Ice Time

by David Skuy

  The phone went quiet again.

  “What are you suggesting, Meredith?” Floyd said, finally.

  “I’m suggesting the commissioner might find this oddness very interesting. The commissioner might actually think you traded an injured player and didn’t tell us. And let’s not get into Strauss’s hamstring issue.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Floyd said.

  “Should I call the commissioner right now and ask him what he thinks?” Kasich folded her arms, leaned back in her chair and put her feet back up on the desk.

  Even though it seemed like his hockey career was over, Rocket was enjoying listening to this. It was good to have Floyd in the hot seat for once.

  Floyd cleared his throat. “Okay. So, I’m assuming you want to reverse the trade. How about I sweeten the deal instead?”

  “Keep talking,” Rodriguez said.

  “I’ll send you another guy—” Floyd began.

  “You aren’t getting Colbert or C.C. or Goldsy. No chance,” Barker said.

  Rodriguez put her hand on Kasich’s shoulder.

  “How about you toss Brett Downey into the trade?” Rodriguez said. “He played with that Rogers kid, didn’t he? I think you said they were wingers on the same line. That would make sense. We could keep them together.”

  Rodriguez looked over at Jackson. She flashed a thumbs-up.

  “That’s four guys for Bannister,” Barker said. “C’mon.”

  “Should I conference in the commissioner?” Kasich said.

  Someone groaned on the line. Rocket thought it sounded like Barker.

  “Fine,” Floyd said. “Whatever. We’ll see who’s laughing when we win the championship this year.”

  “I’ll email you the trade sheet,” Rodriguez said.

  “Sounds good,” Blywood said.

  “Hey, Meredith — it’s Coach Barker again. Let me give you some free advice. Get rid of that punk Rockwood. He’s an undersized, arrogant goal suck, who has about as much chance of making the NHL as the chair you’re sitting in. The guy is a cancer in the dressing room, and he’s allergic to his own end. Dump him.”

  “Thanks for your honesty, Coach Barker,” Rodriguez said. “We’ll think about it.”

  “You should,” Barker said.

  “Boys, I believe our business is concluded,” Kasich said. “Raymond, I almost forgot to ask, how is my dear Stella? I assume she’s as beautiful as ever. Still singing?”

  “She doesn’t have a lot of time for that these days,” Floyd said. “She’s fine.”

  “Good to hear,” Kasich said, her smile almost too big for her face. “Take care, boys.”

  She hung up and burst out laughing. “Stella sings like a frog with laryngitis, and those boys are as dumb as hammers.” She slapped the table and shook Rodriguez’s hand. “It’s the art of the deal, Bryan. Never show your cards at the table, and move in for the kill when you sense weakness. Floyd is a pale imitation of his father. He has no guts. I knew he’d fold like a cheap suit and throw in another guy to make this go away.”

  “You’re amazing,” Rodriguez said. “We got four young players for Steve Bannister. Steve’s a good player, but he’ll never make the NHL.”

  Kasich pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “I like you, Mr. Rockwood,” she said to him, “and I’ve learned to put my trust in people with character. It took courage to come in here and tell the truth. Floyd’s a bully in the true sense of the word, and I have no doubt he threatened all sorts of terrible things if you told us the truth. You take your time and get better, and then show us what kind of player you are. Besides, if Barker hates you, I bet you’re amazing. He sounds like a bigger dummy than Floyd.”

  She began to laugh again, and Jackson and Rodriguez joined her.

  This was his second chance. He’d stick to the promise he made himself. Tonight he’d sign up for courses. Then he had to get healthy and make the first line — and he had two seasons to do that.

  Feeling more optimistic than he had since being sent to the Racers, Rocket joined in the laughter.

  CHAPTER 31

  The first thing he noticed was the sharp sting of the cold air in his lungs. Next were the sounds: the scrape and click of his blades cutting into the ice, the echoes of his teammates calling to each other. He heard pucks booming off the boards or thudding dully as they bounced off a goalie’s pads. Finally, he felt the wind in his face as he whirled behind the net and up the boards toward centre.

