by David Skuy
“Your number 36 got a major penalty for fighting, a two-minute instigator penalty and a misconduct,” the referee said to McGill. “He’s gone, obviously. I need a guy in the box for the fighting major and the instigator.”
“Don’t really see how we got three penalties and my guy is the one carried off the ice,” McGill said.
The referee pointed at the Racers’ end for the faceoff and skated off without answering.
Barker stomped over to the end of the bench. “Nice work, Rockwood. A 1–0 game, and you get a major, an instigator, a misconduct, and you don’t even take the other guy with you. Are you an idiot?”
“Focus on the game,” McGill said to Barker.
Barker grinned at McGill. “You should focus on winning the game.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that,” McGill said.
“Nope, but Floyd might have something to say about it,” Barker snickered.
“Meaning?” McGill said.
Barker shrugged and moved over to the middle of the bench.
McGill took a deep breath. “Beauclair, get out there for the kill.”
Barker seemed strangely smug and satisfied, like he knew a big secret.
Rocket shook his head. He went to the gate and left the ice.
“Awesome fight,” Crawford cheered from the railing.
“Heavyweight champion of the world — The Rocket,” Chaz said.
Griff waved his scarf over his head.
Rocket nodded weakly and walked past them.
Short-handed for five minutes! No wonder Barker was mad. He opened the dressing-room door. Rory sat at his stall, leaning against the wall, rubbing his face with a towel.
Was that it?
Was the knee blown out?
He hoped not. He knew Rory didn’t have a plan B, either.
CHAPTER 20
Rocket filled another ice bag and gave it to Nadav. Holding the ice bags in place, Nadav wrapped a Tensor bandage around them and Rory’s knee. Throughout it all, Rory remained perfectly still.
“No point jumping to conclusions,” Nadav said. He taped the end of the Tensor in place. “It could be nothing, a tweak.”
Rory gripped a towel in his hands. “Didn’t feel like a tweak, more like a pop. Two years of rehab, and I last three games because some jerk blindsides me.” He pulled the ends of the towel apart, then lowered his hands. “Stupid of me. I didn’t see him. I wasn’t ready.”
“Not your fault. It was a cheap shot,” Rocket said. “I had the puck.”
A muffled roar sounded from the crowd.
“You should get out there,” Rory said to Rocket.
“I sort of got kicked out — an instigator, a major for fighting and a misconduct,” Rocket said.
“There goes the Lady Byng,” Rory said.
Rocket laughed to be polite. Rory was putting up a brave front.
The door opened, and a tall man wearing a light grey, slightly baggy suit came in. His face was round, and he had bright red cheeks.
“Hi, sorry to interrupt. I’m Harry Dickerson, GM of the Rams. I just wanted to convey some words from Ron — the guy you got tangled up with.”
Rocket opened his mouth to have his say, but Dickerson lowered his head and held a hand up. “I know what you’re thinking. But Ron’s not that type of guy. He isn’t. He wanted me to let you know he feels really bad about you getting hurt. He honestly thought you had the puck, thought your centre had passed it. Not that it helps, but he wanted you to know that.”
“Yeah, well, what I saw—”
Rory cut Rocket off. “I appreciate it. Tell Ron not to worry. It was a hockey play. I should’ve had my head up. It happens.”
“He really feels awful,” Dickerson said. “That will mean a lot to him. We’re all pulling for you. You’ve always been a class act. Hope you get back soon.”
“Thanks. I guess it’s back to rehab, and we’ll see how it goes,” Rory said.
The crowd roared again.
“I wonder what that’s all about,” Rory said.
“Hold on,” Dickerson popped his head out the door, called to someone and then came back in. “Sorry boys, but it’s 1–1. We got a goal on the power play.”
Rocket’s shoulders drooped, and he let his chin drop to his chest.
Dickerson said goodbye and left.
“That was classy of Ron,” Rory said. “I don’t think he tried to hurt me.”
Rocket didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure that was true.
“You could tell he felt bad,” Nadav said. “Ron didn’t fight back against Bryan, and I’ve seen him play. He’s no chicken. Helder didn’t do anything, either.”
