by David Skuy
He crossed the street. One glove had popped out of his bag, but the rest of the stuff had stayed in. He checked his skates. Fortunately, the blades hadn’t hit the pavement. He zipped the bag up and carried it back. Then he remembered. Maddy!
Grady staggered out from around the corner of the building, holding Rocket’s broken stick. “Hey, Bryan. I got me a hockey stick.” He grinned wildly. “You wanna play me? I used to be good, real good. I played in … I was in … I was real good.” He burped loudly. His breath reeked.
“Not now, Grady,” Rocket said, brushing by him and into the lobby.
Maddy stood against the wall, holding his stick in two hands like a club. Her face was pale and it looked like she’d been crying.
“You okay?” she said.
“I’m okay. They didn’t do much, just beat up my equipment a bit and stole my shoulder pads. A cop car came by and they ran off. I got lucky.”
“I hate them. That girl, Tina, was even my friend in grade four. She was normal up until last year when she started hanging with that crew. They call themselves the Brigade and act all tough and bully kids. They’re such bad news. One day, I’m going to …” She shook the stick in the air.
“First thing is, you need to give me that stick,” Rocket said, grinning.
Maddy blushed and gave it to him. “I might’ve gotten carried away there,” she said.
“Second,” he said, “you’re one crazy, cool lady to grab my stick like that. You didn’t call the cops, too, did you? How did they get here so fast?”
“I called 9-1-1 while everyone was watching Connor hit that stupid can,” she said. “I had to do something, otherwise you couldn’t try out tonight.”
“I still can’t. I don’t have shoulder pads. That Raja idiot stole them.”
“You’re playing. I risked my life for your hockey career. Can’t you use a couple of sweatshirts or something?”
“How lame is that?”
“Hey, you’ve told me that tryouts don’t have much contact.”
“I’ll look stupid.”
“A couple of sweatshirts and towels, or … I don’t know. But hurry up. Griffen will be here soon. Find something to use.”
“Maddy, I’m not going.”
She stomped her foot. “All you ever talk about is hockey, hockey, hockey, and now you’re going to quit because some idiot stole your shoulder pads? Some hockey player you are.”
“Like you know.”
“Quitter.”
“Forget you.”
“Peepee’s a quitter.”
Rocket wanted to smash his stick to bits — until he noticed the corners of her mouth rising ever so slightly. His shoulders slumped and he leaned his chin on the butt of his stick.
“Why do I bother hanging out with you?”
“Because I’m a crazy, cool lady.”
“That must be it.”
She pressed the elevator button. “Get creative. Make that stupid team. And don’t break that stick.”
The door opened. Rocket gritted his teeth and headed in. He looked back. “Thanks, Maddy,” he said.
“Hurry up,” she said.
Grady pushed the door open with the shaft of Rocket’s broken stick. “Hey, Maddy. You got a quarter for me?”
“You okay with him?” Rocket said.
Maddy rolled her eyes. “If I can handle Connor and his crew, I think I can deal with Grady.”
Rocket held the doors for a moment. “What about Connor? You’re on his radar now.”
She rolled her eyes again. “He’s not as tough as he talks. I can deal with his type. Now hurry up. Go!”
Rocket let the doors close.
Towels for shoulder pads?
This was even more pathetic than the trivia team.
CHAPTER 14
Rocket let out a loud sigh of relief as the last player left the dressing room. The only good thing about being late for the tryout was that he could put on his shoulder pads without anyone seeing him.
On the drive over, he and Maddy had made them out of a sweatshirt, towels and duct tape. Griffen had been his usual jerky self and asked if they wanted to use his chewing gum for elbow pads. It was sort of funny the first time, but in typical Griffen style, he’d repeated it about five more times. How did Maddy put up with him? How did his mom put up with him? On the other hand — no Griffen, no car.
Rocket pulled on his elbow pads, sweater and helmet, grabbed his stick and went out. He took a few quick strides, then let himself glide on one skate, dragging his left toe behind him.
