Changing on the Fly

by Cherylanne Corneille

  "Yeah, I know the feeling," I mumbled then slapped the top half of the toasted bagel over the egg, ham, and cheese middle. I then told Otto all of it— from how seeing Rocket skating had haunted me day and night to waking up to find my money gone. Otto chewed and nodded. The women beside us left and new customers took their table.

  "I don't think Rocket is his real name," my buddy said.

  "Yeah, I kind of thought that as well."

  "And that is, of course, the last time you ever do something as stupid as that, right?" Otto inquired after I had run out of story. I wiped the butter on my fingers from my last bite of bagel onto a paper napkin.

  "Probably, yeah," I said as my gaze moved to the pedestrians passing by the wide windows. "I was just in a vulnerable place, I guess."

  "My friend, you will find that special someone." Otto patted my forearm then gave it a fast squeeze. I forced a smile for his sake. "We better get moving. Morning skate waits."

  I pushed to my feet, dug out my wallet, and then silently cursed when I opened it. "I need to stop at the ATM. Can you cover me?"

  "Shit, I'm so used to covering you that to do otherwise would send me into cardiac arrest," Otto said with a sly wink. He hustled off to the counter to pay the tab and hit on Monica once again while I stood at the window and watched the people pass by, wondering just where Rocket had gone and what his real story was. I would probably never know. Man, I hated unresolved things in my life.

  Six

  FOR THE NEXT month, hockey kept me from moping over Rocket's meaning in my life. We were smack dab in the middle of a season that the whole team felt would be our year to take it all. Last season, we had faltered in the first round of the playoffs. Injuries to seven of our key players, and our starting goalie, weakened us too greatly to compete at that accelerated level.

  This year, the Nightwings were back on track. We were leading our division by four points now, everyone was healthy, and life was good. When we weren't playing, I found myself sucked into more and more charity events for my two standard causes: the local animal shelter and the children's cancer wing in a nearby hospital. And while helping such worthy causes made me feel like a better human being, something that Rocket said came back to me every time I made an appearance or aided in a fundraiser.

  I'm not a stray dog or some kid with cancer.

  Out of all the things we said to each other that night, that, and a few sexual phrases, stuck out. What had he meant by that? It was a cutting comment, as if I hadn't done all that I could for him, or people like him. It hardly seemed fair to fling that at a man who donated tens of thousands of dollars a year to charity, not to mention hundreds of hours of personal appearances. What did Rocket think I needed to do and for who? And why did I give two shits about what he thought?

  I wrapped black tape around my stick just a little faster. The sounds of male conversation began to seep back into my reality. My head was out of the game, and it needed to come back to it. My stats had slipped a bit over the past few weeks. The press and fans chalked my slight decline in goals and assists to the fact that opposing defensemen were always all over me. Which was true, but they had been that way since the day I stepped onto New York ice. No, it was something else, something with blond hair, incredible talent with a stick, and brilliant green eyes. No matter how hard I worked at pushing Rocket from my mind, he remained there. Kind of like a thorn under your flesh. Maybe I needed to take a jackknife and pry the festering problem out.

  "You okay?"

  "Yep, just wrapping my stick," I told Björn. My left-winger gave me a long look but returned to his own taping ritual. We were facing off against North Carolina tonight, and any inter-conference game was crucial. Losing two points would allow Boston to get within striking range. "How's Amy?"

  Björn then fell into this animated conversation about his baby daughter. I made the right noises at the right times, my attention more on getting the tape on my stick precisely wrapped than in what Björn was saying about burping schedules or diaper changes. My cell rang. I tore off the tape, tossed it to Otto who was strolling by in compression shorts and Crocs, placed my stick to my right, and then slid my phone out of the pocket of my jeans. My shirt fell off the hook that my jeans hung on. I bent over to pick it up as I placed my phone to my ear and said hello.

  "Mister Zeally, this is Norman, the doorman at Gramercy Manor."

  I forgot about the shirt lying on the bottom of my dressing cubicle. I stood up as visions of a raging fire destroying my loft leapt to life in my mind. The back of my head slammed into a shelf holding spare gloves, tape, and a couple disposable razors.

