by Van Barrett
Columbus transitioned back into the offensive zone, as the coaches and trainers yelled at him from the bench.
“RUST! GET BACK HERE!”
“GET OFF THE ICE!”
“RUST!”
But Rust kept skating, knowing this was definitely his last shift for the night.
Columbus worked the puck in deep, and Rust saw a glorious opening left undefended. He streaked into the slot while slapping his stick on the ice like a beaver's tail smacking at water.
“SLOT, SMITTY, SLOT!”
Smitty took one quick peek and knew right away they had something. Without hesitating, he fed Rust a perfect pass, and Rust leaned into his stick and blasted the puck short-side. Vulcanized rubber smashed into iron pipe and a great clang rang out, and then the crowd groaned.
There it was—the puck sat in the back of the net.
If time slowed down after a hit, time sped up after a big goal. Everything was a blur as Rust's teammates mobbed him, throwing their arms around him and bonking their helmets against his and slapping his ass, everyone laughing and howling like a pack of wild dogs.
Rust had made his triumphant return and scored the game-winner with 6-something seconds left.
After their celebration ended and the team hug broke apart, Rust took a glance into the crowd. Where he thought he'd seen Clay before was only an empty seat.
Yup. He'd imagined it all along.
“Concussion,” Rust scoffed to himself as he glided back to the bench. “Whatever.”
***
Coach wasn't happy. Matt wasn't happy. The NHL concussion guy definitely wasn't happy. And they all tore into him the second he made it back to the bench and told him what deep shit he'd gotten himself into.
It took his Columbus teammates a second or two to piece together what had just happened: because why the hell was Rust getting yelled at after putting together the game's best shift, hands down?
And then it dawned on them: Rust had defied doctor's orders, snuck out of the exam room, made a game-changing hit, and then scored an epic game-winning goal. How the hell could he be hurt? You couldn't argue with those results.
And although his young teammates bit their tongues for fear of reprisal, secretly, the fact that he'd gone rogue to score the most bad-ass goal in history, only made it that much cooler.
Victorious, the team marched back to the dressing room.
“I told you, I'm fine!” Rust protested as he made his way back with the team. Those damned trainers wouldn't leave his side.
He figured the goal would've warded off the concussion worries. But still they followed him, demanding to examine him. And he refused and pleaded his case over and over.
Until he neared the dressing room, and a funny thing started happening.
He started to feel really, really nauseous.
And then really, really light-headed.
And then everything in his field of vision went really, really white.
“I told you! I'm … fuckin' … fine!” Rust continued to argue, his voice wavering and weak.
Matt grabbed a hold of his arm. A fast-thinking teammate grabbed the other. And that was a good thing, because Rust's vision suddenly completely white.
And for the second time in a night, he went down.
***
The next thing Rust remembered was waking up in that damned exam room while he was in the act of puking his guts out.
His eyes hurt; it hurt to see, to have vision at all. Lights were so bright, his temples throbbed like a knife piercing through his skull. His ears screamed with that terrible ringing again, eeeeeeoeeeeeee! And his head reverberated with the worst pounding migraine—like having a steel bucket placed his head and bashed with a lead pipe bat again and again.
And the puking.
Man.
Did he ever puke.
And then he was in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. The sirens, the red and blue flashing lights, only added to the pain.
“Ooooahhhhh!” Rust groaned.
Make it stop! For the love of God!
13
Hell of a Player
– Clay –
Clay walked among the throng of fans as they fled the Dallas arena. The quiet hometown crowd was still stunned from the sudden defeat.
Clay, on the other hand, wore a sweet but humbled smile, and could only shake his head and mutter to himself again and again,
“Man.”
Rusty had sure turned out to be one hell of a player. He was tougher than Clay ever thought he'd be, that was for goddamned sure. Back in their Hershey days, Rusty wasn't soft, but he wasn't exactly a bruiser, either. Clay had always tried to sell the kid on the importance of adding a mean streak to his game. Because Rusty already played so mentally big. If he could learn to play physically big, too, he'd be a double-threat that would stick in the league for years to come.
But Clay never would've imagined that Rusty would turn into the human meat-grinder that he was today. He'd slowed down, sure, but that was to be expected. He was 33, after all, an age by which most defensemen had completely broken down. The fact he could still play at a high level spoke volumes about his heart, and his preparedness.
The craziest thing, though, was how quick Rusty came back from that hit.
Clay had seen it coming. It wasn't like Rusty to get caught with his head down. He was so smart, he seemed to know where everyone and everything were on the ice at all times—it was hard to hit a guy like that at all, let alone actually catch him with a good hit.
Actually—and Clay knew this part seemed totally nuts—but he wondered if Rusty had actually seen him in the crowd.
They'd locked eyes. Or at least it seemed like it. Time slowed down in that moment. And just as fast as time slowed down, Clay saw Bente coming right for Rusty. Bente wanted to exact revenge for the hit Rusty had just laid on Moreau, no doubt.
