you’ll be so buried in the minors it would take Sidney Crosby ten years to dig you out. Do we understand each other?”
A few guys murmured, “Yes.”
“Good,” Floyd said. “This isn’t a charity. The playoffs mean money — and I like money. I like to win, too.” He pointed at McGill. “Coach Mack, you wanna talk strategy? C’mon, Stella. You have to get ready.”
“Sure, Ray-Ray,” she cooed. “Bye-bye, boys.” She flicked her fingers in a half wave and offered a toothy smile before leaving.
So, Ray-Ray was Stella’s pet name for Floyd. The Racers were a strange team.
McGill looked at his watch. “We don’t have time for strategy. Play our game and we’ll be okay. Hard in the corners and safe with the puck in the first period. You boys know how to play.”
The goalies led the players out. Rory hung back with Rocket.
Rocket slapped his friend’s pads. “Welcome back to the game,” he said.
Rory grinned and slapped Rocket’s pads back. “Bring it, bro.”
“Bring it.”
Rocket held his arm out toward the door. “After you.”
Rory went ahead. Rocket breathed a sigh of relief. He had a stupid superstition about being the last player out for a game. He’d been doing it for too
long to stop, and he was afraid of what might happen if he did.
The crowd cheered as the Racers came onto the ice, music blasting away. Rocket hopped onto the ice, tore across the red line and made a beeline down the boards. There wasn’t much time for a warm-up. The goalie was scraping his crease furiously.
Men began to unroll a red carpet leading from the door to centre. Then Floyd and Stella walked out. The horn sounded, and Rocket headed to the bench. He was on the fourth line, so he went to sit in the middle. Barker was behind him. Time to try Rory’s advice.
“Hey, Coach, any pointers for my first game? I got to admit I’m a bit nervous, and you have a lot of experience—”
“You want some advice?” Barker said. “Rookies should shut up and do their jobs.”
Rocket’s stomach sank. Barker moved away to talk to Kaufman. That sure hadn’t worked. Wrong time, probably. Stupid to ask right before a game. He’d work him at practice. Right now, it was time to show he was a good teammate.
“Let’s go, Racers,” he said loudly. “Our puck all game.”
Rory was starting with C.C. and Goldsy. They were standing across the Racers’ blue line.
“Please join international recording star Stella Getty-Floyd in the singing of our national anthem,” the announcer said.
Rocket stood up. Stella started to sing.
He looked around to see if this was a joke. She was terrible. How could she be a star? He sang better than that — and he couldn’t sing. The players kept it together, aside from a few smirks. When she was done, the crowd let loose with a huge cheer. Rocket figured they were clapping because it was over.
“Now, we’ll have the ceremonial dropping of the puck to mark the forty-first season the Racers have been part of the Floyd family. We’re honoured to have in attendance Racers president, chief executive officer and executive general manager Raymond Floyd,” the announcer said.
C.C. and the Ravens’ captain skated to centre. Floyd dropped the puck. C.C. pulled it to his skate, took off his glove, picked it up and gave it to Stella. She gave him and the other captain big hugs. Both captains shook Floyd’s hand. Floyd and Stella walked back along the red carpet, waving to the crowd. The music started up, and the crowd began chanting, “Go, Racers, go! Go, Racers, go!”
Rocket’s two wingers were sitting next to him. Turner Rogers was a right winger. Brett Downey was on the left. Both were second-year guys. Rocket didn’t know much about them, other than they seemed like good players. Rogers had been a fairly high draft pick, maybe even a second-rounder. He could really skate, and he had a nice shot. He was also a big body and seemed to like the rough stuff. Downey wasn’t the greatest skater, but he played with an edge, full out, had a wicked shot — and he liked to take the body, too. Rocket wondered why they were on the fourth line.
“Let’s go hard,” Rocket said to break the tension.
Rogers gave him a cold look. “I got a text from Straussy before the game,” he said to Downey. “Looks like he’s going to clear waivers.”
“That sucks,” Downey said. “He got a raw deal. The guy’s a winger. He steps up and plays centre and gets burned because of his faceoffs.”
“Can’t believe they’re going with Terrence Day,” Rogers said quietly. “I’ve got nothing against the guy, but … he’s a bit old. Straussy can skate circles around him.”
Rocket grabbed a water bottle and took a long sip. If they were right about Terrence, then Rocket had a good chance of moving up to third line.
If so, then he needed to make that happen soon.
CHAPTER 12
Rocket looked up at the scoreboard. The game was almost over, with seven minutes left in the third.
They’d gotten off to a good start, when C.C. got a quick goal in the first period. Rory had pounded in a rebound off a point shot to make it 2–0 late in the second. Less positive — Rocket’s line had only been out for three shifts all game.
Coach McGill had told them to bring some energy, and that’s what Rocket tried to do. He managed to land a good hit in the neutral zone, and he even got a shot on net. It was from a bad angle, but at least he’d made the goalie react.