  He’d sat out another two months. It felt more like a lifetime. He’d watched hour upon hour of video, taking notes and reviewing them. And he’d worked out endlessly, both in the gym and on the ice. He’d done hundreds of skating and shooting drills on his own — always on his own.

  And then, as suddenly as the concussion symptoms had started, they’d disappeared. One morning he woke up and felt completely himself again. The doctors advised him to wait two more weeks to be sure, and that was the hardest time of all. But now he’d finally been cleared. This was his first practice.

  He snagged a puck in the corner, cruised behind the net and began stickhandling rapidly. He’d done this a million times in his life, but it had never felt so sweet. There was a moment when he’d thought — when he’d believed — that hockey was over for him. This felt like a new beginning — a gift.

  Concussions would always be a worry, so he’d been given a special helmet with added protection. But the doctors said he’d made a full recovery. They’d also said that he may not have had a concussion after all. It might have been a soft-tissue neck injury, probably from the cross-check and made worse by Carl. That type of injury often had the same symptoms as a concussion.

  Rocket could only hope that was true. He wouldn’t take hockey for granted, in any event.

  Tweet! Jackson gave her whistle a blast. “Give me the first power-play unit at centre. I want to work on the man advantage for the first half of the practice.” She looked around and finally settled on Rocket. Pointing her stick at him, she said, “Bryan, why don’t you and Turner be the forwards for the kill. Don’t let them gain the zone too easily. We want them to have to dump the puck in. In our zone, maximum pressure on the puck at all times. Don’t give the power play time to set up. Okay?”

  “Sure, Coach,” Rocket said. He would have agreed to anything she said, as long as he was on the ice.

  He had watched every practice and game. He’d become a big fan of Rogers, and they’d become good friends, too. Rogers’s confidence had been destroyed by the Racers, and for the first month here, he’d been tentative. But recently he’d begun to use all his skills, especially his speed. The result was four goals in the past six games. Downey had been playing better, also — and so had Straussy, once his hamstring healed.

  “Let’s see if I can do it,” Jackson said. The goalie at the far end moved aside. She stickhandled the puck a few times and then fired it down the ice. The puck flew up in the air.

  The guys let out a huge roar. She’d hit the crossbar.

  “A good omen, boys,” Jackson said, laughing.

  The puck had bounced over the net and into a corner. The five players on the power play raced back to set up.

  “I’ll pressure,” Rocket told Rogers.

  He needed to skate. Too much pent-up energy.

  Rocket slowed at the blue line. Rory and he had gone over this a million times. There were basically three strategies when pressuring the puck on a penalty kill. When the puck was deep in the attacking team’s end, you could settle in front of their net and force it up one side; you could chase and make them pass the puck quickly, hopefully forcing a bad pass; or you could hover in the high slot, like a neutral-zone trap, and wait for them to bring it out.

  He opted for number two. They wouldn’t be warmed up yet — and he was too hyper to wait.

  Rocket put it in high gear and charged into the left corner. The defenceman saw him coming and fired the puck behind the net to his partner. He did it a bit too early, which allowe
d Rocket to veer to the right before he went too deep. The puck jumped over the defenceman’s stick, and he had to reach back for it. Rocket lowered his right shoulder and drove him into the boards — not too hard, he was a teammate — but hard enough to prevent the pass. The defenceman kept the puck in his skates, and he kicked it back along the wall. His defence partner grabbed it and set up in behind the net.

  This time, Rocket settled in the slot, a metre or so to the left. He’d force the puck up the right side toward Rogers. The centre curled behind the net and set off up the right side. The defenceman took the bait and passed it to him. Rocket anticipated and left a bit early. He extended his stick with his right hand to take away the easy pass inside.

  The centre backhanded it off the wall to the trailing defenceman. Rocket had already put on the brakes. He poked at the puck, and the defenceman had to retreat. Rocket drifted to the high slot. The defenceman sent it cross-ice to his defence partner, who redirected it to his right winger, hovering around centre.

  The penalty-killing defenceman pinched, and all the winger could do was knife it off the wall and down the ice. Rocket thought it might be icing, but Jackson didn’t call it. It was only practice, after all. He backchecked hard and had reached his blue line by the time his defenceman had collected the puck.

