Last Shot

by David Skuy

  “Ten minutes is over,” Rocket said.

  “Then quit.”

  Rocket desperately wanted to. But even more desperately, he wanted to win.

  They came out of the corner in a dead heat.

  “Make way,” Cash shouted. “Grudge match.”

  “Go for it, boys,” Hoffer said.

  “Little Guy can run. Go figure,” Gruny said.

  Little Guy, Short Stuff Shrimp, Midget, Tiny Tim, Timbit, Peewee — the insults about his size were never-ending, and he’d been hearing them all his life. As his rage grew, his pain melted away. He was going to win.

  Gold stepped onto the track and held his hand up.

  “I’m the finish line. Go for it,” he yelled.

  Guys had crossed the infield to watch.

  “Come on!”

  “Push it!”

  “All the way!”

  Cash was breathing hard now, too.

  Ten metres.

  Rocket summoned every last ounce of strength. Pumping his hands, driving his leaden knees, he threw his chest out. Cash leaned his head forward. Gold threw his hand down.

  “Cash wins it!” Gold cried.

  Rocket veered off the track and went down to one knee. He was seeing stars.

  “Awesome performance, bro,” Kyle said. He draped his arm around Rocket’s back.

  “The Cash-Man cometh first — again,” Cash said. He put his hands over his head.

  “That’s what I call leadership, Cash,” Gold said. “That’s the kind of compete level we want.”

  Gold held his fist out and Cash gave it a bump.

  “Gather around me,” Gold said.

  Rocket’s head pounded in rhythm with the beating of his chest. A centimetre — that was all he’d needed. If he hadn’t gone out so slowly, if he’d pushed it in the middle of the race … It didn’t matter. He’d lost.

  “Did Cash actually win?” Nathan asked quietly.

  Rocket took a deep breath. “I choked. I should’ve started out faster.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” Nathan said.

  Rocket thought about it. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said.

  “You did come second out of more than fifty guys,” Kyle said.

  “You and Nathan came third and fourth,” Rocket said.

  “Technically, I came third.” Nathan grinned.

  “Not bad,” Chen said to the team. “A special shout-out to Cash for winning and …” She looked over to Washington.

  “Bryan Rockwood,” Washington said.

  “… and to Bryan for that death-sprint to the end — loved it. Now, listen up. Mr. Gold is going to explain what’s happening next.”

  “Thanks, Chenny,” Gold said. He poked at his iPad. “We’ll take forty-five minutes to get back to the rink and shower up. Then go to room 107 for some video work with me and Coach Alvo. Lunch follows, and then it’s a scrimmage. Lineups will be posted on the bulletin board in the lunchroom. Okay? Let’s hustle back.”

  “Why don’t we run back?” Chen said.

  “’Cause we don’t want to,” Hoffer said.

  She laughed. “A nice and easy jog to warm down. It’s important to give the muscles a chance to relax, and the best way is exercise. Sounds crazy, but it works. That’s why the pros ride stationary bikes after games.”

  She set off for the gate at the far end of the field. Rocket fell in mechanically behind the pack. Kyle and Nathan ran beside him.

  Not a word was spoken. Rocket knew they were all thinking about the same thing. Would Gold care who came second, third and fourth? Would he tell Alvo? Or would he only remember who won?

  CHAPTER 11

  Kyle nodded at the large platters on the table. “We’re in the big leagues now, Nathan,” he said. “Looks like tuna, turkey and … some sort of mystery sandwich. This is the good life.”

  “Then why can’t the guys at the front grab one and move on?” Nathan grumbled.

  Rocket looked on wistfully. “Remind me to run to the lunchroom tomorrow. Back of the line is a bad place to be at a hockey training camp.”

  “Front row for the video session put us behind the eight ball,” Kyle said.

  “Sorry,” Rocket said.

  He’d made them sit up close.

  “No worries, bro,” Kyle said. “Alvo’s not the friendliest cat in the world, but he knows his hockey. Was that ten thousand things to remember when you break out of your zone?”

  “He won’t be the easiest coach to play for, but I respect anyone who can teach me about the game,” Rocket said. “At this level, we have to think two or three passes ahead — in the pros, four or five.”