Clay hopped out of his seat and tried to warn him. Not that he thought Rusty could actually hear his warning. It was just an old leftover instinct from being the guy's partner for years. It's what you do for your partner; you're his second set of eyes out there.
But the warning came too late, and Rusty never saw Bente coming.
That hit was brutal. A blindside hit. Clay felt it in the pit of his stomach. It physically pained him to see Rusty get nailed like that. It was even worse to see him lying on the ice, motionless. Clay wished more than anything he was on the ice so he could be there with Rusty.
Rusty was only knocked out for a few seconds, thank God. And then the trainer took him down the tunnel. There was no doubt in Clay's mind that he'd been concussed.
After that hit happened, Clay couldn't stand to watch the game anymore. He had this crazy worry that made him feel sick to his stomach: what if Rusty actually had seen his face in the crowd? And what if that was the whole reason he got hit? That would've meant it was Clay's fault. He couldn't live with himself if that was the case.
So, Clay got up from his seat and hurried up the steps, making his way for the exit.
But just as he started to leave through the concourse gate, he heard a murmur crop up among the crowd. Clay stopped when he heard a Dallas fan complain,
“Fuck! You gotta be kidding me! Kellar's back from that hit?”
Clay's heart raced. He stopped and turned, his eyes focusing on the bench. Sure enough, there he was: Rusty was hanging over the bench, eagerly waiting for his next shift.
Well I'll be god damned, Clay had thought to himself. Is he really okay?
He had to be. Or else there was no way they'd let him back out on the ice. Letting a player back out onto the ice with a concussion was a controversy waiting to happen.
Clay didn't return to his seat. He watched the next few seconds from the concourse gate. Rusty hopped back out on the ice, got his own revenge by bashing Bente into the boards, and then made a brilliant pinch into the o-zone. He called for the puck and got it. One-timer, boom, bar-down. With 6 seconds left in the game, you coul
d put a bow on it—the game was over and Rusty had just scored the game winner.
Clay watched with a glowing smile while Rusty absorbed all his well-deserved hugs and ass-pats from his teammates.
Hell of a player.
It always helped to see Rustin play in person. It helped Clay swallow the idea that things had turned out the way they were supposed to—even if it never really felt right to him.
***
Clay was still riding the high of victory when he made it back to his truck. He climbed in and merged into the slow-moving traffic. He turned on the sports radio station for the post-game wrap-up while he waited.
The broadcasters were talking about Dallas' loss. They focused on the game more from the Dallas side of things, naturally. A few interviews with the Dallas players.
He'd made his way out of traffic and was driving back to his hotel for the night, when the news broke:
“Columbus team officials say that defenseman Rustin Kellar suffered a concussion, but the effects weren't immediately apparent until after the game. That's when team officials say that the player collapsed in the hall-way outside the visitor's dressing room. He's been rushed to Parkland Hospital in Dallas for further examination and treatment.”
“Collapsed!” Clay's eyes bugged. “What the hell?”
Clay whipped the truck around on the road and banged his fist on the steering wheel. “Well why the hell would they let him back out there?!”
A short drive later, Clay found himself parked outside the hospital, listening to the radio, and nervously chewing his finger-nails as he waited for a further report.
When it didn't come, he found himself in the hospital's gift shop, browsing for something to purchase. And wondering if he wasn't making a huge mistake.
But he had to do something. He felt responsible for it all. In so many ways.
14
Heart
– Rust –
Rust laid in his hospital bed with ice bags on his head and over his eyes and an IV hooked up to his arm.
The puking had finally stopped. He'd been run through an MRI a couple different times, but when he actually asked the doctors what the results were, they were hard to pin down for answers. They all gave some slippery variation of the same story:
Well, y'see Rust, concussions are typically associated with grossly normal structural neuroimaging studies and tend not to show up on any magnetic-resonance imaging or CT scans.
He was also told a concussion, if he had one, had no known cure, and no estimable timeline before he would feel better. It could be a day … it could be months.
It could be never.
Rust listened to these speeches quietly, but the one thing he wanted to know was, “If you can't do anything for me, why the hell am I still here?!”
Because he'd lost consciousness for close to thirty seconds. Because he had complained of a severe headache. Because he'd complained of changes to his vision. The doctors wanted to rule out any intracranial structural injury.
Fine. Whatever. According to the tests, Rust appeared to be healthy. He was just a little dehydrated and suffering one hell of a bad headache.
Rust wanted to join the team and fly back home to Columbus, but the hospital doctors advised the team that he should stay overnight for more evaluation. Parkland had Dr. Davis, one of the most renowned concussion specialists in the world. And so the team ordered him to stay at Parkland.
Rust was pissed about it—but the team wasn't in the mood to bargain with him, especially after his earlier stunt.
(They told Rust that the team GM had apparently been on the phone with the league ever since the incident. The league was furious with Columbus for 'allowing' Rust to go back out on the ice. Apparently, Rust wasn't the only guy suffering from a bad headache that night.)
So, without much say in the matter, Rust stayed in the hospital overnight while his teammates flew back home to Columbus.