He’d been thinking about the Bowmont Blues. He’d make the team, play for a few games — say a third of the season — then call a bunch of AAA teams to see who needed a centre, had trouble scoring or needed help to make the playoffs. There could be a problem getting a release from the Blues, but hopefully not. He’d need a strong finish to the season to prove to Barker that he could still play. Maybe he’d even get lucky and grow a little. Then this whole thing would go away and he’d be the Rocket again.
The other players were circling the ice, talking in groups of two or three. He didn’t know anyone and, feeling self-conscious about his shoulder pads, he kept to himself, careful not to skate next to anyone too long.
He passed one group. “I heard that he …” Rocket strained to listen, but he was going too fast. Were they talking about him? He shook his head and turned the corner, digging his edges in to pick up speed. He was being dumb. No one knew him.
Before he had time to circle the ice again, a tall woman came onto the ice, stick in hand. She blew her whistle and waved her stick overhead. The players laughed and joked around as they drifted over. It was painful to watch the guys on the team goofing off because they’d made it and had nothing to worry about. He quickly counted the bodies: twenty skaters, including him. Assuming three lines and three sets of defence, that meant five guys were getting cut tonight.
“Welcome to those of you who are new, and welcome back to those of you who have come to the other two tryouts. I’m the coach of the Blues, Sonia Duplain-Contreras — but that’s a bit of a mouthful, so everyone calls me Coach Sonia. We’re lucky enough to have a parent helping out, but he couldn’t make it tonight, so you’ll meet him later.
“I know tryouts are an unpleasant side of competitive hockey. I don’t take the decisions lightly. I also don’t think I’m always right. If we can’t offer you a spot with the Blues this season, it doesn’t mean you won’t find another team. I’ve cut kids who’ve gone on to play AAA. All I can promise is to be honest and tell you what I think.”
She was no Barker, at least.
Coach Sonia continued. “I want to give the new kids a real chance to show their stuff, so we won’t be doing a ton of skating exercises.” A group of three boys cheered. “Maybe an extra lap for you guys,” she said. The boys booed. “So those in red, line it up on the goal line, blue, in behind. We’ll whirl around a bit before we do a few skill drills — then a scrimmage. Okay?”
The players tapped their sticks on the ice and headed to the goal line. As Rocket skated past the coach, she tapped him on the arm. She looked briefly at his shoulders.
“Sorry, but I didn’t meet you when you came in. What’s your name?”
“Bryan Rockwood. My lift was late and …”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re here. Your friend Greg, I believe you played with his son, had some nice things to say about you,” she said. “I’m looking forward to seeing you play.”
Greg must have told her he’d played for the Huskies. Did he tell her why he was cut?
“Line ’er up, Bryan.” She pointed with her stick.
He skated to the goal line, his stick across his knees. He needed to bring it, big time.
“Move it, Bryan!” the coach yelled.
The rest of Red was already halfway to the blue line. He’d been daydreaming and the drill had started.
Rocket took off like a racehorse bursting from the gate. The other players stopped
at centre and turned back to the blue line, and he was forced to slow down so he wouldn’t run into anyone. By the time he got back to top speed, they were long gone. He managed to catch one guy just before he crossed the far goal line.
He rested his stick across his knees head down. “You’re blowing it, Rockwood,” he muttered. “Bring it!”
Blue finished its drill and Rocket readied himself. The coach needed to see how he’d earned his nickname. The whistle blew.
After three strides, he was in front. He crossed the first blue line with a two-metre lead, stopping hard at centre, a spray of ice chips flying in his wake. With a quick stride, head down to gain speed, he was almost at the first blue line before some players had even entered the neutral zone.
Suddenly, he was flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. A face peered down at him. “Hey, bro. Sorry. I didn’t see you. You went right into my shoulder.”
Another face came into view.
“My goodness, Bryan. Are you okay?” said Coach Sonia.
Hardly okay — humiliated more like it. An image of Kinger’s mocking eyes appeared to him. He got to his knees.