  “Hear that, Nate? We’re going to be pros,” Kyle said.

  “Right now I’d settle for a mystery sandwich,” Nathan said.

  Rocket laughed. Nathan seemed glum and ultra-serious, but he came out with some wicked one-liners. Rocket peered around to the front of the line. Cash, Hoffer and Gruny were still checking out the choices.

  “The whole point is to be an unrestricted free agent,” Cash was saying. “I’m going to break in at eighteen, and when I’m twenty-five, I’m cashing in — pun intended. I go to the highest bidder.”

  “I don’t know,” Hoffer said. “You got to play for seven years to be a UFA, and by that time you’re already earning millions. I’d rather win a Stanley Cup than play for a loser.”

  Cash picked up a sandwich and then put it down.

  “I’m going to kill him,” Nathan whispered.

  “That tuna sandwich could be worth something one day,” Kyle whispered back. “Actually touched by the one-and-only Aaron Cashman.”

  “The key is to get the first three years over with,” Gruny said. “Then you test the waters as a restricted free agent.”

  “Restricted free agents almost never change teams,” Hoffer said. “The team that signs them has to give up draft picks.”

  “Gruny’s right,” Cash said. “It’s the threat that’s important. You can take them to arbitration, too. The player always gets more — and then you kill it as a UFA.”

  “Your team might trade you,” Hoffer said.

  “A trade is okay. Shows you’re wanted,” Gruny argued.

  “I’d trade you for a bucket of pucks and a tuque,” Cash said to Hoffer.

  “I’d trade all three of them for half a buttered bagel,” Nathan said.

  Rocket and Kyle chuckled.

  “That’s funny, is it?” Cash said, pointing a sandwich at them. “Like you guys are planning on becoming UFAs? Maybe in house league.”

  “Don’t be so harsh,” Hoffer said. “Maybe the East Coast League.”

  “Or the KHL in Russia,” Gruny said. “They can earn ten rubles and a cold shower a month.”

  Kyle looked away. Nathan crossed his arms and did the same. Gold, Alvo and Washington walked into the lunchroom carrying trays with food and sat at a table. Gold waved at Cash, who, along with Hoffer and Gruny, went to sit with him. The line moved quickly after that.

  “There’s a free table over there,” Rocket said to Kyle and Nathan.

  “You guys stoked for the scrimmage?” he asked as they sat down.

  “I want to be,” Kyle said. “Not sure we’re going to get a chance to play.”

  “Story of our lives,” Nathan said. “Three seasons ago, I swear we had six coaches, and their sons were on for every power play. No wonder we didn’t get drafted. We hardly got on the ice.”

  Rocket had been impressed with them yesterday during the drills. “You’ve obviously played a lot.”

  “Thank Nathan’s dad,” Kyle said. “He built a backyard rink — we’ve basically lived on it since we were five.”

  “I have three older brothers, so we had some legendary battles,” Nathan said.

  “We have outdoor rinks in the city. Me and my buds used to play on them after school,” Rocket said. “Something awesome about playing outside — totally old school.”

  “Don’t have to tell me, bro,” Kyle
said. “I was always Gordie Howe.”

  “I was Stan Mikita,” Nathan said.

  “I’d have been Joe Primeau.”

  “Whoa, where’d you come up with him?” Kyle asked.

  “Toronto Maple Leafs, the thirties. He was part of the famous Kid Line, with Charlie Conacher and Harvey ‘Busher’ Jackson. All three are Hall of Famers,” Rocket said.

  Gold signalled for everyone’s attention. “You boys enjoy the video session?” he said.

  Cash and the others nodded, but Rocket wished Alvo had done the entire thing. Gold had talked a lot — and hadn’t always made sense.

  “Video is unbelievably important,” Gold said. “We’ll be breaking every game down with Corsi numbers and zone starts, zone possession and PDO stats — tons of them. That’s what you can expect in the NHL. Every second of every game is analyzed. You have to know exactly what to do in every situation, on every part of the ice.”

  “There’s lots of room for creativity, too,” Alvo said, “which is the—”

  “Creativity is a buzzword,” Gold said, cutting him off. “Sure there’s the occasional razzle-dazzle individual effort — like once every ten games. Modern hockey is a puck possession game. Cycle down low, go hard at the net, lots of shots, rebounds, deflections. That’s how goals are scored. People freak on highlight goals. I bet seventy percent of all goals are from less than three metres out.”

