Ice Time (4 page)

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Authors: David Skuy

BOOK: Ice Time
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A car pulled up. “You call a cab?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been waiting at the rink.”

“I wrote that I was on the street.”

“You said the rink. Why not wait at the front door?”

“Because I was already on the street.”

“You should’ve been where you said you’d be. You wasted my time.”

“I am where I said I’d be!”

“Forget it.”

The taxi drove off.

“Thanks, jerk!” Rocket yelled. He grabbed his sticks and gave his hockey bag a whack. Then he called the cab company.

“Sunnyside Taxi, what’s the address?”

“I called a cab and he drove off on me,” Rocket said.

“What’s your phone number?”

He told her.

“You weren’t waiting at the rink,” she said.

“I filled out the form …” He groaned. “Can I get another one?”

“Where are you?”

“Exactly where I said I was!”

The line went dead.

Rocket closed his eyes. So far life as a pro player sucked.

He waved at a cab as it raced by, but it had people in it. Behind it was a small Honda Civic. It stopped. There were four boys inside.

“Yo, bro, where’re you going?” a kid asked, leaning out the passenger-side window.

He looked like a high-school student.

“I’m going to a hotel. Not sure of the address. Hold on,” Rocket said. He checked his phone. “Do you know where Lakewood Avenue is?”

“This is Lakewood,” the kid said.

“Do you know the Lakewood Hotel?” Rocket said.

The boys laughed.

“It’s just down the street — that white building,” the kid said.

Rocket looked in dismay. Now he saw it:
The Lakewood
. The sign wasn’t big, but still, he should have checked the map closer.

“I guess I’m a bit disoriented. I’m new in town,” he said, picking up his hockey bag and sticks.

The rear window opened. “Who do you play for?” a voice called out.

“The Pinewood Racers.”

The car exploded in cheers.

“Awesome, bro. What’s your name?” the kid in the front said.

“Bryan … Rockwood.”

Behind the driver, in the back seat, a boy shook a yellow-and-black scarf out his window. The wind caught hold, and it stretched out —
Pinewood Racers.

Rocket grinned. “Go, Racers!”

“I’m Crawford,” the kid in front said. “This is Rino driving.”

Rino honked the horn.

“Chaz is behind me,” Crawford went on, “and Griff has the scarf. He loves that thing.”

“Nice to meet you guys,” Rocket said.

“I think I’ve heard of you,” Crawford said. “You played for the Axmen.”

“Guilty,” Rocket said.

“We’ll see you at the opener on Saturday,” Crawford said.

“What number are you?” Chaz asked.

The boys reminded Rocket of someone — himself. Hockey obsessed.

“Not sure about the number, or the game. We’ll see. Tomorrow is my first practice,” Rocket said.

Rino honked the horn a few more times.

“Good luck!” Crawford said.

The boys began to chant,
“Go, Pinewood, go! Go, Pinewood, go!”
as the car pulled away, Griff’s scarf flapping madly in its wake.

Rocket crossed the street and walked down to the hotel. After checking in, he flopped on the bed as soon as he got in the room. He was tired. The past few days had been a blur — sent down by Landry, telling his family, meeting his friends, getting ready to go, the drive up, trying to find a place to stay.

He texted his mom and Maddy, so they wouldn’t worry:
Everything is great. Psyched for practice tomorrow. Speak soon.

He texted Megan:
Good 2 see U yesterday. All’s fine here. About 2 look up some courses and see what’s available.

Then he tossed his phone aside and turned on his laptop. He typed
Pinewood Racers
into the YouTube search bar. Videos from last year popped up. The first was called
C.C. Storms the Ice
. It was about Cam Conner, so C.C. had to be his nickname.

Rocket clicked on the video. He’d look up online courses later.

CHAPTER 7

The dressing-room door opened. In walked a large man with wavy blond hair, a square jaw, long, thick arms and massive thighs — the absolute picture of a pro hockey player. He shook hands with a bunch of the guys. Rocket knew him from the website — Cam “C.C.” Conner.

“R.C. Cola,” C.C. said as he greeted Rory. A huge grin was plastered across his face. The two men embraced.

Rocket laughed to himself. Rory Colbert — R.C. Cola — a good hockey nickname.

“Bro, I was so psyched when I heard you were here. How’s the knee?” C.C. said.

Rory bent his right knee and stomped the floor. “Good enough to smoke you on the outside.”

