by Van Barrett
“I know. That's an awfully sad detail.” Liz held a sympathetic frown. “But what about that makes you sad, specifically?”
Clay couldn't answer. He knew that talking about this was a slippery slope. If he opened up, their conversation could easily become some sort of therapy session.
Instead, he sighed and grumbled something about how he should change his boots and get going. Liz let out a small chuckle and asked him again if he was sure he'd be okay to drive, and he reassured her he was. She went back to the stable to be with Travis and Apple.
Clay changed boots, swapped his cowboy hat for a ball cap, said bye to his staff and told them he'd be back tomorrow. Back outside, he hitched his trailer, hopped in his truck and drove off for Dallas.
He turned on the radio and listened to the sports station. Dallas was playing a game at home tonight against Columbus. Clay still caught a hockey game every now and then, whenever one of his teams were in town. He'd played for a few different teams over the years: Washington, Boston, St. Louis, and now Columbus.
Ten years had passed, and not a single word exchanged between them.
It was strange being in the same building as him. It was comforting to see him, in a way, to feel like they still had some sort of connection.
But Clay knew it couldn't go any further than that. And he knew he didn't have the courage to say anything to him—hell, he probably couldn't even look him in the eye. Rusty was surely beyond pissed at him, and rightfully so. Clay was sure that he didn't deserve forgiveness.
Once Clay drove far enough out of town, he stopped fighting off the tears—but he didn't exactly let himself cry, either. He looked totally composed—if not for the tears that silently streamed down his cheeks and splattered the thigh of his blue jeans.
The scene of that boy and that old horse had really got to him for some reason.
11
Open Ice, Big Hit
– Rust –
Dallas was a veteran team. As a young team, the trick to beating a veteran team was to use your youth and speed against them. Columbus had to come out flying and hopefully tally a couple of goals before the more experienced team found their legs and woke from their tired slumber.
Columbus' high-speed, run-and-gun offense kept Dallas on their heels for the first twenty minutes of play. But when the horn sounded to end the first period, Columbus only had a 1-0 lead to show for it.
The Columbus youngsters arrived back in the dressing room in great spirits, laughing and joking and generally acting as if the war had already been won. But an experienced guy like Rust, who had been through this situation time and time again in his long career, had a few words of wisdom.
Rust commanded the room's attention and told his teammates not to get cocky, that a 1-0 lead was not enough to bury a crafty veteran team. He promised them that the Dallas team they faced in the second period would not be the same squad as the one they embarrassed in the first.
“Buckle up, boys, and get ready to fight for every inch of ice out there,” he said, wrapping up his speech. “The way they played that first period was embarrassing, and they embarrassed themselves in front of their hometown crowd, no less. I can guarantee you that right now, their coach is over there ripping them a new asshole. They're going to come out fired up and ready to play, boys. This isn't over. Be ready.”
Even with Rust's warning, Columbus wasn't quite prepared for the coming onslaught—which wasn't a surprise to Rust, either. Telling the boys what they were up against was one thing; actually experiencing it and understanding it was another thing entirely. In time, the boys would learn how to weather the storm better. For now, this was a valuable learning experience.
But sure enough, Dallas came out like a team that had just been screamed at for fifteen minutes straight. From the opening draw, it was obvious they found their missing gear. They skated hard for every loose puck, finished every check, and shoved their gloves in the faces of the Columbus players after every whistle, hoping to get under their skin. And the hometown crowd loved it all—they cheered their team on, which only made them stronger.
Dallas owned the second period in a big way. Yet, when the second period was over, they'd only managed to put up a goal themselves, to tie the game at 1.
The third period evened out. Both teams knew what they were capable of; they'd both found a respect and a healthy dose of fear for each other. It was now a game of mistakes: whoever made the first mistake would lose.
Late in the third period of a tied game, Rust found himself defending an up-ice rush led by Dallas' star player, Taylor Moreau, who was a fast, flashy, and incredibly skilled forward.
With Moreau bearing down on him, Rust purposely left several juicy feet of ice open on the outside lane, daring the Dallas star to take the open space.
A lesser player might not realize that Rust wanted him to go wide; such a player might take the bait and find himself suddenly stapled to the boards and gasping for air.
Moreau, on the other hand, was too skilled to not know the extra ice that Rust offered up for the taking was an obvious trap. Moreau liked his odds anyway. He was in the prime of his life—and who was Rust, but an aging defenseman whose best days were already behind him?
Moreau turned on his jets and took the puck wide.
But Rust had counted on using the younger star's hubris against him. As soon as the trap was sprung, Rust pinched off the gap in a flash. He caught Moreau at top speed, blasting the forward with a shoulder-to-shoulder body-check.
The star hit the boards with a thunderous crash, and a crowd of 18,000 fans groaned sympathetically over their fallen hero.
Rust, meanwhile, picked up the loose puck and rushed it up-ice, leading his team on the attack.
Rust saw an open lane, cross-ice, to Cyrus Smith. Smitty was streaking through the neutral zone and shouted his name.
“RUST!”
Rust launched the puck, a beautiful arcing saucer-pass that sailed through center-ice and settled perfectly on Smitty's stick blade.
