by A. J. Wynter
It took three strides to be at Pacey’s side. “What do we do?” I asked.
“We’re going to work on these plays.” Pacey patted the clipboard with his leather glove, avoiding the question.
I nodded. “Are you going to take the lead here, or…”
Pacey was a good assistant, but like me, wasn’t a leader. “I guess I can do it.” He was new to the team and I heard the hesitation in his voice.
“Guys.” I turned to face the lineup of blue practice jerseys. “Gunnar, Dylan…” I pointed at each player as I called their name and position. With the lineups selected, I elbowed Pacey. “It’s up to you to blow the whistle.”
He looked like a rookie player stepping onto the ice with an all-star team. “Got it.” He put the whistle between his lips and skated to center ice. “You can do it,” I whispered to myself as Pacey dropped the puck between Gunnar and Mike.
It was summer camp. This was supposed to be easy and fun. Coach had gotten so serious over the past six months that practices weren’t fun anymore. As the Coca-Cola scoreboard counted down the minutes to the end of practice, we ran the drills over and over again. I could feel the lethargy in the air, we were totally half-assing it. And, for the first time since he’d joined the team, Gunnar was too.
“Pace.” I waved him to where I was leaning against the penalty box. “We need to end this suffer-fest on a positive note.”
“Do you have anything specific in mind?”
I watched over Pacey’s shoulder as Dylan flicked the puck down the ice and Jasper didn’t even attempt to receive it. They were playing slower than the numbers counting down on the game clock.
There was no way the guys were tired. Yes, we’d been skating the whole practice, but not hard. It was no wonder Coach left. “You got a game playlist on your phone?”
“Of course. Jock Jams from 1992-1997.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “Why?”
“Put ‘er on.” I skated to center ice and gestured for the team to join me. “And loud,” I shouted.
Feedback cracked as Pacey plugged his phone into the stadium arena sound system. “Aren’t we done yet?” Mike nodded his head to the time clock. “I mean, I am.”
“Not yet.” I had to shout as the opening guitar riff to Enter Sandman blared through the speakers. “Dylan.” I jabbed him in the chest with the blade of my stick. “Showboat. Give us your best.”
“What?” Dylan screwed up his forehead, but I could see the gleam in his eyes.
Showboating was something from the olden days that was frowned upon. Obnoxiously celebrating a goal, like dancing or egging on the crowd was seen as unsportsmanlike, but I knew that we all had at one time or another imagined our own showboat moves. Dylan was the only one I’d ever seen showboat in the Northern Professional League, and even though it had been a couple of years ago, I remembered it like it was yesterday. He’d almost got his head pounded in; he’d gotten kicked out of the game, and we’d lost. Coach had almost kicked him off the team after that game.
“Get in the net.” I pointed to our backup goalie, Hudson. The backup tendy had potential, but for right now he was as effective as a sieve. Hudson groaned and skated to the net.
I pointed to Dylan. “Ready?”
“You got it.” His mouthguard was in place and his gaze followed Hudson as he did his goalie shuffle to the net.
“This will be good.” Mitchell, the first-string tendy chuckled.
I laughed. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this unscathed, Mitch.”
“Bring it.” Mitchell raised his gloves and as he did, Dylan plucked the trapper from his hand and threw it down the ice in one smooth motion. Then he set off chasing it.
“Hey,” Mitchell shouted. “You fucker!”
Dylan stickhandled the goalie’s glove down the ice, and it was almost artistic, the way he deked and spun, fueled by the loud bass the shook the building and the cheering from the guys. Hudson stood tall in the net, clearly not taking the incoming threat seriously. I had no idea how hard it was to shoot a glove, but I was excited to find out.
Dylan was known for his slapshot and he wound up, but instead of following through he faked and then crossed in front as if he was going to circle the net and slip it in low in behind Hudson’s stick. Hudson had already repositioned to the far side of the net, ready for the low easy tip-in, and that’s when Dylan dangled the glove with the blade of his stick and tossed it over the goalie’s left shoulder.
“No fucking way.” Mitchell shook his head beside me. The rest of the team raised their arms and their cheers and screams drowned out the music.