“I don’t doubt it,” C.C. roared, and they high-fived. “Goldsy, come say hi to a real hockey player.”

“Nice to finally meet one,” Goldsy said.

Rocket recognized him, too — Ben Goldsworthy, left winger. He’d played on C.C.’s line last season.

“Meet another player,” Rory said, nodding at Rocket. “This is Bryan Rockwood. I think people call him Rocket.”

C.C. and Goldsy shook Rocket’s hand.

“Have you spoken to Coach Mack yet?” C.C. asked Rory.

“Nah. Got the lowdown from Blywood this morning, though,” Rory said.

Rocket wondered how. Blywood still hadn’t returned any of his texts about places to stay. And he hadn’t been around when Rocket got to the arena early that morning. Instead, Rocket ended up talking to the trainer, Nadav, who told him guys find their own places — not what Rocket wanted to hear.

Before practice, Rocket had found a few places online and booked some appointments for that afternoon.

A man walked into the dressing room, and Rocket did a doubletake. It couldn’t be. Their eyes met.

“The Rocket’s in the AHL? Seriously?” The man chuckled and looked around as if he couldn’t believe it. “I cut this kid in minor bantam, no kidding. I was coaching a AAA team. Takes me back a few years.”

C.C. looked uncomfortable. “Coach Barker, this is Rory Colbert,” he said, changing the subject.

“The one and only R.C. Cola. Awesome to have you,” Barker said. “I’m new to the Racers, too. I’m here to get this crew to play some defence. The Racers are going to be about puck possession this year. We’ll be a NHL-style team, so it’s cool to have a real NHLer.”

“Looking forward to being back on the ice,” Rory said.

Barker looked over at Rocket. “By the way, this isn’t junior, Rockwood. I’ll be introducing you to your own end.”

“We’ve met,” Rocket said, as sarcastically as he could.

Barker grunted and his eyes narrowed. “We’re on the ice in fifteen minutes.” He clapped his hands a few times. “Let’s get going.”

C.C. and Goldsy went to their stalls to get dressed. Rocket pretended he had to retie his skates so he could hide his rage.

This was bad in so many ways. Sure Barker had cut Rocket, but then he’d asked him to come back. Rocket had refused, and Barker had hated him ever since. Things hadn’t improved when they’d both moved up to junior — every time their teams met it was nasty.

“Don’t worry about that guy,” Rory said quietly. “First-year coaches always act tough. They want to establish a rep. He’s no big deal.”

“We have a bit of a history,” Rocket said.

Rory slapped Rocket’s shin pads. “We both have to turn the page and start fresh.”

Nadav came in. “Ice is ready if you want to get out there,” he said.

Rocket reached for his sweater. He’d been number 18 since he was a kid, but it was gone. Instead, he’d chosen number 36 — he’d be twice the player he used to be. He put it on, grabbed his stick from the rack and headed out.

The moment his skates cut into the glistening ice, his problems seemed to disappear. Hockey was like that. Life was the hard part.

He skated leisurely around the net. A few more guys came out. Barker was stacking piles of pucks on the boards by the bench. Rocket veered off to get one.

“Can you lift the puck off the ice yet?” Barker chirped.

Rocket stickhandled in on goal, reared back and blasted a slapshot into the top right corner, just under the crossbar.

“Chew on that, Bark-Breath,” he said.

His friend Adam had come up with that name for Barker way back — during their tryouts for that bantam team. Wait until Adam and their friend Ty heard Barker was in the AHL.

It had been a while since Rocket had talked to Adam and Ty. All three of them had made it to junior, but only Rocket was still playing. Ty had been a high first-round draft choice and played three years. He’d hurt his knee, though, and after surgery, he decided to quit. He was in university now, apparently thinking about law school. Adam had quit after two seasons — said he wasn’t into it. He was at university, too, but he didn’t take his studies that seriously. He was more into having fun.

Ty and Adam didn’t have to worry about the future. Their families were rich.

A short, pale man came onto the ice. His thin jet-black hair was brushed straight back, as if every hair had been glued in place. His eyes were close together, but big, almost too large for his face. He was looking all over the ice, first the stands, then the benches and then behind both nets. He skated slowly, maybe even a bit awkwardly. A whistle hung from a string around his neck.

On second glance, Rocket realized the man was Anderson McGill, the Racers’ head coach. McGill wasn’t a typical coach because he’d never played hockey at a high level, not even junior. He’d started out coaching minor hockey, then community college and university, before landing the Pinewood job last year.