  "Norman?" I winced at the impact of skull and wood.

  "I'm sorry to interrupt you so close to game time, but this kid says he knows you, and he wants me to let him into the building. I don't usually do stuff like this, you understand, but I saw you coming in with him about a month ago. He looks like he's been—"

  "Is he blond with green eyes?" I sat down quicker than I intended.

  "Yeah, he is. Mr. Zeally, he looks like he's been worked over."

  "Put him on the phone." I turned my back to Björn and the rest of the team. I listened intently but his hand muffled Norman's words.

  "Hey," Rocket said. My gut twisted into a knot that Alexander the Great wouldn't be able to untangle.

  "Rocket, what are you doing at my place?"

  "I didn't know where else to go. Tell the doorman to let me in, okay? I need a place to crash for a couple days."

  "He said you looked like you had been worked over. Did someone beat you up?"

  "Just a small misunderstanding between a couple friends," Rocket said right before a car horn blared. The sound made my already knotted stomach tighten even more. I could not believe that the man that I had agonized over was now standing in the cold outside my building begging me for entrance. "Can you tell Norm here to let me in?"

  "He doesn't have a key to my loft. Are you okay?"

  "I'll wait in the lobby. I just need to clean up and get a nap. Can you do that for me?"

  "Put Norman back on the phone," I whispered. The dressing room was growing louder as the time for puck drop got closer. Because I am the son of Mr. and Mrs. Zeally, lifelong residents of Sugar Lake, Minnesota, I, of course, told Norman to let Rocket into the lobby. Then, to further outrage Otto if he ever found out, I instructed the doorman to find the building super and admit Rocket to my loft. Norman said that he would do as asked and ended the call.

  I sat there staring at my now silent phone for several seconds.

  "Here's your tape."

  I looked back at Otto standing behind me. "Thanks." I took the roll then tossed it up onto the shelf with the razors.

  "You okay?" he asked with concern. I schooled my features then threw a leg over the bench so I could face him.

  "It's all good."

  Otto gave me a quizzical look but kept his mouth shut. Björn decided to tell us some story about his wife and the size of her tits. That topic got Otto's attention, and I could finish dressing for the game in peace. It was funny when, twenty minutes later, my skates hit home ice I found that the small buzzing gnat of unease I had carried in my chest for weeks was gone. I inhaled deeply. The burn of adrenaline coursed through me. The smell of ice, men, and hockey filled my sinuses. I stood along the blue line with the first line - my line - and stared at the fresh ice as a star from a Broadway show belted out the national anthem. When the applause died down, the other four men on my line shared helmet taps, and I slid into the face-off circle at center ice.

  I plucked the puck away from the Carolina center and shuttled it back to Otto. From that point on, my mind was nothing but the game. Minute details became clear. The way the goalie settled back onto his skates, the feel of the puck on my stick, the subtle shift of a Carolina winger telling me that he was going to shoot at our net. Things were crystal once again. I intercepted that pass from the Carolina winger then passed it to Björn. The blond winger streaked down the ice, O
tto and I on opposite sides of him. The three-on-one blew past the lone defenseman. Björn executed a perfect tape-to-tape pass right in front of the crease. I got my hip into the only D-man in the vicinity, taking him off his skates. Otto took a shot. I reached out to tip the puck toward the crease. It bounced off the goalie's left shoulder and into the net. Otto tackled me from behind as the red light came on, and the Nighthawk goal horn rattled the rafters.

  The night belonged to the Nightwings. I came off the ice with a goal and three assists during a sound win that kept us four points ahead of Boston. The press in the locker room touted the four-zero win as some sort of miracle, like God himself had reached down and flicked all those goals in with his big godly finger. I was curt with the press or curt for me, rather. There were days that the media's admiration and worship got sickening. I’ve told them countless times that no one man wins a hockey game. It's a team sport. They refuse to listen. I hated being singled out for their adoration. So what if I was the youngest captain in the franchise? Did that mean I was something other than a normal man? After a shortened round of "Let's Kiss Zeally's Divine Ass", as one of the New Jersey players had called the press glut around my cubicle after a game, I showered with haste then politely turned down the offer to join a few of the single guys at a club to celebrate.