  For a second, Rocket contemplated a quick break up-ice for a long stretch pass.

  That was definitely old-Rocket thinking.

  He was killing a penalty. A twenty-metre pass up the middle of the ice, when they had an easy chance to ice the puck, was plain dumb.

  Rogers had taken the top zone to the right. Rocket decided to support his defenceman by setting up in the high slot instead. It proved a good decision: the defenceman slipped him the puck to avoid a forechecker. Rocket slid it to Rogers, who calmly slapped it down the ice.

  Tweet!

  “Okay, this isn’t going all that well,” Jackson said. “Forwards, you’re not moving your feet, and that leaves the defencemen stranded with the puck. One guy is basically shutting you down. You have to be moving all the time, curling to present yourself for a pass, and then you attack as a unit once you gain the neutral zone.” Jackson leaned on her stick. “Let’s switch the power play up. Give me Rogers on right wing and Downey on left. And Bryan, you take centre.” Jackson pointed at two other players. “You take over the penalty kill up front.”

  She took the puck on her stick. “I won’t try it again. I’m not feeling it.” She shot the puck the length of the ice, into the left corner. It caromed behind the net, and the goalie trapped it for his defenceman.

  Rocket had spent so much time thinking about defence, it was weird to switch gears and focus on scoring. He felt good, though. He’d shown off a bit of his new defensive skills. Hopefully Jackson had noticed.

  The defenceman held the puck. Rocket curled behind the net, and the defenceman shovelled the puck forward. Rocket had to take it up the ice himself.

  He continued up the right side. Rogers was at the far blue line. Downey was cutting across the ice, from left to right. The forechecker was a bit slow coming across. Rocket didn’t hesitate. He pushed hard and evaded the forechecker’s outstretched stick. Then he cut left to put space between himself and Downey. Rogers headed across the blue line to the left side.

  Rocket crossed the red line. He glanced back ever so slightly and noticed his left defenceman close behind. Rocket dropped the puck and kept going. Just as he hit the blue line, the puck was dumped into the left corner — perfect timing. Rocket got there first. He snapped a pass behind the net to Downey, who trapped it at the half-boards on the right.

  The opposing defenceman followed through with a hit — a real hit — on Rocket, but Rocket was ready and it didn’t hurt. Most important, his head and his neck didn’t hurt. It felt good, actually, like he was finally playing again.

  Downey gave it to his right defenceman and went down low to the right of the net. Rogers set up in front. Rocket took Downey’s spot by the boards. The puck slid across the blue line and ended up on Rocket’s stick. He gave it to the point, who passed it right back.

  “Make something happen, Power Play,” Jackson yelled. “Move around.”

  Rocket brought the puck close to his left foot with the tip of his blade, ducked his left shoulder and then exploded to his right, flicking the puck over the stick of the penalty killer. He felt a slash on the back of his leg as he cut into the high slot. It hurt, but he didn’t care. They had an overload, basically four against three.

  Rogers established himself in front of the goalie. The goalie crouched low and peered around him from the left. Rocket had a lot of choices: a short pass to the defenceman on the right side, a pass down low to Downey on the same side, or a shot himself.

  He angled his body sideways, puck on his forehand, faked a shot, faked a pass to the defenceman and then saucered a pass to Downey. The goalie dropped to his butterfly and slid toward Downey. Downey surprised Rocket by saucering the puck right back. It was a perfectly placed pass about two metres from the goal line.

  Rocket had played too much hockey to even have to think about what to do next. With Rogers still screening the goalie, Rocket snapped a wicked wrister to the top corner. The goalie flung out his blocker. Too late.

  The players on the bench banged the boards with their sticks, and Jackson blew her whistle.

  “That was nice. Good puck movement,” Jackson said. “All five guys touched the puck — quick passes and active feet. Turner, good net presence. Love it. We need guys paying the price. Bryan, nice shot.”

  Tweet!

  “Give me the puck,” she said to the goalie.

  He dug the puck out of his net.

  “I feel lucky,” she said. “I’m going to have a run at it!” The goalie at the far end slapped his stick on the ice and moved aside. Jackson pulled the puck back and let it fly. The puck flew high in the air — and landed about three metres in front of the net. The goalie slid over and saved it with his pads.