McGill stopped at centre, and the guys formed a semicircle in front of him.

“No point talking about that last exhibition game,” he said. “Effort level wasn’t bad, but we didn’t have the puck enough. We lost way too many draws. We can’t control the puck if we give away possession so much.”

“We lost fifty-seven percent of the draws in our end,” Barker piped in, “and sixty-two percent in theirs.”

McGill looked tired. “We’re going to correct that. Anyway, I believe we have a couple of new guys … Coach Kaufman?”

Rocket hadn’t seen Kaufman yet. He was the special teams coach. With his broad chest, thick legs and big forearms, he looked more like a hockey player. He wore a Racers baseball cap and sweatshirt.

“Thanks, Coach Mack,” Kaufman said. “Everyone say hello to Rory ‘R.C. Cola’ Colbert.”

The guys banged their sticks on the ice.

“Hi, boys. Good to be here. Hope we have a great season,” Rory said.

“And …” Kaufman paused to look at his clipboard. “Bryan Rockwood. Where are you?”

“Right here,” Rocket said.

Kaufman nodded. “Hi, Bryan. You’re a centre, right? Hopefully, you’ll help with the faceoffs.”

“We’ll see about that,” Barker quipped.

A few guys laughed. One player to Rocket’s right, number 22, didn’t look too amused.

“C.C., get everyone down to one end,” McGill said.

“You got it, Coach Mack. Let’s move it, boys,” C.C. said.

He skated off to the far net, the guys following behind. Rocket felt a stick slap his shin pads.

“Time to bring it,” Rory said. “C.C. filled me in. Management is looking to make changes. Floyd — the owner — is insane. He wants a championship this season, and McGill is under serious pressure to produce. Floyd’s not happy with their first-round loss in the playoffs last season, and the Racers only won two exhibition games this year. That’s why Floyd replaced the defence coach with that Barker guy.”

“Okay, so we’ll both bring it,” Rocket said, slapping Rory’s pads.

It was weird that Rory said “bring it.” That’s what Rocket, Ty and Adam used to say to psych each other up.

And “changes”?

Well, Rocket was going to be on the roster when the dust settled.

He had to be.

CHAPTER 8

Barker tapped his stick on the ice. “Strauss, take offensive centre. R.C. Cola, take right wing for the defending side. Guys, watch how a pro plays — hard every shift.”

Strauss was number 22. Rocket had thought he was a winger. The website said he was.

“Straussy, all yours,” Goldsy said. He was the offensive left winger for the drill.

Strauss approached the dot to the goalie’s left.

Rocket rolled his shoulders. His muscles were tight. He’d been watching them practise faceoffs and breakouts for twenty minutes now — just ten guys fighting for possession of the puck until the defensive team got it over the blue line. So dull.

Kaufman was running the drill, but Barker kept chirping away, especially at whoever lost a draw. Never to C.C., though. McGill watched in silence, his eyes moving constantly, like he was expecting a sneak attack.

Strauss lost three draws in a row — cleanly. Rocket could tell he wasn’t used to taking faceoffs. Barker looked disgusted.

In junior, Rocket had consistently won over sixty percent of his draws. If the Racers needed faceoff help, this could be his ticket into the starting lineup.

Kaufman looked his way. “Rockwood, come take a draw for the defence.”

C.C. backed away. “Have fun, boys,” he said. He tapped Strauss’s shin pads, and then gave Rocket’s a slap as he skated to the bench.

Desperate to make a good first impression, Rocket’s mind whirled. The faceoff was to the goalie’s left. Strauss liked to bend low, his hands way down on the shaft, legs spread far apart. Rocket knew exactly what to do. Strauss would be quick, but he’d have no power.

Rocket fixed his gaze on the puck.

It dropped. But Rocket ignored it and blocked Strauss’s stick. The puck bounced. Rocket lowered his right shoulder and pivoted on his right skate, and in one motion, he swept the puck back to the corner. Strauss was caught off guard, and he dropped to one knee. This meant Rocket didn’t have to block him out to prevent a forecheck.

The left defenceman snapped a short pass behind the net to his partner, who took a few backwards strides to clear the net and draw Goldsy to him. Then he saucered a pass to Rory, who had hustled over to the right wall. Rocket curled in front, headed up-ice and took a sharp pass from Rory a metre below the top of the circle. The defencemen had long since given up the blue line, having no choice once Rocket had won the draw so cleanly. The breakout was basically unopposed.

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