“Stay down,” said the coach. “Does your neck hurt?”
“I’m fine,” he said. He did feel a bit groggy. He took a deep breath and rolled his neck a couple of times.
Coach Sonia put a hand on his shoulder and took a good look into his eyes. “Are you having trouble focusing?”
“I’m fine,” he said again. “I … stupid … I wasn’t looking. No worries.”
To make him feel more ridiculous, all the other players had gathered around.
“Follow my finger,” said the coach, holding up her index finger.
“I’m okay!” This was getting irritating.
“Are you dizzy at all?”
“No.”
“Keep focused on my finger, please.” Coach Sonia moved it back and forth. After a minute, she put her glove back on. “I think it would be wise to shut it down for tonight and see if you have any concussion symptoms. You took a good shot, and I don’t want to take any risks.”
Shut it down? He’d barely gotten started. In a state of rising panic, he said, “I don’t have a concussion. I’m fine, look.” He shook his head from side to side.
A few of the guys laughed.
“Hockey players always say they’re fine after a big hit,” she said. “I didn’t exactly see it, but I think your head might’ve collided with André’s shoulder. Better safe than sorry, anyway. You’d best go to the dressing room. I really can’t let you play until I know you don’t have a concussion.”
Rocket stared up at her. A gross, sick feeling rose up from his stomach and, for a moment, he thought he might actually throw up.
The coach patted Rocket on the back. “Don’t get undressed right away. I want to talk to you for a sec, okay? I just need to explain the drill and then I’ll come in.” She skated off, calling, “We’re going to do some figure eights, gentlemen, so line up in the right corner.”
Rocket shuffled to the door in a daze. He hadn’t made the team.
He pushed the blue plastic dot to open the door. It wouldn’t budge. He jabbed at it with the butt-end of his stick a few times, and then he gave the door a shove with his hip.
“Stupid door. C’mon!” he yelled. He whacked the door with his stick.
“Hold on. Don’t go mental.” Maddy opened the door.
He pushed past her toward the dressing room.
“Where’re you going?”
“She thinks I have a stupid concussion. Ordered me off — like I’m made of glass!”
Maddy followed along. “But why’d that guy hit you? Wasn’t it a skating drill?”
She could be so annoying.
“He didn’t hit me. I wasn’t looking. Doesn’t matter. I’m done. Didn’t make the team — ten-second tryout. Such a loser.” He pushed open the dressing room door. “I have to get changed. See you in front in five.”
He kicked the door shut and flopped on the bench, ripping the straps off his helmet and flinging it into his bag. Then he took off his sweater and ripped his makeshift shoulder pads off, stuffing them into his bag. Dumbest idea ever — towels! He began to undo his sock tape. There was a knock on the door. Now what?
“Yah?” he called.
Coach Sonia popped her head in. “Hold up. I wanted to talk to you for a second before you got dressed.” She came in. “Are you really sure you’re not dizzy or disoriented?”
“I feel like normal,” he said. “Sorry about this. You should get back to the tryout.”
“I just wanted to talk to you for a minute. Greg told me about the Huskies. Must be hard not being able to play with your friends.”
So he’d told her. Great. Totally embarrassing.
“It was … Whatever. Nothing I can do about it.”
“Did you try out for other teams?”
“Yeah, a few.”
“AAA teams?”
Rocket rolled the tape from his shin pad into a ball and tossed it into the garbage can. “I went to a Wilmont tryout,” he said quietly.
“Any AA?”
“By the time we called around, most of the spots were taken — or maybe they couldn’t find teams that wanted me. I’m not sure …” His voice trailed off.
“I’ll tell you what. There’s not a boy on this team who can skate like you. I watched you during the warm-up, and in the last drill you went from the goal line to centre like a rocket.”
He had to smile at that.
“Greg told me a lot about you — your competitiveness, your leadership — and the goals and assists. He’s a big fan. Said in his opinion you were the best player on the team.”
