Rocket Blues

by David Skuy

  Ty rolled his neck and looked past Rocket down the hall. “I get it. I would be pissed, too, if it happened to me. Maybe next year it will. Who knows? Guys get cut all the time for totally stupid reasons, like the coach doesn’t like them, or … I don’t know. Hockey’s weird like that. And, don’t get mad, but maybe, like, you’re not going to be AAA this year. It’s not because you’re not a good player, it’s just that … sometimes things work out like that.”

  Ty couldn’t say it either. It was obvious, though. He thought Rocket was too small for AAA, too.

  The door at the end of the hall opened and Adam’s head popped out. “Ty. C’mon, bro. We’re starting.” He didn’t look at Rocket. He didn’t care.

  “I’m coming,” Ty said. He looked at Rocket and raised an eyebrow.

  “You got a game to play with your AAA friends,” Rocket said coldly.

  Ty’s face grew hard. “Yeah … well … fine. See you later.” He walked back to the gym and disappeared inside.

  Rocket stood still, the sound of sticks clashing and shouts for the puck filling the empty hallway. He took a ragged breath, and blinked a few times. He’d never missed a Butt Kickers game in his life. Never.

  He headed upstairs. He didn’t want to risk someone seeing him like this. Walking over to his locker, he poked his head in it, as if he were looking for something. He almost felt dizzy, like he’d just gotten off a ride at an amusement park. After he grabbed his math books, he closed his locker and sat on the floor.

  It was hard to believe what had happened. He’d just walked out on the Butt Kickers, on the three-on-three league, on his two best friends. Over what? Sitting on the bench for two minutes? Rocket shook his head. But he couldn’t go back — not with Kinger and Harry playing over him; not with Ty and Adam thinking he didn’t deserve to be on the Huskies.

  A door opened and some kids came down the hall, first two boys, then two more and a girl behind them. Rocket recognized one of the boys in front — Big Red. This would be awkward. He stared at the floor.

  “Woburn’s going to be real tough,” a boy in a blue shirt said.

  “Des, you say that about every team,” Big Red said, opening his locker. “We can beat them — we made the quarter-finals last year, and that was without Megan.”

  “We’re still weak in certain areas, like sports. I keep telling you guys that,” Des said.

  “There aren’t that many sports questions, and I’ve been working on it,” Big Red said.

  The other kids joined them.

  Rocket opened his math textbook and pretended to read. He knew one boy was named Daniel. The girl must be Megan. He vaguely remembered her. She won awards for good marks every year. The other boy was in grade eight. Rocket didn’t know his name — but he was probably the tallest kid in school.

  “Des is freaked about sports again,” Big Red said to them.

  “Des is a freak. It’s not his fault,” the tall kid said.

  “Thanks, Bird,” Des said.

  Bird was a good nickname, Rocket thought. The boy was really skinny and had sharp cheekbones and a thin nose. Adam would give the name a thumbs-up.

  “We only have five people, and other teams have six,” Des said. He sounded worried. “I’m not trying to be negative, and I know Nigel’s trying his best, but you can’t know everything and we could use more depth. They ask sports questions.”

  Nigel! That was Big Red’s name. Funny how Rocket had forgotten that.

  “Give me a couple more weeks and I’ll be better,” Nigel said forcefully.

  Megan ran her finger over her phone. “Okay, who was the last player in the NHL to play without a helmet?” she said.

  “Where’d you get that one?” Bird laughed.

  “I searched Really Obscure Sports Trivia,” Megan said.

  They all looked at Nigel.

  He bit his lower lip and his eyes flashed angrily.

  “Sorry, Nigel,” Megan said. “But it proves the point. You’re awesome at geography, and you help in all the other categories. We’re just weak in sports. Let’s be honest.”

  “So what’s the answer?” Daniel said.

  Megan laughed. “I didn’t check. Hold on.” She poked at the screen and then scowled. “This is the flakiest phone in the world. I’m not getting a signal for some reason.”

  “C’mon,” Bird whined like he was a little kid. “I want to know. I need to know!”

