by Van Barrett
“But how do you feel now?”
“Like my legs are made out of noodles?”
Rust stifled a laugh. “Well that's better, isn't it? Sounds like that means they feel looser.”
“Yeah … I guess so.”
“Trust me, if you do these every day, you're going to feel better. One minute of pain, that's all it is, and then you'll be feeling better. And they get easier with time.”
“Well shit, I sure hope they do!”
***
After his stretches, Clay's lunch break was over, and he had to return to work.
“Is there anything I can get for you?” he asked Rust.
“How about a job? I need something to do, Clay.”
Clay reared back cautiously. “You sure that's a good idea …?”
“I told you, I'm feeling better.”
“But shouldn't you take it—you know—a little slower?”
“Clay, you're the one who said how important it is for a horse to have a job. I can't just stay cooped up around here all day. I'm feeling better. I need to push myself.”
Clay gulped. “Yeah, yeah. I hear you. Alright. If you think that's best, I'm sure we can find something for you to do.”
Clay didn't feel great about it. Just yesterday, Rust was clearly worried and skittish about the smallest of things possibly setting off his concussion symptoms. Now he wanted to be doing work?
But Clay knew from first-hand experience just how driven—and stubborn—Rust could be. You couldn't tell him no.
So Clay found him an extra pair of slicker boots and took him outside to meet with Melissa.
“Hey, Melissa. You remember my friend Rust.”
“Yep! Hi Rust.”
“Good to see ya, Melissa.”
They shook hands again.
“He's feeling like helping out around the farm. Think you can find something for him?”
“Well … sure! Come with me, Rust, there's always something to do around here …”
Clay watched Melissa escort Rust to the horse stable. He felt rotten for having it, he knew he didn't even deserve to have it, but he had it all the same—a sinking in the pit of his stomach. It was the same feeling he got when Bergman went down with an injury all those years ago.
And Clay knew at that moment that he couldn't keep Rust here at the farm. He knew that their life together would still have to wait.
Only difference is, this time I can hopefully handle that fact.
29
Still Got It
– Rust –
Melissa took Rust into the stable and handed him off to Max, who was working up a sweat scooping up horse manure.
“Max, will you show Rust here how to clean out a stall?”
The youngster's eyes lit up. “Would I!”
Rust thanked Melissa. Then he turned to Max, only to see the kid staring at him, eyes filled with wonder.
“Man, you know, I have to say. Never in my life would I have guessed that I'd get to train an NHL player on how to pick manure. This is hilarious.”
“Well, get to it already, kid—before I change my mind.” Rust always liked to be a little gruff and snappy with the kids. Maybe that was something he'd picked up from his years of apprenticeship under Clay.
But hell, it always seemed to work.
Sure enough, Max jumped into action and showed Rust what to do. The stalls had a bedding, which was made out of some sort of clay, almost like cat litter. Max handed Rust a big fork, which he used to sift through the horse's bedding and extract the bigger clumps of manure. Each fork-load got tossed into a wheelbarrow. In the wet spots, where a horse had gone pee, he sprinkled baking soda to absorb the wetness and odor.
Actually, the whole process was pretty similar to scooping a cat's box, just on a bigger scale.
“So how often do you have to do this?” Rust asked as he grabbed a fork and began picking manure.
“Every day,” Max answered.
“Oh. Damn. Every last stall?”
“Yep, and there's fifty in all. I just started a few minutes ago, so we've got a good 40-some more to go.”
The two worked side by side, quickly finding a rhythm, picking and scooping manure until the wheelbarrow was full. And then Rust would trot the heavy thing off—not quite running but more spirited than a walk—through the pasture and to the point where all the manure was dumped.
It was good exercise, and that was what Rust wanted. And the great thing was, the harder Rust pushed himself, the better he felt. That fog that he'd felt in his head when he woke up? Totally gone. Physically, he felt great—besides at how weak he was. But that was a result of his inability to exercise for any meaningful length of time over the past two months.
Rust could see what Clay had meant about Max, too. He was kind of ridiculous kid—full of energy, a non-stop jabber mouth who really liked the sound of his own voice. And, yes, Max pitched Rust a few 'business ideas,' making some not so subtle hints at how easily Rust could finance his ideas with that NHL paycheck …
But Rust couldn't deny that Max was entertaining. He was a good kid, really. Actually, Max reminded Rust of the kids back in Columbus—and heck, some of those guys were even younger than Max.
After a couple of hours, they'd reached the end of the stable, and cleaned out every last stall. Their shirts were soaked with sweat.
“Damn,” Max muttered, “you work hard. That's the fastest I've ever seen those stalls get cleaned.”
Rust clapped the kid on the shoulder. “What else you got for me?”
***
Rust stayed busy until the end of the work day. He made sure the horses were fed with hay and grain and had plenty of water to drink. He spent some time grooming the horses, too. Really, he'd done everything around the farm today but ride a horse.