That's how that play happened in a split-second, anyhow.
But Rust saw things develop a lot slower.
Rust never made a habit of admiring his passes—that was a great way to get your ass rocked. And after crushing Moreau into the boards, Rust knew someone would be hunting for him. You didn't nail the other team's star forward without putting a target on your own back.
So as soon as Rust made that pass to Smitty, he knew to lift his head and keep an eye out for who might be looking to line him up for a big retaliatory hit.
But as Rust lifted his head, something else stood out to him.
It was a person, actually. A person in the crowd, as far back as row 15, 20?
Huh, Rust thought. Time slowed even further as he locked in on this familiar-seeming face. What the hell?
He never actually noticed people in the crowd. Sure, he'd see the crowd, but all those screaming faces sort of blended together and he didn't pay them any particular mind. After ten years in the biz, he'd learned to tune the fans out almost completely. Sure, he might notice someone if they were wearing a crazy outfit or acting stupidly drunk or patently ridiculous or something like that—but that only when happened when play had stopped and one of his teammates pointed the bozo out.
He'd never noticed somebody when play was still live.
Which was why it was so strange to notice one person out of a sea of faces.
Time crawled to a halt as Rust zeroed in on that face. Seeing that face triggered something, and the synapses in his brain fired like a lightning storm, and a tidal wave of memories, sights, scents and sounds, surged through his mind.
My God, he thought. That fan really looks like Clay Grayson. Sure, he looks older, but just about what you'd expect Clay to look like today, ten years later.
Of course, the idea that Rust could single out Clay—a guy he hadn't seen in over a decade—from a crowd of 18,000 plus was utterly ludicrous. He knew he was imagining it, and that only made him even
more pissed at Texas.
Am I really that fucked in the head? He wondered with self-loathing.
The weirdest part, though, was that this 'Clay' character seemed to be staring right back at him. While everyone else had followed the puck, and turned their focus to Smitty—who, in slow motion, was still in the act of catching Rust's pass—the guy that looked suspiciously like Clay was staring right at Rust.
Like you might expect Clay to do, if that were really him.
Weird.
And then something weirder happened.
The Clay impostor began to jump out of his seat, again in slow motion, waved his hand, and pointed at something on the ice. He yelled something, and Rust began to read his lips, one slow letter after another:
“RUSTY! HEADS UP!”
Whatever he was pointing at, it was in Rust's blind spot. And who or whatever it was, it was coming fast.
Rust didn't have time to turn and check it out. A split second later, there was an incredible force that impacted his side like a freight train. The force pushed him hard, fast, and he found himself suddenly moving so fast, he tried to dig his blades into the ice to stop.
That's when he realized he wasn't on his skates anymore—he was sailing through the air.
Rust saw the world turn sideways, spin, flip upside down, and the bright lights of the arena filled his vision—just before the back of his head hit the hard ice. Crackling fireworks exploded at the base of his skull, and a metallic taste filled his mouth.
And before everything faded to black, his last thought was:
I don't go by Rusty anymore, damn it.
***
eeeeeeeeeeee, ooooo, eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
That's what woke him up, and it pissed him off.
All Rust could hear was a high-pitched ringing, like someone rubbing their finger over the edge of a wine glass. But worse, because it was in his skull and he couldn't stop it. The grating noise dug into his brain like nails on a chalkboard.
Damn it, make it stop!
Rust opened his eyes to a blinding bright light.
Someone was huddled over him, their form a dark silhouette against the lights in the background. It didn't help that Rust's vision was blurred, like trying to see underwater without goggles. He blinked again and again until things cleared and began to sharpen. The ringing began to subside, replaced by the murmurs of thousands of people.
That's when he realized the person hovering over him was Matt, the team trainer, and the lights behind him were the arena's.
Oh. Right. I'm playing in a game.
Rust tried to sit up, but Matt put a hand on his chest and stopped him.
“Hey Rust. Just relax for a second. How are you doing?”
“Hey Matt. I think I just got smoked.”
“Yeah, you sure did. Do you know where you are right now?”
Rust had to think it over for a second, but then he recalled with a snort.
“Yeah. Fucking Texas.”
“Do you know what the score is?”
“Tied. 1-1.”
“Do you know who the President is?”
It was at that point that Rust realized that Matt wasn't asking questions to make a little small talk. Instead, the trainer was progressing through a checklist of questions to determine if he'd been exposed to a head trauma. The realization angered him. He'd taken plenty of hard hits before, harder than that one, and he'd never suffered a concussion. Rust knew himself well enough to know he was fine.
“The President? Yeah. Millard Fillmore.”
Matt cracked a smile. “Well shit, Rust. Either you're one sarcastic SOB, or you just got knocked 150 years into the past.”
Rust sat up. Matt tried to help him to his skates, but Rust knocked his arms away and stubbornly climbed to his skates on his own. The rival crowd politely applauded, happy to see that he wasn't seriously injured.
Matt trotted alongside the defenseman as he coasted to the bench.
“You sure you're okay to skate on your own, Rust?” he asked.
“I'm on my own two feet, aren't I? I'm fine.”