  Rocket laughed to himself. Bird was kind of funny.

  They all turned to look at him. He might have laughed a touch too loud.

  “Perhaps you’d like to inform us, then?” Megan said, her eyes half-closed.

  “Craig MacTavish,” Rocket said, sticking out his chin.

  Megan looked at him closely, then furiously poked at her phone.

  “He’s right,” Des said, holding his phone up.

  “You need a new carrier,” Bird said to Megan. “And a phone from this decade.”

  She rolled her eyes, then looked at Rocket. “How did you know that?”

  Rocket shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m kind of into hockey, I guess. When the NHL passed a rule that players had to wear helmets, the guys already playing were exempt. MacTavish was the last of those players. He played for Edmonton — and St. Louis and the Rangers.” He thought about it. “And maybe Philadelphia, too.” But Rocket was sure MacTavish was drafted by someone else. “The Bruins! He was drafted by Boston.”

  “He’s right,” Des said, holding up his phone again.

  Bird pressed his lips together and crossed his arms, holding his elbows with his hands. “So you’re sort of into hockey, are you?”

  “I guess,” Rocket said.

  He wished he’d kept quiet. He didn’t know these guys, except for Big Red — Nigel — and he was hardly a friend. Rocket had barely ever talked to the guy. He knew Nigel was pretty smart, though. It was one of the reasons Adam had it in for him; Nigel wouldn’t let him copy his tests.

  Here with his friends, Nigel seemed like a completely different guy, way more talkative. In class, he almost never said a word. When guys picked on him, he just got really sarcastic.

  “I see where this is going,” Nigel said. “Bad idea. Let’s go. We have ten more minutes to practise.”

  “Hold on,” Daniel said. “So … what’s your name?”

  “That’s the one and only Rocket,” Nigel sneered. “Superstar hockey player.”

  Megan looked at Nigel out of the corner of her eyes. “You’re … a Rocket?”

  He felt himself flush. “It’s like a nickname: my last name’s Rockwood.”

  “Gotcha,” Megan said. “Boys are weird.”

  “Do you like other sports?” Des said.

  Rocket figured Des was messing with him.

  “I might,” he said. “I’m pretty weak on hurling and rhythmic gymnastics, though.”

  “That’s why we have Bird on the team,” Megan said.

  “Why do you pick on me all the time?” Bird said. “No wonder I have no self-esteem.”

  Megan tossed her head back and laughed loudly. Rocket had never really noticed her before. She was older, so they’d never been in the same class. She was pretty, though she sure didn’t try to be: hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, she didn’t wear any makeup and she wore baggy jeans and a sweatshirt. But her skin was striking, smooth and rich, as if it were made of marble, and her eyes were bright blue. She was on the small side — something they had in common. She also seemed like a friendly person, as if she were always on the verge of laughing.

  Des looked at his phone again. “Okay, the University of Georgia has a living mascot. What is it and what’s its name?”

  “It’s a dog — Uga. There’ve been about eight or nine of them,” Rocket said. Even when hockey wasn’t on, he had the channel on the sports network. He really did know a lot about sports.

  “Right, well … I’m sold,” Bird said. “How would you like to join the most awesome club at Forest Mills?”

  “He
wouldn’t want to join the trivia team, and we don’t need him,” Nigel said. “Let’s go, already.”

  Nigel was getting seriously hostile. And talk about pathetic. Big Red was dissing the Rocket?

  “I got your nickname and last name. You have a first name?” Daniel asked him.

  “Bryan works,” he said.

  “What do you say about joining our team?” Des said. “We meet a few times a week to practise, usually at lunch. You’re obviously good at sports trivia, and it just so happens we’re a bit weak in that area …”

  “And you play hockey, right?” Bird said.

  “There are always lots of hockey questions,” Des said. “You’d be a great help.”

  “Let me check the waiting list …” Bird scanned his phone. “Nope. He’s the only one applying so …”

  “I think it’s a good idea,” Daniel said.

  “I’m all for it,” Des said. He looked downright thrilled. Nigel looked anything but.