Still hurting and in a bad mood, Rust closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
***
Rust woke up in the middle of the night and saw a few bouquets of flowers at his bedside. The nurse had brought them in while he was sleeping.
Flowers? Must be from the boys.
They probably felt bad about having to leave him behind in Dallas, after all. He was sure they'd written him tons of funny comments in their cards, but he was too lethargic to actually reach over and grab the cards. Rust figured he'd shut his eyes and go back to sleep instead.
Until he saw the Hershey chocolate bar that was set on top of one of the accompanying cards.
Hershey? That's weird.
It was a strange coincidence, especially after the incident at the game—when he thought he'd seen Clay in the crowd.
Rust found a sudden strength, and his hand darted out to snatch up the candy bar and card. He opened the card and saw the familiar hand-writing, written in blue ink:
“Rusty,
Get well soon.”
It was signed, not with a name, but with a heart.
But as Rust looked closer, he realized there was something funny about the way that heart had been drawn. The first half of the heart was in blue ink. The other half of the heart was drawn in black ink.
Rust tapped his chin. It hurt his brain to think, but it didn't take a whole lot of brainpower to see that what had happened. Someone had originally signed this card with the letter “C,” but then chickened out later. Whoever this C-person was, they must have grabbed a different pen at the last moment, and turned that C into a heart instead.
Can it really be him, though?
Rust didn't know what to think about that. His resentment and anger ran deep.
Clay had abandoned him. Made himself unreachable. And now, after ten years of silence—supposing this really was him—Clay thought he could just selfishly reinsert himself into his life? On his own terms?
Nah, fuck that. Doubt it's even him anyway.
Rust tossed the flowers, card and candy bar into the trash. When the morning nurse asked if he was accepting visitors, he said no.
PART THREE:
Lost Time.
Two months later,
Spring 2017.
15
Meant to Be
– Clay –
“I don't need help!” Holly, one independent little firecracker, barked at Clay.
“Alright, alright.” Clay raised his hands and backed away from the 11 year old, red-headed girl. He watched as Holly slid her foot into the stirrup and, in one fluid motion, leapt into the air and gracefully mounted Rebel—who wasn't a huge horse, but she wasn't exactly small, either.
Clay turned to Holly's parents. “She was real wound up this morning.”
“Oh yeah?” Holly's father chuckled. “So was Holly, believe it or not.”
“Ha, yeah, I can see that. But yeah, Rebel always gets a little extra excited if we've got a little breeze in the air. I saddled her up earlier and let her run around for an hour, hoping she might get some of that vinegar out. But as you can see, she's not exactly short on spirit.”
The three stared and gawked as young Holly rode Rebel, a majestic red bay with tall white markings. Rebel and Holly trotted by, Holly whooping and hollering with glee.
The eight-year-old horse and the girl had a connection that was obvious from day one. Holly, despite her youthful boldness, was clearly a gentle soul. She kept a loose grip on the reins, which Rebel appreciated—her previous owners had made a habit of yanking her around by the bit. Apparently, they'd gone to battle with the horse over her 'rebellious' nature, not realizing that what the horse needed was a little extra freedom and room to operate. Forcing her to bend to their will had only made her stubborn and angry instead.
A little time with Clay helped work Rebel through those anger issues and gained her a little more tolerance. But what she really needed was someone who 'got' her.
And it was obvious from the moment that Holly and Rebel met a month and a half ago that they were meant for eac
h other, and their bond had quickly deepened since then. By now, Clay could tell when horse and owner were 'meant' to be. And he knew it was just a matter of time until that family took Rebel home. Holly just had to convince her parents. And once a girl like that got in her parents' ears, it was already over.
Of course, first things first, the adopting family needed to have the requisite land to have a horse. Clay had been out to the family's country ranch twice to check out their house and land—that was a standard part of the adoption process, to make sure they were the right family.
They were on a plot of 15 green, beautiful acres. Once mother and father embarrassingly admitted to Clay that they felt guilty about having 'all that land and no idea what to do with it,' Clay knew Holly had already won the battle. The parents were still in the process of coming to terms with it themselves.
But it was as solid as an adoption can be. Not a worry in Clay's mind. The father was some kind of big-wig oil exec, and the mother stayed home and home-schooled Holly. They'd enrolled her in various sports and activities throughout the years, hoping to find that one magic extra-curricular that would get her out of the house.
The funny thing was, she was telling them all along what she really wanted to be doing: riding horses. Her parents hoped something else, something cheaper, might catch her interest instead. Holly soldiered through girl scouts, soccer, swimming, archery, softball and more—but her demands to take riding lessons only grew louder and more urgent.
Two years ago, her parents finally relented and gave her what she wanted. Of course, the worst thing happened from the parents' point of view: Holly's love for horses only deepened, and her pleas shifted from 'taking horse riding lessons' to 'having a horse,' period.
Holly, a natural and talented rider, and Rebel went galloping by the group. Holly shouted, a high-pitched squeal of words that ran together, “I love her I love her I love her she's sooooooo beautiful!”