“Who’s Helder?” Rocket said.
“The guy who wrapped you up,” Nadav said. “He’s been in the league for twelve years, a real warrior — and a good guy. I’ve met him. You definitely don’t want to drop the gloves with him, though. I’ve seen him destroy some of the toughest dudes around.”
Rocket took a sip of water. It sounded like either of those two guys could have inflicted some pain on him. He got lucky. They didn’t fight him because they respected Rory — not because they were afraid of some rookie named Rockwood. He took off his sweater and tossed his elbow and shoulder pads in his bag.
Rory leaned back again, his hands clutching the edge of the bench. “This is so not good. I blow this knee up again, I’m done. It won’t hold up. I’ve always known this could happen, but I didn’t really believe it would. I guess I needed to pretend everything would be okay.”
The crowd reacted to something.
“I’ll go check that out,” Nadav said.
Rocket began to take off the rest of his equipment.
“They scored again,” Nadav called out. “It’s 2–1 for the Rams with 5:32 to go.”
Rory said nothing. He seemed deep in thought.
Rocket grabbed a towel. “I guess I’ll go shower,” he said.
He let the water flow over him for a while. He hoped they’d at least come back and tie it up. Otherwise, his five minutes in the box would have cost them the win. Rocket finished his shower and towelled off. That Helder guy had been playing in the AHL for twelve years. Did Rocket want that? Travelling on buses, long road trips, crazy coaches and just okay money? Maybe it would be fun? Didn’t seem like the guys on the Racers had much fun, though. This was a job.
The NHL dream was so big, but it still seemed so far away. He was undersized, a late-round pick and a centre with a rep for being soft on defence. He’d always been able to overcome the odds. Cut from the Oakmont Huskies in minor bantam, he’d found a new team and a great coach, Coach Sonia. Then there was the junior draft — he’d been chosen in the last round and only really made the team when the GM was fired and the coach brought Rocket back.
But how much longer could he expect to beat the odds?
He heard voices coming from the dressing room. The boys were talking quietly. He went back in. Their faces told the story as clearly as any scoreboard.
A loss.
Goldsy threw his helmet onto the floor. It hit the wall and rolled back to the middle of the room. The last few players came in and sat down at their stalls, ripping their helmets off and throwing their gloves in their bags. C.C. came in last. He wore a dark blue suit with a red tie. His shoes were brightly polished.
“Tough loss, boys,” C.C. said. “Battled pretty good for the most part, then kind of lost our cool at the end. We gotta win those one-goal games. Gotta.”
Rocket took a deep breath. This defeat was his responsibility.
“This one’s on me,” Rocket said. “I thought it was a cheap shot on Rory, and I lost it. Mouthed off to the ref, and … I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.”
His apology hung in the air.
“Discipline in the third period is key, and we’ll want those two points in March …” C.C. said slowly. “But, you’re a rookie, and that was a bad hit.” He looked at Rory. “How’s it feel?”
Rory tapped the ice pa
cks with his right hand. “Don’t think it’s a good-news story. Won’t really know until tomorrow. Guess the doctors will tell me.”
“That’s a warrior right there, boys,” C.C. said, nodding at Rory. “Let’s give it up for R.C. Cola.”
C.C. began clapping and everyone joined in.
“So, some more bad news,” C.C. said. “Coach Mack is gone. Ray-Ray fired him after the game. I wasn’t consulted so … There it is. Mack’s a good guy, and he wants to come in to speak to us. Hang on.” He opened the door.
McGill came in, ashen-faced. He looked smaller to Rocket, like he’d lost twenty pounds since the game ended.
“I just wanted to thank you for your hard work,” McGill said. “It’s been an honour to coach you. I’m disappointed we couldn’t keep going, but management’s decided to go in another direction. Anyway, lots of luck.”
Then he went around the room and shook each player’s hand. Rocket felt awkward. He barely knew the coach, and McGill hadn’t paid him much notice.
“Thanks for giving me a chance to play,” Rocket said. He didn’t know what else to say in a situation like this.