  “Might be a bit lower than that,” Alvo said.

  “It’s closer to twenty percent,” Rocket told Kyle and Nathan, who nodded.

  Rocket looked over at the food table. He was still hungry, but he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to get seconds.

  Gold paid Alvo no attention. “Point is, you got to get in close to score — pay the price in the paint. Only problem with hockey today, if you ask me, is the idiots trying to ban fighting. I led the OHL in fighting, twice — kept things honest for my boys. This league’s making it near impossible to fight, what with instigator penalties and suspensions. Think what happened to me. Some jerk drills me from behind into the boards, and I get a concussion and have to retire. That punk never would’ve done it if I could have dropped the gloves whenever I wanted.”

  “I get speared and elbowed all the time,” Hoffer said. “As soon as I look at the guy he skates away. It sucks.”

  “Sometimes you got to drop the gloves,” Cash said. “Can’t let them get away with garbage, right, Jamie?”

  “The Axmen don’t let anyone get away with anything,” Gold said. “We never back down — and we start the trouble. Most of the teams in the league are full of softies. Everyone wants to be a superstar; they don’t like to get greasy. The Axmen are going to hit teams until it hurts, and then we’ll fill the net with rubber. Right?”

  “Totally,” Cash said.

  “We got to bang some bodies,” Hoffer said.

  Alvo picked away at his food.

  “Don’t be fooled by what you see on TV. Hockey’s about passion. It’s getting in a guy’s face and making him afraid to touch the puck.” Gold pounded the table with his fist. “No one’s going to want to play us. No one. This league’s going to tremble — I promise — tremble. We’re going to be sipping champagne from the Memorial Cup, and we’ll leave a trail of broken bones behind us. Right?”

  “I’m not sure that’s the best way to make the point to these boys,” Alvo said drily.

  Gold stood up. “Hey, guys,” he said loudly. The room quieted. “I’ll be watching the scrimmage today. I want to see a bit more grit and sandpaper. First scrimmage was a little polite. This is hockey. I need to see some puck hunger. Right? I need to see some anger. Right? I need to see some bodies flying around and smashing into people.” He paused. “Right?” he shouted.

  “Yes, sir!” the boys shouted back.

  Gold winked and, with a nod at Alvo, left. Alvo didn’t look up. Washington’s face was stone cold.

  “They should probably get ready,” Alvo said.

  Washington stood up. “Okay, let’s quiet down. The scrimmage starts in an hour. The ice should be open soon, so you can go out when you’re ready. Get in a good warm-up. You heard Mr. Gold. We want you to go full out this time.”

  “The lineups?” Cash asked.

  “I’ll speak to Mr. Gold about that. I guess they aren’t quite ready yet. They’ll be posted in the dressing rooms.”

  Kyle turned to Rocket. “Good luck, Mr. Primeau. I’m looking forward to smashing some heads and breaking some bodies at scrimmage.”

  “Have a good one, boys,” Rocket said.

  Kyle and Nathan left. Rocket finished his milk. He really could’ve done with another sandwich. Too late now: two people had come in to clean up.

  Rocket looked over at the coaches. Washington and Alvo were still at the table. He thought about Kyle and Nathan. They had to play in this scrimmage. If he could just get Washington alone, he could ask him to switch them over to Red and give them a chance. Washington had proven to be a nice guy. Rocket tied the laces of his right shoe, then the left. Alvo kept sipping his coffee. Would he just leave?

  “Is there a problem, Bryan?” Washington called out.

  Rocket was the last player in the room. He stood up. “No, not at all. My shoelaces were loose.”

  “Okay,” Washington said. “Why don’t you go get your skate laces done up instead?”

  “I will, Coach. Sorry. I …” He headed to the door.

  “Does Gold have the lineups done?” Washington asked Alvo.

  Alvo shrugged.

  Rocket stopped at the table. Alvo or not, he had to try.

  “Excuse me, Coach Washington … Coach Alvo. Do you have a second?” Rocket asked.

  “Of course, Bryan. Have a seat,” Washington said.