A few fans began to chant, “Go, Racers, go!” Rocket looked around for them. Then, for the second time since he’d come to Pinewood, he had a good laugh. The four boys who’d been in the Honda Civic were three rows up behind the bench. He hadn’t noticed them before, so he figured they must have snuck down to the expensive seats. They were hard to miss. Crawford and Chaz had painted their faces yellow and black, and Rino and Griff wore tinfoil Stanley Cup hats.
Tweet. The referee pointed to the penalty box — tripping.
“Buy yourself some new glasses, Stripes,” Crawford called out.
“You’ve disappointed me for the last time!” Chaz shouted.
“Total dive!” Crawford yelled. “He flopped like a fish. Look, he’s laughing at you.”
The boys were so into it, it was hilarious. Crawford started falling all over the place to make his point.
Beauclair headed to the penalty box.
“Take the kill for thirty seconds,” Kaufman said.
Rocket wondered who he was talking to.
“Rockwood, are you deaf?” Barker shouted. “He said get out there. C.C. needs a breather.” He pulled Rocket up by his shoulder pads.
Rocket forced his stiff legs to hop over the boards. He almost wished he didn’t have to play. Brutal to take a shift after watching for so long. To make it worse, the faceoff was in the Racers’ end, to the goalie’s right.
The crowd clapped to the music. The referee blew his whistle, and the music stopped. The Ravens’ centre was a big guy. He was lined up slightly on the inside. Rocket figured he was trying to give himself space to pull it back to the defenceman for a quick shot from the top of the circle.
“He’s yours,” Rocket said to Goldsy, nodding to the defenceman.
“Just win it back,” Goldsy growled.
Rocket flushed and bent down for the faceoff. Sure, rookies don’t tell vets what to do. But as centre, it was his job to make sure everyone knew what they had to do after the draw.
The puck dropped. Their sticks flashed — Rocket’s a touch faster. The puck slid to the corner. His defenceman retrieved it and headed around the net. Rocket drifted to the slot. That felt good. A clean win, late in the third, on a critical draw in their own end.
The defenceman fired it up the wall.
Rocket groaned. The puck clipped the linesman’s skate and stayed in. Goldsy and the Ravens’ right defenceman arrived at the puck at the same time. The defenceman tied Goldsy up, while his right winger dug the puck out. He turned and drifted backwards toward the blue line.
“I got him,” Goldsy called out.
Rocket stayed in the high slot, keeping a wary eye on the left defenceman in case he tried to sneak down low. The Ravens’ right winger held the puck until Goldsy got close, and then he flipped it to the right defenceman, who had stayed at the hash marks against the boards. The left defenceman took off, and Rocket turned and got a stick on him to slow him down. The defenceman stopped and went back to the point.
Rocket felt good about that defensive play. The right defenceman gave the puck to the winger at the point, and Rocket drifted back to the high slot. He had a feeling the Ravens’ winger and defenceman were uncomfortable having switched positions. He bet they’d move the puck to the other side of the ice so they could switch back. Rocket snuck a quick look behind him. The Racers defence were doing a good job keeping the Ravens from setting up in front of the net. Rocket cheated a few steps toward the point and hoped the Ravens would make a mistake.
The winger held the puck, his head up looking for an open man. He faked a pass to the right defenceman. Goldsy extended his stick to cut that off. The right defenceman backed up into the corner. The Racers’ left defenceman took a few steps in that direction also. Rocket waited. It was going to happen. He knew it. The winger was getting nervous about holding the puck s
o long. The winger took another quick look down the wall — and then he passed it across the blue line to the left defenceman.
Rocket was on the left defenceman like a shot. The left defenceman didn’t even try to control it. Instead, he chipped it to the boards to Rocket’s right and retreated from the line. Rocket cut over to the right to snare the puck off the boards and headed up-ice, Goldsy with him on the left.
A two-on-one on the penalty kill. Rocket tried to keep his emotions in check. They needed to make this count.
“Rockwood, change!” Barker screamed.
Rocket hesitated.
“Change!”
Rocket passed to Goldsy and headed to the bench. He heard a groan and turned in time to see the Ravens with the puck storming into the Racers’ zone. C.C. flew over the boards. Goldsy came back over next, and Rory took his spot.
“Where’d you go?” Goldsy said to Rocket angrily. “I passed back to you.”
“Barker called me off,” Rocket said.
Goldsy’s expression changed. “Okay … But next time, tell me,” he said.
Rocket made his way to the middle of the bench and sat next to Rogers. The Ravens had control of the puck to the goalie’s left at the half-boards.
Barker grabbed Rocket by the inside edge of his shoulder pads. “You don’t abandon a guy on a two-on-one. Have you ever played before? You cost us a chance at a short-handed goal, and now look — the puck’s back in our end.”
The Ravens got a shot on net from the point. The goalie kicked it to the corner with a pad save. Rory retrieved the puck, whirled, and lofted the puck over the defence and down the ice. Rocket closed his eyes and leaned his head back. At least they hadn’t scored.
He felt a glove tap his leg.
“He called you off,” Rogers said gruffly.
“Umm, yeah. Maybe I should’ve stayed on …” Rocket managed.
Rogers shrugged. “Maybe he shouldn’t have called you off.”
“He’s a doorknob,” Downey said. “Who calls for a change on a two-on-one? So dumb.”