I knew Dylan wasn’t done. He circled the net, his stick in the air. Hudson leaned on the crossbar and gave Dylan a glove bump. Dylan retrieved the glove from the net and instead of picking it up to return it to its rightful owner he tossed it high into the air, positioned his stick like a shotgun, and proceeded to shoot it out of the air.
It was his move.
I clapped and the rest of the team followed suit. Dylan picked up the glove and tossed it to Mitchell who proceeded to put it on and then punch Dylan in the shoulder.
Dylan grinned, his eyes wild. “Your turn, fucker.”
The dressing room buzzed with laughter. The on-ice antics had started wild with Dylan’s ‘Shoot the Glove’ move and had only gotten crazier. My showboat move was called ‘Ride the Stick’. I sat on the stick and waved my free arm like I was on a mechanical bull.
Our practice had gone overtime. Even though the buzzer had sounded at the top of the hour, Andy let us continue the showboat contest. He leaned on the boards and grinned, watching as each member got more and more creative.
“Want to grab some lunch?” Dylan zipped up his hockey bag.
I tapped my watch. “Don’t you mean brunch, dude?”
“Fuck off with your brunch.” Dylan grinned. I’ve got a few hours before I have to be at work at the marina. He looked over my shoulder. “What about you, Mike?”
Mike hoisted his bag over his shoulder and walked backward towards the door. “I’d love to lunch with you ladies, but I was supposed to be at the job site ten minutes ago. See ya.” And then he was gone.
“Jasper?”
The young player shook his head. “I’m going to have to pass today boys. They’re serving grilled cheese at the player’s house."
Jasper lived in the Academy’s dorms, like most of the players. The rest were either townies, like me and Dylan, or cottagers, like Judson, Caspian, and Beckett. And no, those weren’t their last names, all three of them had a junior or a ‘the third’ that followed their rich guy names. I didn’t hold it against them though, they were good guys, and lucky enough to have been signed in the same town where they had family cottages. Most of us turned a blind eye to the unlikely coincidence.
Dylan proceeded to pester the guys sitting around us, but either they wanted to hit up the grilled cheese at the canteen, or they had to run off to a job.
“I’ll come.”
Dylan and I turned at the same time. Gunnar was shrugging into his Otters’ jacket, his hair wet underneath his baseball cap. Dylan shot me a ‘what the fuck’ look, his eyebrows raised high on his forehead. “Sure, man. Cool.”
Most of the team had filed out, the Academy guys horny for their grilled cheese sandwiches. “Did you get your truck running yet?” Gunnar asked.
I threw my hockey bag over my shoulder. “Not yet. I tried it this morning before practice, but it wouldn’t turn over.”
“How did you get here?” Gunnar asked. He had left the party pretty much as soon as we got there. I had spent the night on Fitzy’s extremely fluffy, down-filled great room sofa, and Fitzy had been kind enough to give me a ride. It wasn’t exactly an act of kindness, more of an act of trying to get me the hell out of there so his cleaning lady wouldn’t rat him out for having another party.
“I got a ride.” I didn’t specify any details and Gunnar didn’t ask.
“I can take a look at your t
ruck if you’d like.” Dylan pushed the heavy metal doors open and we squinted into the brightness of the day.
“Dude, you’re a boat mechanic.” I laughed. “If you tell me that my truck needs a new propellor, I’m going to kick your ass.”
Dylan laughed. “The bilge system might be flooded.” I didn’t know a lot about boats, but I knew that the bilge system pumped out excess water and that there wasn’t one on my late nineties Tacoma.
My stomach growled. “Let’s get something to eat first. Then, if you still have time after eggs benny, I’d love it if you could take a look, although I’m pretty sure she might be a goner.”
“Don’t give up on her yet.” Dylan laughed. “Although Jessie dropped me off this morning, so I don’t have a car either.”
“Guess I’m driving.” Gunnar waved his arm for us to follow.
Dylan looked at Gunnar, whose back was to us as he used the key to unlock the trunk of his car, and then shrugged at me. The three of us, it was a weird combo. Gunnar rarely hung out with the team, and he NEVER went for after-practice grub. Something was up.