  Rocket would’ve preferred to remain standing. This wasn’t a big deal. He wanted to help Kyle and Nathan out, not have a long talk. He sat down.

  “You did well in the race,” Washington said. “Showed a lot of heart.”

  “Thanks. I did a lot of running this summer and … I felt pretty good.”

  “How are you enjoying camp so far?”

  “Lots of fun — and a bit stressful, I guess.”

  “That’s training camp,” Washington said. “You’re doing well. Play like you did in the first scrimmage, and I think you’ll continue to make a strong impression.”

  Rocket nodded and leaned forward. “I wanted to ask if you’ve noticed the two guys who were leading in the race most of the time, Nathan and Kyle? They came third and fourth.”

  Washington didn’t respond. Alvo continued to sip his coffee.

  “Anyway, they’re good guys and … I’ve gotten to know them and watched them in the drills and stuff, and I think we’d make a pretty sweet line.”

  “Which line is that?” Alvo said.

  Rocket wanted to crawl under the table. Alvo downright scared him. He gathered his courage.

  “Um, a line with me and Kyle Turner and Nathan Morris. Kyle’s a big body, skates good, has an all-around game. Nathan’s got a totally wicked shot and he can move pretty good, too. They were on Blue yesterday, but they didn’t get a chance to play in the scrimmage. I watched them in the drills, and I think we could play together … We’d make a sweet line …” He left off. He was just repeating himself.

  A half-smiled played across Alvo’s face. “We’ll think about it.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Rocket said in a rush. He desperately wanted to go. Alvo made him unbelievably nervous.

  Alvo nodded at the door. “You should get ready for the scrimmage,” he said.

  Rocket didn’t need to be told twice. He thanked them again and hurried to his dressing room, a hollow ache in his stomach. Alvo didn’t seem the type to like players interfering with the lineups, even in a scrimmage, especially fifteenth-rounders. Also, what would Gold say?

  He pushed the change room door open.

  “Come on in, Little Guy,” Cash said. “Don’t be afraid.”

  The hollow ache bec
ame a pain. Rocket unzipped his bag. He didn’t answer Cash, but inside he was fuming.

  CHAPTER 12

  Rocket sidestepped his way to the middle of the bench. Kyle and Nathan moved over to make room.

  “Beauty pass, bro. Backhand saucer is big time,” Kyle said.

  Nathan held his glove out and Rocket punched it. To his total surprise, Kyle and Nathan had been switched to Red as he’d asked. Unfortunately, it looked like the entire thing had been a waste of time. Washington had given them exactly one shift, killing a penalty, back in the first period. They’d sat the rest of the scrimmage.

  “I’ll talk to him again,” Rocket said. “It’s the third period — enough already.”

  Kyle shook his head. “No worries. It’s enough you spoke to the coaches. It’s not going to happen. We got dealt a bad hand.”

  “You guys killed that penalty. Blue didn’t even get a shot,” Rocket said.

  “I think that might be our training-camp highlight,” Nathan said.

  “Yo, Bossy, the sniper.” Washington held his hand out and Bossy gave it a swipe. “Two goals this scrimmage? You’re bringing it this camp,” Washington continued. “I always knew you could score. This is going to be your year. I have a feeling. Way to drive hard to the net. And nice outlet, Fryer, and good pass, Rocket.”

  “Thanks, Coach,” Rocket said.

  Washington moved off. Bossy sat down and snickered.

  “What?” Rocket said.

  “Suck up to the coach much?” Bossy said. He elbowed Fryer and laughed.

  Rocket wanted to wipe the smile off his face. It would be like punching a mountain.

  Rocket pressed his lips together. He decided to try one last time.

  “Game’s not over until the final whistle,” he said to Kyle and Nathan. “Wait here.”

  “Where are we supposed to go?” Kyle said.

  Rocket shuffled past Bossy and Fryer. “He wants to say thank you again,” Fryer joked to Bossy.

  Washington was leaning forward, his elbows on the top of the boards.

  “Excuse me, Coach?” Rocket said quietly.

  Washington turned his head.

  “I was wondering if you’d had a chance to think about that thing we talked about in the lunchroom. Because it’s getting into the third period and there’s not a lot of time left …”