  "Goodnight John-Boy," one of my teammates shouted as I climbed into my Navigator. I flipped him off then shifted the already warmed vehicle into gear. The drive home was short but I could feel myself growing more excited with every passing block.

  I slid into my reserved parking slot then jogged into the building. Using the garage entrance worked well because I wouldn't have to make eye contact with Norman, the stuffy guy who sat at the security desk in the lobby, or anyone else. As I rode up to the tenth floor, I toyed with the keys in my front pocket. Some sort of soft seventies song floated around the inside of the elevator. Some falsetto-sounding guys were asking how deep someone's love was. It burrowed into my head and stayed there until I walked into my loft then it died off.

  "Hey," Rocket called from my sofa. I lowered my left arm to allow my duffel bag to slip to the floor then walked to the man sprawled out on my couch. He looked like hell. One blackened eye, a swollen cheek, and bruises all over his forearms. "Thanks for the kindness," he tacked on groggily. I sat down on the edge of a cushion. Rocket handed me the remote for the TV, which I snapped off before tossing the remote to the coffee table.

  "What happened?" I wanted to do something. "I have some ice and an ice bag from when I pulled my—" I started to stand. He grabbed my forearm to keep me seated.

  "It's good. I just need a place to crash for a few days…maybe a couple Advil or something."

  "I can do Advil," I said. His fingers bit deeper into my arm. I looked up from the swollen contusion on his right arm to his face. Damn but that eye was nasty looking. "You should put some ice on that eye."

  "Okay, whatever, but later. Just…I don't know, just sit here, okay?"

  "Yeah, okay. Who did this? Some other john whose wallet you emptied?"

  Rocket snorted then groaned. I shook his hand off my arm then turned sideways to lift the hem of his ratty blue sweater.

  "Shit, Rocket…" Bruises and lacerations covered his ribs and stomach. "You need to see a doctor."

  "No man, it's good. I've had worse," he weakly argued as his one functioning eyelid tried to close. I let the sweater drop gently down to his battered chest then gently pushed a strand of yellow hair behind his ear. He tried to smile at the gesture, but it failed so miserably.

  "Can I call the team physician to come look at you? I'd feel better if you let me at least do that for you."

  "I don't think I need– Fucking A," he grunted and attempted a sit-up. That too failed terribly. "Fuck me, okay, yeah the team doc works as long as it's free." I told him to rest as I pushed to my feet. I saw that he had already drifted off, so I took off his sneakers then padded to the linen closet to get a throw to toss over him. Phone to my ear, I pleaded with Bill Rupert, the Nightwings doctor, to come look at my friend. Bill agreed to come over with a medical kit. I thanked him, threw the dark brown blanket over Rocket, and then sat down in the plump chair that matched the sofa to wait for Bill to arrive and to watch Rocket sleep.

  Seven

  ROCKET SLEPT WELL that night at least for a few hours. I, on the other hand, was on edge, lying on my couch while hearing my unexpected houseguest snore. After Bill left I, being my mother's son, insisted that Rocket sleep in my bed. He had been too sore and in too much pain to fight too strongly. Bill had given him some Percocet for the ribs that the doctor suspected were cracked. Rocket had eyed the yellow tablets, and Bill, warily but swallowed them down, anyway.

  "I'm not going to pry into what happened here," Bill had said after Rocket crashed, "but that kid needs help. He's far too thin for my liking, and his skin has reduced turgor, which means he's dehydrated. He needs some good nutrition and hydration. Is he a relative?"

  "No, just a friend," I replied while Bill zipped a blue and white medical kit closed then had looked me dead in the eye.

  "Well, your friend should go get an x-ray and then go home so his mom can cook him a good meal."

  "I'll make sure he eats and drinks," I promised Bill as I walked him to my door. Our team physician remained silent, but I suspected he had a thousand more questions and concerns he wished to voice. "Thanks again for coming over. Feel free to send me a bill for your time."