  “Okay by me,” Megan said. “First time we’ve had six players on the team. Come on. I’ll fire some more sports questions at you guys.”

  Rocket got up.

  “You do play hockey, right?” Bird said.

  Rocket tried not to laugh. “I do — a bit.”

  “Like, what level?” Bird said.

  That was a tricky question right now. “I played AAA last season,” Rocket said.

  Bird and Daniel looked at each other.

  Rocket found the whole thing bizarre. From the Butt Kickers to the trivia team? He wasn’t really going to join, obviously, but he didn’t have anything else to do right now and he didn’t want to make a big deal of it.

  “What American city has three professional sports team that wear the same colour?” Megan said.

  CHAPTER 13

  The sun dipped behind the gleaming condo, casting a long shadow that covered his building and reached the street. Rocket shivered. He should have worn his Huskies jacket. This one was too thin.

  Maddy slid her finger across the screen of her phone and put it in her pocket.

  “Griffen says he’ll be about ten minutes. Got caught in traffic,” she said. “Of course, that probably means he’ll be here in twenty…”

  Rocket’s mom had been forced to take a shift at the last minute; she’d arranged for Griffen to take him.

  “What time is it?” he said.

  “About two minutes since the last time you asked,” she said.

  “Very amusing, Madeleine.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him. “If you were old enough to have a watch or a phone, you’d know it’s sixteen minutes after six o’clock.”

  Rocket squeezed his eyes shut. The tryout started at seven-thirty. They’d be cutting it close. Greg had told his mom that this was Bowmont’s third and final tryout and there were only one or two spots left. He couldn’t miss it.

  Maddy sat on his hockey bag and kicked her feet out.

  “This isn’t the most comfortable chair I’ve ever sat on. It is the smelliest, though.”

  “Then sit somewhere else.”

  “You got something better?”

  Rocket grimaced. He wouldn’t want to sit on anything else around here, either. Everything about where they lived was dirty: the apartment building, some of its tenants, Grady. There was an old couch someone had dumped on the side of the driveway. It had been there all winter. Paper and plastic bags littered the front yard.

  Rocket was usually too embarrassed to invite friends from school or the Huskies over. They’d think he lived in a slum, which he guessed he sort of did, at least compared to most of them.

  That condo tower was so close; he’d seen the fanciest cars going into its parking lot. The two buildings were separated by a parking lot, but they could have been light years apart if you thought about who lived there.

  Rocket heard a group of kids coming down the street and his throat went dry.

  “This is bad,” Maddy said. “We should go inside.” Her face was pale and she looked scared.

  “We’d look like little kids running away,” he said. He backed off a few metres from the sidewalk and turned around as if he was looking at something in the lobby. Maddy came and stood next to him.

  “I don’t mind looking like a little kid,” she whispered.

  They were only about ten metres away now. No way could he grab his hockey bag in time. He held his breath and prayed they’d keep walking. Suddenly, everything got quiet.

  “You any good?”

  Rocket turned around. Three boys and a girl came toward them, dressed in gang colours. Rocket knew one of them, Connor. He hadn’t seen the guy around much lately, but he knew he went to Maddy’s school.

  “I’m no big deal … I play a bit,” he answered.

  “Hey, I know you,” Connor said. “You live here, right?”

  Rocket nodded.

  “You in peewee or something?” Connor said.

  “I play minor bantam,” Rocket said.

  “Nah, you’re in peewee. Little Peewee plays peewee,” Connor said.

  His friends grinned and elbowed each other, and then they pressed forward, crowding around Connor.

  “No. I got it wrong. It’s Peepee plays peewee,” Connor sneered. He high-fived one of the boys. “Let me show you some tricks. Maybe you can use them in a game.” Before Rocket could react, Connor grabbed the two hockey sticks on the ground. “Raja, let me school ya in the game of hockey,” he said, tossing a stick over.

  Rocket winced as the blade bounced off the sidewalk.

  Connor reared back and swung at a pop can half-buried in the grass. The can popped up. He chopped at it again. This time it flew in the air and onto the road. “Get down there and I’ll show you how it’s really done.”