“I admire what you did today,” McGill said. “Good teammate. Can’t let them think we’ll put up with that. Tough to take the penalties, but you showed some jam. You’re a real player.” He gave Rocket’s hand a hard squeeze and moved on.
That was nice to hear. At least his coach — or ex-coach — didn’t blame him for the loss.
McGill and C.C. embraced by the door.
“This isn’t right,” C.C. told him.
“It’s the business,” McGill said.
“You’ll find a spot,” C.C. said. “You need me to talk to anyone, just give me a call. I’m totally on your side.”
“Me, too,” Goldsy said.
The rest of the guys murmured their support.
McGill seemed genuinely moved. He offered a brief smile and nodded to them. “You’ll do well. There’s a lot of character in this room. Take care, boys.”
He left, and the next moment the door flung open and Floyd, Blywood and Barker came in.
“A joke! A total joke!” Floyd said. His eyes flashed angrily as he marched into the centre of the room.
Barker leaned against a wall, hands in his pockets, a half smile playing across his lips, almost as if he were stopping himself from laughing outright.
“Stupid penalties, lousy penalty killing, no character — this isn’t going to happen to me,” Floyd said. “You all sucked tonight — totally sucked.”
C.C. crossed his arms and stared at the floor.
“I get we have some injuries,” Floyd continued. “Get over it, man up and play hockey like pros.”
Blywood shuffled over a few steps and sat down on the edge of a stool.
“I had to let your coach go tonight,” Floyd went on. “He’s a good man, but the reality is you fired him. You gave me no choice, not after that loss. We don’t take major penalties in the third period and then give up two late goals. Never. And just because I fired the coach, don’t think your jobs are safe. Uh-uh. I’ll do whatever it takes to win.”
Floyd held an arm out to Barker. “Bottom line is McGill was too soft on you guys, way too soft. As of this moment, Coach Barker is in charge. The next change I make will be in this room, and it won’t be a coach. Get me?”
Floyd thrust his chin out and eyed the players. “I’ll let Coach Barker have the floor now. I’m too sick to my stomach to stay any longer.”
Blywood jumped to his feet and opened the door. Floyd went out.
“About time, Ray-Ray,” Rocket heard Stella cry from the hallway. “I’m hungry.”
Barker pushed off from the wall with his shoulder blades. He sauntered to the middle of the room, hands still tucked in his pockets. He took a deep breath and let the air seep out.
“We are about to go on a road trip. This trip has to be about doing the little things, playing team defence, blocking shots, taking away shooting lanes. Don’t get me wrong; I respect Coach Mack. I do. But things were slipping. We can’t win playing like this.”
He puffed out his chest and grinned.
Rocket barely listened. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t. Then it got worse.
Barker walked right at him. “You do that again, Rockwood, and you’ll sit on the bench so long you’ll get splinters in your butt. That was selfish. I’m okay with standing up for a teammate, but mouthing off to the ref — a misconduct? That’s bush-league hockey. You got me?”
Rocket nodded.
He understood all too well. Barker wanted to send him as far away from the NHL as he could.
CHAPTER 21
The bus jerked forward. Rocket bumped into the man in front of him.
“Sorry,” Rocket said.
The man glared back.
Rocket turned away. He didn’t need any more trouble. Practice this morning had been a nightmare. Barker was on him constantly, criticizing every move, every shot, every pass. As Rocket had left the ice, Barker had called him “a total, useless waste of space.”
Now Rocket had the worst headache. He hoped Ritchie had some Aspirin, or he’d have to run to the drugstore. All he wanted to do was sleep.
Rocket glanced at his phone. Rory had a doctor’s appointment in thirty minutes, then an X-ray this afternoon. He’d texted Rocket and said that the knee didn’t feel too bad this morning.
C.C. was still out for the upcoming road trip. If Rory was seriously injured, the Racers would be down two key players.