  "Riley, stop. I'm not sending you a bill. I will give you some friendly advice." He placed his hand on my shoulder as we stood at my front door. "Whatever kind of shit that kid is into, steer clear of it, okay? Someone busted him up but good tonight. That generally doesn't happen for no reason. This whole thing reeks of drugs to me. Get him up and get him on his way tomorrow morning. You're a superstar. This kind of shit," he jerked his graying head to the bedroom where Rocket slept," you do not need. Just imagine what the press would do if they got a sniff of this."

  "Yep, right, I agree. I'm just doing him a solid for a few days. Thanks again, Bill." I gently steered him out the door then shut it in his worried face.

  Exhaling, I padded around my loft, cleaning up things. Then I took off my shirt and stretched out on the sofa. I lay in the semi-darkness for a long time, staring at the softly glowing amber lights that hung from the ceiling about twenty feet above me. The heat kicked on. Rocket's soft snores bounced around the place. I jerked the cover I’d tossed over Rocket earlier over my bare chest. I rolled to my side, closed my eyes, and tried to rest. It was no use. My mind was too churned up for sleep. Who had done that to him? Why? I hadn't seen any signs of drug abuse when I had last been with him, and I had seen every inch of Rocket's lean body. Of course, not all drug use was as easy to spot as needle tracks.

  There would be no answers tonight so I tried some relaxation breathing techniques that Claude Morton, our starting goalie, had passed along once. They didn't help. I flipped and flopped incessantly. The heater was set too high. I kicked off the cover and closed my eyes to breathe. I couldn't slip into a relaxed state because I still felt sweaty and clammy. A faint thudding sound began between my eyes, something akin to the sound of train wheels on metal tracks. My mind wandered from the breathing exercise to an old Bruce Springsteen song about being on fire. I sat up, looked around my home, and then got to my bare feet. My bed, and the man resting in it, called to me.

  I stepped softly into my own bedroom. The shutters on the windows were tightly sealed. I moved around the spacious room on instinct. Rocket moaned when I lay down beside him. It was painful not to touch him.

  "Fucking doing?" Rocket asked groggily.

  "Coming to bed," I whispered, the thumping between my eyebrows lessening with each steady inhalation I took. My feet were now cold. "You need anything?"

  "Stronger pain meds," he groaned. His speech was slightly slurred and thick with sleep.

  "Sorry, that's all the dope that Rocket gets from me tonight. You want some
water or something."

  "Keiffer," he exhaled into my face. A slight shiver ran through me when I inhaled his moist breath. I hoped he wasn't having some trippy reaction to the Percocet.

  "No, it's Riley," I whispered as I burrowed my cold toes under the thick duvet.

  "My name is Keiffer," he managed to explain before the drugs pulled him back under. I closed my eyes and matched my breathing to his. Within minutes, I was sound asleep as well.

  * * * *

  ROCKET - I MEAN Keiffer - appeared in my kitchen the next morning as I was eating my breakfast. He was wearing a pair of my Nightwings lounge pants. They hung off his protruding hipbones. The black pants contrasted sharply with his pale skin. That glorious head of golden hair was a knotted mess. I lowered my spoonful of scrambled eggs with bacon bits when he shuffled into sight.

  "I feel like I slept in a poison ivy patch after I crawled through the fucking Sahara," he said as he dug at his forearm.

  "Yeah, Percocet does the same thing to me," I answered then jerked my head at the pitcher of orange juice on the counter. "You need to rehydrate the doc said. There's a plate of eggs in the microwave for you."

  He grunted then dragged his ass to the orange juice. "You're a pretty decent guy for a billionaire."

  "I'm far from a billionaire," I hurried to correct. "I play hockey not baseball," I tacked on. Rock—shit, Keiffer, snorted then moaned. His shoulders tensed. I let him get past the pain before I spoke again. "I have morning skate, but I should be back for lunch. You can stay here under a couple of conditions. Why don't you sit down before you fall down?" I got up and walked over to the microwave. After that was running, I poured Keiffer a tall glass of OJ then steered him to the chair across from mine. The morning sun bathed us both. It threw all kinds of amazing highlights into his hair. I worried that I was falling for a man whose last name I didn't know.