Rust took a seat on the bench and absorbed a few back pats from concerned teammates.
“I'm fine, boys, don't worry about me.”
But Matt the trainer still buzzed around him like an annoying horsefly. The team's coaches joined Matt, asking Rust all sorts of questions to determine if he'd had a concussion or not.
“Damn it, you guys, I told you: I feel fine.”
Rust considered the matter over and done with. He was a hockey player, which meant he was a tough son of a bitch who had played through a hell of a lot of adversity. He'd had his bell rung worse in the past, and no one ever made this big of a deal about it.
But Matt grabbed hold of Rust's jersey and pulled.
“Listen. Rust. It's not really up for debate here. You know concussions are a bigger deal today than they used to be, what with all the lawsuits and the media coverage. And you know the NHL has a new concussion protocol, too. Rust, if we let you back out on the ice without properly examining you first? The league will crucify us and you know it.”
“I'm telling you, I'm fine,” Rust growled. He gave the coach a stare. The coach frowned and gestured at Rust to go with the trainer.
Looked like he didn't have a say in the matter. Rust slammed his stick against the boards, and it snapped in half like a twig.
“Fuck! Fuck!”
He rose to his skates and Matt escorted him back to the examination room.
12
All Clear!
– Rust –
Rust sat on the examination table as Matt poked and prodded at him, took his vitals, and asked a never-ending barrage of annoying questions.
“I feel fine,” Rust repeated, refusing to play along.
“Just answer the question, Rust.”
Rust sighed and stubbornly obeyed. He knew what day it was, what month it was, what city they were in, who had scored and how much time was left before he got hit. But the one question that made him pause was, “What happened just before you got hit?”
He had to stop and think that one over. He remembered spotting Smitty streaking through the neutral zone. He remembered springing him with a pass. And then—that's right—he'd seen the guy in the crowd that looked like Clay. But had he really? It all had happened so fast, and yet things had slowed down. He couldn't be sure that he'd actually seen that guy, and that it wasn't just some weird vision that he saw after his head got rocked.
What a weird thing to think I saw, Rust thought to himself. He wasn't sure if he could trust his memory. He knew he had to leave that detail out for the trainer.
Rust shook his head.
“Okay, let's see. I passed the puck to Smitty, and uh, I guess I got caught admiring my pass. Somebody blind-sided me. That's all I know. I don't even know who the fucker was.” Rust's eyes narrowed. “Who was it? You guys see?”
“Bente.”
“Bente. Figures.” Rust cracked a smile. He'd been battling Bente all night—and loving every minute of it. “Looking for revenge after I caught Moreau a second earlier, eh?”
Matt shrugged. “Well, you seem to have an excellent recall of events leading up to the hit, which is a good sign …”
“Great.” Rust started to climb off the examination table. “So it looks like I can head back out there--”
Butt Matt restrained him again.
“Not so fast there, buddy. Rust, I know you want to go back out there. You're a warrior. But the league has their own concussion spotter and he has to give you the okay first.”
Rust sighed, rolled his eyes.
Matt's phone rang. He answered it. “Hello?”
He turned to Rust and silently mouthed, this is the guy.
“Uh huh … Yeah, I'm with him right now. We're down here in the exam room. … Can't find it? Where are you? Okay, hold tight. I'll run up and get you.”
Matt hung up.
“Look, Rust, if he gives you the all-clear, you
can head back out on the ice. That's just the way it is.”
Rust clucked his tongue. “Got it.”
“Gotta go get the guy. I'll be right back.”
Matt left the room.
And when Matt left him all alone, Rust saw an opportunity.
Rust walked lightly on his skate blades and stuck his head out the door. He took a peep, left and right, and saw the coast was clear. Hurrying now, Rust left the exam room and marched back down the tunnel and returned to his teammates.
Rust took a seat on the bench alongside them as if nothing happened. For all they cared, nothing had happened—they knew Rust was one tough son of a bitch.
The coach tapped Rust on the shoulder.
“They cleared you already?”
“Yup,” Rust lied.
Coach shrugged. “Well damn. Alright. You're up next then.”
Rust knew he had to get back on the ice before Matt found him.
C'mon, c'mon, he muttered to himself as his teammates fought for the puck in the defensive zone. Rust kept taking paranoid glances over his shoulder—he knew that soon, Matt and the league's concussion guy would soon come running down that tunnel. He had to get on the ice before that happened.
At last, his teammates won the puck. Tired legs began to move the puck up ice, skating slowly, bent-over and lumbering for the bench.
Yes! Rust hissed. He took one last look over his shoulder: there was Matt, and the league's concussion guy, both sprinting down the tunnel.
But Rust's teammates arrived at the bench just in time. Rust hopped over before they could stop him.
“Haa!” Rust cackled to himself as he joined the play. Bente, the player that had hit him, gathered the puck and skated full-steam ahead. Rust pinched his angle off and steered the big forward towards the boards. There, Rust powered him into the glass. The big man went down like a bag of concrete, a mumbled oof escaping his lungs.
Rust grinned. There wasn't a feeling quite like tagging a guy after he'd just lit you up.