Rocket left the bus and hurried along the sidewalk. He’d promised to play ball hockey with Rafa and Leona in the laneway behind the building. It was the last thing he felt like doing. Still, he could probably suck it up for half an hour. He remembered how often he’d been disappointed by his dad — always an excuse why they couldn’t get together. Even though Rafa and Leona weren’t Rocket’s kids, he still didn’t want to let them down.
He pushed the door open and stepped into the lobby.
“You are getting out right now!” Ritchie yelled. He pushed Carl in the chest.
“I have business,” Carl said menacingly.
“You go. I do not want your business in my building,” Ritchie said. He stepped closer.
“You’re costing me money,” Carl said. “You’re going to get hurt.” He pushed Ritchie away.
“You are not scaring me,” Ritchie said. He pushed Carl back.
Rocket grabbed Carl from behind and whirled him toward the door. He’d taken enough abuse from Barker. He wasn’t putting up with any garbage from a jerk like Carl.
“Out the door, now, or I’ll call some of my teammates, and we’ll explain some things to you — very clearly,” Rocket said. He showed Carl the Racers crest on his sweatshirt.
A bluff, but Carl wouldn’t know that.
Carl looked at Rocket’s sweatshirt. “You’re a Racer? And you live in this dump?”
“Where do you want me to live?” Rocket shot back.
Carl straightened up and smoothed his jacket out. “I got a right to do business with whoever I want. This is a free country. You can’t stop me.”
“I see you in this building again and you’ll be seriously unhappy,” Rocket said calmly.
His head was still pounding, but he forced himself to look relaxed, as if he would like nothing better than to fight.
Carl’s face turned pale. “Yeah … Whatever. I got lots of clients. I don’t need this.” He reached for the door.
“Typical,” Rocket muttered. He shrugged and turned to Ritchie. “The trash is gone,” he said loudly.
Ritchie reached his arm out. “Look out!” he yelled.
Something — or someone — hit Rocket from behind.
He couldn’t say what happened next. He tried opening his eyes, but he couldn’t focus. Everything was fuzzy. His cheek felt cold. In the background, he heard some muffled talking, like someone was speaking to him underwater. His head spun and felt heavy. Something was resting on the small
of his back.
“Bryan?”
His eyes slowly began to focus. The floor? He was lying on the floor?
“Bryan, do you hear me? Bryan?”
Rocket knew that voice. Who was it?
“Are you able to sit up?” That was Ritchie.
Of course, he could sit up. He tried to tell Ritchie that, but for some reason, the words didn’t come out. He pushed up with his hands. His stomach lurched, like he was on a roller coaster, and for a moment, he thought he might throw up. The floor began to spin.
Ritchie helped him to sit.
“That awful Carl hit you from behind. He runs away, too, the cobarde.”
Rocket took a deep breath. He remembered telling Carl off and turning to talk to Ritchie. He must have been sucker-punched.
“Should we take him to a doctor?” Mariana said.
“I am a doctor,” Ritchie said flatly.
“I know that, Ricardo,” Mariana said. “I only meant …”
“I am sorry. I am being a rude person. It is not you I am angry at. I forget that here I am cleaner of buildings, nothing more.”
“You will always be a doctor,” Mariana said.
“You’re a doctor?” Rocket blurted.
Ritchie peered into Rocket’s eyes and put a hand on the back of his neck. “I am a doctor in El Salvador. Here, I am not allowed to be one.” He touched Rocket’s back. “You have most definitely received a concussion — most definitely. That was a very bad hit to your head, and you probably received another hit from the floor. You should probably get a scan to make sure you didn’t crack your skull.”
Rocket struggled to understand. It was like his brain had stopped working. “Carl hit me?”
“He did,” Ritchie said. “Then the coward runs away.”
Their apartment door opened.
“Rocket Man!” Rafa cried. “Can we play ball hockey now?” He wore a Racers hockey jersey.
“I’m playing, too,” Leona said. She paused. “Are you all right?” she asked, kneeling beside Rocket and rubbing his arm.
“What happened?” Rafa said.
“That bad man, Carl, punched Bryan from behind,” Ritchie said.
“¡Qué cobarde!” Rafa exclaimed.
“Do you think you can stand?” Ritchie asked Rocket.