I opened the giant passenger door and folded the seat forward so I could crawl into the back seat. It was so roomy I could still stretch my legs out. “Great ride,” said Dylan as he clicked on his seatbelt. The engine roared as Gunnar turned the key.
“Thanks.” Gunnar eased out of the parking lot.
I groaned as we pulled into the parking lot of The Crepe House, the best breakfast spot in town. The line was already out the door. Fitzy had tossed me a granola bar that morning, but any energy from that had long been used up. In my rookie days, I could stay up all night and slam a breakfast beer before practice, and still be ready for anything afterward. Now, all I wanted was some nutrient-dense food and a coffee. A good Italian coffee like my mom would’ve made me this morning if I had been home.
Gunnar slowed the car but didn’t turn into the parking lot. “Should we try Valerock?”
Dylan pointed to a free parking spot near the front door. “Wheel this beast into that spot. We’re getting crepes.”
“Alright.” Gunnar seemed dubious but artfully backed the car into the parking spot.
Dylan hopped out of the car and stretched his arms above his head. “Come on.” He strode toward the door as I struggled to get out of the back seat of the car.
“What’s he doing?” Gunnar whispered as we walked to the end of the line.
Dylan had bypassed the line and was chatting with the hostess. He looked at us and jerked his head toward the restaurant. I could feel the side-eye glances from everyone in line as we bypassed what looked to be an hour-long wait.
The hostess seated us at a table in the corner of the modern restaurant. Floor to ceiling glass surrounded us on both sides and Lake Casper sparkled below us. “The best seat in the house, as requested.” The pretty hostess’s cheeks were as pink as her lips and her hands trembled as she handed us the menus.
“Thanks, Georgie.” Dylan grinned at the hostess and her cheeks tinted a degree closer to red.
“Did you make a reservation?” Gunnar tilted his head.
Dylan opened the menu and then shut it with a flourish. “Nope. I texted Georgia and told her to make room for some Otters. She’s one of our biggest fans.”
As he spoke, Dylan caught the hostess’s eye and gave her a wink. Her smile gave it all away. She had either slept with Dylan or wanted to. Either way, Dylan had the girl right where he wanted her.
“I don’t need any more details.” I laughed and opened the menu, even though I knew exactly what I was going to order. Gunnar was the only one who took some time to pore over the Crepe House’s offerings.
The owner of The Crepe House, Donald, a middle-aged man with a graying mustache, appeared with a carafe of coffee. He raised the carafe and both Gunnar and Dylan nodded and nudged their cups closer to Donald.
He poured their cups and then recognition set in as he looked at me. “Leonardo. Nice to see you.”
“Nice to see you too, Don. Busy day here.”
Donald sighed. “I’m not complaining. Make hay while the sun is shining, or however that saying goes.” Donald pointed at my cup. “Americano?”
“You got it.” I smiled.
Donald took our breakfast orders, committed them to memory, and disappeared into the crowd. Over the din of people talking, I heard the whirr of the espresso machine. I could see other diners looking at us, and if they didn’t know who we were, they were definitely curious – we had just been issued the VIP treatment.
Dylan looked at Gunnar. “Didn’t feel like grilled cheese today, buddy?”
Gunnar took a sip of his coffee. We both knew what Dylan was asking, and it didn’t have anything to do with melted cheese.
“You always eat at the Academy,” Dylan prodded when Gunnar didn’t reply.
Gunnar studied his place setting and adjusted the knife and fork on top of the folded napkin. “I just wanted to ask Leo about something, or…” He cleared his throat. “Someone.”
“Really? Who? Or what?” Dylan asked.
Gunnar shifted in his seat. I could tell that he was uncomfortable and probably regretting bringing up a girl in front of Dylan. The guys didn’t talk about women all that much. Even the guys with girlfriends didn’t talk about their partners. If it wasn’t a joke or a little lewd, the girl talk was left to, well, the girls.
Gunnar gave a slight shake of his head, like he knew he was going to regret it, but continued. “There was a girl at the party last night. I think that we had a moment.”
Dylan looked like he was going to choke on his coffee. He pounded at his chest theatrically. “A moment, buddy?”