  Jackson slapped the ice with her stick. “That sucked. I wasn’t focused.” She looked up. “Power-play unit, I just iced the puck. You guys want to set up?”

  Rocket laughed. Then he slapped his wingers’ pads and took off.

  He was ready for the next play.

  CHAPTER 32

  “Go, Giants, go! Go, Giants, go!”

  The crowd had been cheering and clapping to the beat of the organ since the warm-up. Rocket was a bit surprised, considering the team’s record.

  “They’re a bit crazed tonight,” Rocket said to Rogers, as they cruised across the red line.

  “It’s free pizza slice night,” Rogers said.

  “Let’s pretend they love us,” Rocket said, laughing.

  “Bring it, boys!” Downey yelled. He slapped his stick on the ice and set off on a mad dash around the rink.

  Rocket and Rogers let out a cheer. Rocket had already done a few laps, but he was still so energized, he felt ready to blast off into outer space.

  The siren sounded, and Rocket coasted to the bench. The crowd rose to its feet, and the national anthem started. Rocket couldn’t stop hopping from foot to foot, like his feet were on fire. It felt like forever since he’d played.

  “How long have you been dancing professionally?” Rogers asked him.

  “I’m too nervous. It’s been so long, it feels like I’ve never played before,” Rocket said.

  “Well, that’s the blue line,” Downey said. “I’ll explain the red line later. I don’t want to confuse you.”

  “This is our chance,” Rocket said. “Coach Jackson thinks we’re three kids. We’ve got to show her we’re only here for a quick visit. We’re heading to the big club.”

  “I like your thinking,” Downey said. He whacked Rocket’s shin pads with his stick.

  The play was fairly wide open at first. Jackson was on them to calm down and take better care with the puck. Their goalie had to bail them out a few times. Rocket was happy with his first three shifts. H
e’d had a shot on goal, and for the most part, the play had been in the offensive zone. He took a sip of water. The ref whistled the play dead in the Giants’ end.

  “Rockwood’s line out,” Jackson ordered.

  Rocket hopped over the boards. Faceoff was to the goalie’s right. The opposing centre, number 12, was already there. Rocket had read up on him. He’d been in the league a long time.

  “So they’re sending in the young guns,” number 12 said. “Isn’t this a little late for you? It must be bedtime.”

  “Maybe it’s time for you to retire already, old man. You’re never going to make the NHL now,” Rocket quipped.

  The centre grunted. “Everyone’s got a big mouth. You’ve been in the league how long? Like an hour? No respect for the game.”

  Rocket knew he’d gone too far. He hadn’t shown the guy the respect he deserved. “Not true,” he said quickly, tapping the centre’s shin pads. “Much respect here. Have a good one.”

  He hunched over the dot.

  “Hard one, Rocket,” Rogers said.

  Rocket nodded ever so slightly. That was their signal for a faceoff play.

  The puck dropped. Rocket chipped it to the right. Rogers cut inside the circle and took it in full stride. Rocket slipped past the centre, brushing against his left shoulder, and took a short backhand pass. The opposing defencemen backed up furiously to keep the play in front of them.

  Rocket took the puck across the blue line and fed Downey cross-ice, and then Downey one-timed it to Rogers on the right side.

  They were on a three-on-two.

  Barker had always been on Rocket about taking unnecessary chances to try to score. Rocket’s time away from the game, which he’d spent learning everything he could about defence, had taught him the truth — a great player also knows when to take a risk. He’d learned that at this level, when it was time to go for it, you gave it everything you had.

  Rogers cut inside. Rocket crossed behind him. He didn’t even look. He knew Rogers would deliver. A metre from the blue line, the puck was on his stick. He pushed to the outside. The left defenceman held his stick out to angle Rocket into the boards. Rocket accelerated, then leapt into the air as the defenceman threw a hip check. He caught a piece of Rocket’s leg. Rocket bounced into the boards, but the impact didn’t knock him down. He landed on both skates, stumbled slightly and regained his balance. The puck was in his feet. He kicked it to his stick.