Rocket looked up at her. That surprised him. Greg was probably just being nice, but still — he didn’t have to say those things.
“I admire your courage for coming out tonight,” she continued. “It says a lot about you — not giving up. I respect that a great deal. It’s certainly unfortunate that your tryout ended before it began, but I’m going to let you in on a secret.”
He waited.
“I’d decided to offer you a spot on the team after talking to Greg and checking out your stats from last season. I should be honest with you: we had a difficult year. I didn’t think we were ready, but the parents pushed hard for it, so we moved up to AA. We didn’t win a regular season game, although we got close a few times by the end of the year. We could really use a player with your offensive game and your speed. Even more than that, we could use a kid who has a passion for the game. We have skill on this team. We do. But sometimes the boys don’t fight hard enough to win. I blame myself. I’m their coach and it’s my job to get it out of them. So far, I haven’t been able to. Anyway, if you’re willing to drop down to this level, I’d love to have you.”
Rocket had trouble taking it in. “You’re offering me a spot? Even after that? You didn’t even see me play.”
She peered down at him. “Tell me, am I making a mistake? I need a centre who can dominate both ends of the ice, and who has the drive to play hockey the way it’s supposed to be played. You up for it?”
He took a deep breath. “Yes.”
“Who brought you?” she said.
“A neighbour, from my building. My mom had to work.”
“No problem. I’ll get you the forms. Can you hang around a bit? I need to get back out there, but I’ll find the paperwork when I have a break.” She pushed the door open and looked back. “You’ll look good in blue, Bryan,” she said.
The door closed.
He began to untie his skates.
The Bowmont Blues.
Maybe he should’ve just quit.
Dominate at both ends. Play the right way.
Maybe?
CHAPTER 15
Rocket closed the trunk and hopped into the back seat with his sticks. “Thanks for the lift, Griffen. Sorry it took so long.” Rocket grinned at Maddy and she turned to look out the window so Griffen wouldn�
��t see her laugh.
“Eight-thirty already,” Griffen growled. “Complete waste of a night, and I knew the traffic was going to be brutal.”
He’d been fuming about the time and the traffic since they left the rink. It was cool of him to drive, obviously, but it was hard to be thankful when the guy was such a jerk about it. Still, Rocket had to be nice because his mom would need to borrow the car for hockey sometimes — maybe lots of times. He sure hoped he could hook into a carpool, or it would be a long, long season.
“Hey, Mads. You want to come over and watch TV?”
“She’s got homework,” Griffen said.
“No, I don’t,” Maddy said. “I did it at the rink.”
“You watch too much TV.”
“Just for an hour, to relax. No big deal.”
Griffen snorted. Then, after a long pause, said, “I need you to clean the kitchen before you go. There are dishes in the sink and the floor’s dirty. Don’t stay too long, either. I’ll probably be going out with Risa, and I want you home first.”
Rocket bit his lower lip and squeezed his stick. He really hated when his mom went out with Griffen, whatever “going out” meant. She was probably only going because Griffen had given him a ride. Now he felt guilty. But how else was he supposed to get to hockey? They drove the rest of the way in silence, forced to listen to Griffen’s favourite radio station.
Griffen parked the car in the underground lot.
“I have to throw my equipment in the storage locker,” Rocket told Maddy.
Griffen wrinkled his nose. “You ever wash your stuff? Smells like someone died in there. I don’t want your stinky bag smelling up my vehicle, okay? You get it cleaned. I’m no taxi.”
“Okay, Griffen. I’ll get it dry-cleaned,” Rocket said. As if!
Maddy stifled a giggle.
Rocket took his bag by the handle and waved his stick. “Thanks again, Griffen. See ya later, Maddy.”
Griffen marched off. Behind him, Maddy giggled outright, covering her mouth with her hand.
“Hurry up,” Griffen shouted back to her. “You’re going nowhere until that kitchen shines.”
“I’ll be over in five minutes,” she whispered, before running to catch up with Griffen.