  Raja grinned and ran down the street a bit. Rocket noticed he had Brigade written in marker on the back of his jacket. He’d never heard of that gang.

  Connor began to stickhandle the pop can toward Raja. He’d obviously never played, because he held the stick all wrong, with both hands near the butt. When he was a couple of metres away, he pushed the can past Raja, lowered his shoulder and plowed into him. Raja fell to the road, Connor laughing all the while. He stood over him. He had Brigade on his jacket, too.

  “Want to go? Want to drop the gloves? Huh? C’mon.”

  Raja was smiling, but Rocket could see he was hurt — and scared. Raja rolled away.

  “I got a better idea,” Raja said. He leapt to his feet and ran to Rocket’s hockey bag. He winked at his friends, opened the bag, threw the hockey pants aside, and pulled out the shoulder pads. He put them on, even though they were ridiculously small on him. “Now I’m ready to play.” He struck a bodybuilder pose.

  “Awesome look, Raja,” Connor said.

  Rocket felt sick. He had to do something. “I got a tryout soon … so can I sort of have my stuff back?” he said.

  Connor stared at him open-mouthed. “Did you … Did I hear that Peewee wants his stuff back?”

  Rocket swallowed painfully. “It’s no big deal; just have to get going so …”

  Connor put the point of the blade on the road and rested his hands on the butt-end. “So you’ll be needing this, I guess, to score goals and generally be a peewee superstar?”

  Rocket’s chest pounded.

  “There’s one problem, though,” Connor said. He took the stick with both hands and smashed it on the road. Nothing happened. Connor stared at it for a second and his face darkened; then he smashed it again. His friends began giggling.

  “Stupid stick is made of metal,” Connor said. He turned the blade around and smashed the stick tip first. His friends were doubled over laughing, because the stick wouldn’t break. He let out a roar and took an extra-hard swing. Then Connor held the stick up proudly. The blade dangled from the shaft, held only by the tape.

  “I should finish the job,” he said, and he kicked at the shaft: three, four, five, then six times. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and he began
to breathe heavily. Rocket felt an incredible sadness. Those sticks cost over two hundred dollars. Money’s dad had bought them for the team. No chance his mom could afford another.

  “Let me do it,” Raja said, tossing his stick aside. He flexed his arms, slapped Rocket’s shoulder pads and let out a warrior call.

  Connor’s eyes were blazing. “Forget the stupid stick. He can have it back.” He swung it over his head and heaved it toward the building. It bounced a couple of times on the pavement and landed off to the side. He looked over at the second stick. “I’m feeling it now. Give me that one,” he said to Raja.

  Maddy pushed past Rocket and snatched the stick.

  “W-what the …?” Connor stuttered.

  Maddy raced into the building. Rocket’s knees felt weak as the Brigade crew turned to him.

  “Peepee’s girlfriend saved his stick,” Connor said. “What’s she going to do about this?” He took the hockey bag by the straps, spun himself around two times to gather speed and then flung the bag across the street.

  A police car turned the corner and came toward them.

  Connor glared at him. “We’ll see you around, Peepee.” He started walking away. “C’mon, guys. We’ll cut through the back.”

  They ran off toward the back of the building chanting, “Peepee plays peewee,” over and over.

  “Could you at least give me my shoulder pads?” Rocket called after them. They disappeared from view.

  The police car stopped and the window rolled down. “Is everything all right?” an officer asked. “We got a call about a disturbance.”

  “Everything’s good,” Rocket said.

  He knew better than to squeal on Connor and his crew.

  The cop looked doubtful. “You sure?”

  Rocket nodded.

  He looked at Rocket for a second. “Okay, we’ll do another drive around to make sure.”

  The window rolled up and he drove off.

  Rocket closed his eyes and took a deep breath. For a second he wished he could make himself live somewhere else; he did that a lot when he was younger, like when his parents separated. Like then, nothing changed when he opened his eyes. He still lived in a crappy building, surrounded by garbage and gangs.