Ice Time (18 page)

“That’s right. I …” He gathered himself. He wasn’t going to start the rest of his life as a liar. He felt bad for Strauss and Rogers, and he hoped this didn’t wreck their trade. But he also knew he didn’t want to be a snake like Raymond Floyd. It was time to set things right. “I need to apologize to you, Ms. Rodriguez. I didn’t exactly tell the truth. I got the concussion over a month ago.”

“Did the Racers know?” Jackson said.

“Yes.”

“Did Floyd know?” Rodriguez said.

“He did.”

Kasich sat back in her chair, while Jackson shook her head slowly.

Rodriguez slapped her hand on the table. “Floyd is such a slimeball. I’m calling the commissioner. I’m getting this trade reversed, and I’m getting Floyd fined.”

Rocket felt a chill run down his spine. “I understand why you’re mad. I’d be mad, too, if I were you. But I also know Straussy and Turner are totally psyched to be here, so I’m hoping you can keep them.”

“Why did you lie to us?” Kasich said.

“I was thinking about that last night. It’s a little complicated. It goes back to why I got traded. Straussy had hurt his hamstring, and—”

“I was told he just tweaked his hamstring,” Rodriguez groaned. “This is getting better and better.”

“Hold on, Rodriguez. Give him a chance to explain,” Kasich said. “Go on, Bryan.”

“He doesn’t think it’s serious,” Rocket said. “I’m sure he’ll be okay. Anyway, like I said, Strauss tweaked his hamstring in a warm-up, and Floyd and Coach Barker ordered me to play in his place. I said no, because I still have a concussion. Floyd freaked out and told me I was suspended again. He traded me that night to you guys. After he told me about the trade, he said I had to lie about the concussion or he’d make sure my hockey career was over.”

Rocket took a deep breath. He was determined to tell the truth — all of it. “I know I’m not the biggest guy in the world. Everyone’s been telling me I’m too small to play hockey since … maybe since I started playing hockey. But I outwork everyone, and I never quit. I love the game too much. And I’ve been lucky, I guess, to get this far. I’ve sacrificed a lot and so has my mom.

“I’ve been dreaming about playing pro hockey for so long it’s a part of me. I almost can’t imagine doing anything else. It was the hardest thing in the world for me to refuse to play. I had the feeling my hockey career was on the line if I said no. But if I’d taken another hit, I could have been permanently injured. I didn’t want my family to have to take care of me for the rest of my life, just so I could prove I’m tough.

“I’m not going back to the Racers — I won’t play for Floyd or Barker. If that means I’m out of hockey, then I guess it’s time for me to find a job and help my family that way. You’ll do what you have to. I totally get that. But I’m finished lying, and I’m done with the Racers thinking they control me.”

Rodriguez’s arms were crossed. She looked over at Jackson. The coach remained perfectly still, pokerfaced.

Kasich had a big smile on her face. “What do you think, ladies?”

“He’s scrappy, I’ll give him that,” Jackson said. “I also checked out his stats from junior. The kid can score — and you guys keep telling me we have trouble putting the puck in the net.”

“He’s also a kid with a serious concussion. He hasn’t played in over a month. And then there’s Strauss’s hamstring,” Rodriguez said. She rolled her neck. “Floyd is laughing at us.”

“There’s something else,” Rocket said. “This is actually my second concussion, though Barker doesn’t believe me. I got cross-checked in one of our first games of the season, and then I got hit in the head a few days later. That’s why I was suspended. They didn’t want to have to pay me for a week.”

“Bryan, I appreciate your honesty,” Jackson said. “I can see you’re a thoughtful young man. But you have to understand the situation we’re in. We need to get good, young talent and to start winning games. We’re not only in last place, we also have the lowest attendance in the league. We have to get better — fast. How do we know you’ll ever play again?”

“You don’t,” Rocket said.

“Let’s give Ray-Ray a call,” Kasich said. “Bryan, can you wait a moment?”

Rodriguez called out the number, and Kasich dialed it on the desk phone.

“Hello?” Floyd answered.

“Hello, Raymond. It’s Meredith. How are you? Behaving yourself?”

“As always, Meredith. I assume you’re not.”

“Never have. Never will.” She laughed deeply. “I wanted to thank you for Bryan Rockwood.”

“Oh. Well, I think it was a good trade for both teams.”

“Definitely. Definitely. A delightful young lad. First class.” Kasich leaned closer to the phone. “The only problem is it seems he’s injured, and quite seriously. A concussion. Did you know anything about that?”

The line went quiet.

“Am I on speakerphone?” Floyd said.

“I’m with Rodriguez and Jackson,” Kasich said.

“Hello, ladies,” Floyd said. “I’m here with our coach and general manager, also.”

“Hi,” Barker and Blywood chimed in.

“Right. So, about the concussion?” Rodriguez said.

“A concussion? Are you sure?” Blywood said.

“I think so. Bryan told us himself. Said he got hurt a while ago,” Rodriguez said.

“That’s impossible. We certainly didn’t know,” Floyd said.

“I’m not saying you did,” Kasich said. “It’s just that we know he didn’t play for over a month, and he says he got a concussion over month ago, his second, I believe. Isn’t that odd?”

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.

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.

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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 allowed 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.