“Don’t be a dick, Dylan.” I shot him a dirty look. Normally I wouldn’t say anything, but we weren’t rookies anymore, and if Gunnar wanted to ask about a girl, I wasn’t going to shame him about it. He was cut from a different cloth and, unlike the rest of the guys, if I had a sister, I would want a guy like Gunnar asking about her – definitely not a dude like Dylan.
“Who is she?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. I haven’t seen her around. She’s blond and tall and has blue eyes. I think. I just want to find out if she’s single. I mean, a girl like that, she’s probably not.” Gunnar seemed uncharacteristically flustered.
I smiled. He had just described half the women who attended their games. “You think she has blue eyes?”
“It was dark. I couldn’t really see. But she had a great smile and was wearing a black sweater.”
I shook my head. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that.” I racked my brain trying to think of all the women I saw at the party. “Who was she with?”
“Oh.” Gunnar smiled. “Coach’s wife.”
“Girlfriend,” Dylan corrected.
“Coach’s girlfriend.” Gunnar rolled his eyes.
It was coming back to me. I had forgotten that Amber was at the party. It seemed weird at the time and now that I was sober, it seemed even weirder. “I saw Amber last night, but she was alone.”
Dylan raised his shoulders. “I’ve got no idea who you’re talking about. All the girls I saw last night were dipping. Skinny style.”
“Oh.” Gunnar set his hands down on the table as if he’d just had a vision. “I do remember something specific…”
Gunnar was interrupted as Donald appeared at the table, three plates balanced expertly on one arm, a fresh Americano in his other hand. “Enjoy.” He set down the plates in front of us.
Dylan didn’t hesitate and poured half the bottle of maple syrup on his crepes. The conversation was temporarily forgotten as we dug into our breakfast.
“So good,” Dylan groaned through his first bite, as he cut a crepe in half and folded it onto his fork.
“Way better than the Academy.” Gunnar smiled.
I poured a generous amount of hot sauce onto my breakfast but paused with a bite on my fork. “Sorry, Gunnar. We totally interrupted you. What was the specific thing
you remembered about this mystery girl?”
Gunnar dabbed the side of his mouth with his napkin and smiled, his eyes lighting up as he remembered whatever key detail he was about to reveal. “She was missing a shoe.”
It only took a second for me to realize who my teammate was lusting after – and I didn’t like it.
“Hmmm.” I pretended like I hadn’t just lost my appetite. I set down my fork and took a sip of coffee, giving me a moment to calm my racing heart. I had a choice to make. I didn’t have any claim to Faith, so why did I feel so reluctant to tell Gunnar who she was?
The shoe was in my hockey bag, tucked inside the trunk of Gunnar’s car.
Dylan was sopping up the remainder of his maple syrup, uninterested in Gunnar’s quest to find out the identity of his perfect woman. “That’s a real Cinderella story there Gunnar.” Dylan set his fork down on his empty plate.
Even though I knew that I would regret it, I opened my big fat mouth.
“I know who she is.” My stomach clenched into a knot. I had already said too much, but my damn mouth kept going. “And I know how you can talk to her.”
Seven
Faith
I shivered as I stepped into the screened-in porch of the Bunkie at the Yates’ cottage estate. The door slammed behind me, its spring creaking loudly after a winter of sitting idle. I felt the same way – a little rusty, but glad to be back at work. I put the padlock back on the door and left after my first full day of work.
Even though the breeze was cool, the air inside my car was stifling. I started the car, rolled down the windows, and blasted the fan. My phone beeped with a text message. It was Mom, asking me to pick up a loaf of sourdough bread from the bakery. I checked my watch. It was half an hour to downtown Laketown and the bakery closed in twenty-five minutes, so I stomped my foot on the gas and enjoyed the exhilaration of driving like a rally car racer down the windy gravel road.
With a minute to spare, I left the bakery with an armload of bread as well as a chocolate éclair for Mom. The smell of freshly baked goods filled the car and my stomach growled as I started the ignition. I took a bite of the pastry. Mom will understand, I thought to myself as the lightness of the cream-filled donut practically made me melt into the driver’s seat.