As the other employees finished up their days, they gathered in front of the house to talk and watch Clay work with Misty and Scout. The two horses still couldn't be separated without inducing a little panic, so Clay had to work with both horses together in the pen—but he was trying to keep mother and son feel calm and safe, while he slowly introduced the concept of being apart.
Rust chatted and milled around with Clay's employees while they watched their boss work his magic.
Liz, the vet, sidled up to Rust's side for a chat away from the rest of the co-workers' banter.
“So you're really feeling better, mm?” she asked. “Your concussion?”
“Yeah. I feel damn near 100% today. Only problem is I'm a little weak, but that's because I've been inactive for so long while I was holed up in a hotel.”
“You do seem a lot better today—you're a lot more lively and carefree. I can see it in your face, too.” She gave a sweet, motherly smile. And with that smile, Rust had the sense that Liz probably played the role of 'Mom' around here on the farm—especially for Clay. Because as independent as Clay was, he still needed someone to fuss over him. “You seem really refreshed. Clay, too, even though he's awfully tired today.”
Can Liz tell there's something between me and Clay? Rust felt a warmth in his cheeks, and hoped he wasn't blushing too brightly.
“Yeah, it was good, catching up with Clay last night. We stayed up probably a lot later than we should've.” Rust and Liz both turned to look at Clay as he stroked Misty's muzzle and spoke quietly to her. “But you know how it goes. Catching up on missed time with old friends.”
She nodded. “So you and Clay go pretty far back then, huh?”
“Oh, yeah. I hadn't seen him in way too long, but yeah.”
“Well, we're all just so glad you could come out and visit. You know—last night—we don't get to see that side of Clay too often. He keeps to himself most of the time. When he does talk, it's either about horses or … well … more horses. But hey, now we know we can pester him about hockey. He's gonna hate that.” She gave a devious smile.
Rust laughed. “Hey, it was a blast getting to meet you all. I can tell Clay loves you guys so much.”
<
br /> Out in the pen, Clay wrapped up what he was doing and moved Misty and Scout back into the stable. He joined everyone else in front of the house. The group stood and chatted for a few minutes, before people started leaving for their cars … when Clay noticed someone was missing.
“Hey, where the hell did Max go?”
His car was still in the driveway, so he hadn't left.
But Max didn't miss his cue. He came walking out of the barn with a huge smile, lugging a heavy bucket in one hand and a hockey stick in the other.
“Look what I found while me and Rust were cleaning up the storage barn, Clay!”
“Uh oh,” Clay groaned. “What the hell is this?”
“Beats me,” Rust said.
Max neared and dropped the plastic bucket in front of the two men. It was filled with black rubber pucks.
“What's this about, Max?” Clay asked.
“Uhh. Hello? Now that I know you're a former hockey star--”
“Ugh.”
“--I expect to get some free lessons from time to time. You know I play in a roller league, right?”
Max sprinted off to the wooden fence, about fifty feet away, and stacked a line of empty soup cans on top of it. Then he ran back.
“Tell me what you think of my wrister, guys.”
Max took the hockey stick and fired a wrist-shot at the soup cans. He missed badly—the puck sailed over the cans by a good 10 feet.
“Wow, nice shot,” Clay snickered sarcastically.
“Hey! I didn't get a chance to warm up.”
Max fired another shot. That one was lower, at least—but far too low, and it sputtered in the grass, another 10 feet shy of the target.
Clay groaned. “You're going to have to pick all those pucks up when you're done, Max.”
“I will!”
Another shot missed. And another, and another, and another. Finally, he at least hit the fence-post—though the puck was still nowhere near the cans. And, worse yet, the puck left a black pock-mark from where it had struck the white painted fence.
“Aw, shit, now you're fucking up my fence!”
Max rolled his eyes. “Let's see you do it then, Clay.”
Max held out the hockey stick. Clay eyed the stick suspiciously, grumbled, and finally reluctantly took it. He scooped a puck out of the bucket, settled the rubber biscuit on the pavement, took aim and fired a wrist-shot.
Plunk.
The aluminum can toppled over backwards and fell off the fence railing.
“Holy shit,” Max laughed. “He got it on his first try! You really did play hockey, Clay.”
Rust elbowed Clay. “Nice shootin', Tex, you still got the ol' wrister.”
Clay shook his head, unimpressed with himself. “I had to take a lot of mustard off my shot to pick the target. You should see what a real NHL talent can do, Max.”
Clay held the stick out and offered it to Rust.
Rust took it with a grin and set a puck in front of him. He locked his eyes on the can he wanted. Unlike out-of-practice Clay, Rust could put everything he had into a shot and still pick a target.
He rolled his wrists forward and rifled a laser at the cans.
Clunk!
The can exploded off the fence, shooting high into the air and landing somewhere in the tall grass.
“God damn!” Max cheered, both fists raised in the air
Rust smiled. He felt like showing off for the kid, as a little bit of a 'thank you' to Max for keeping him so entertained while they worked all day.
Rust grabbed another puck and this time, instead of firing a wrist-shot, he wound up for a slap-shot—a harder, heavier shot, but one that isn't nearly as accurate.
His stick hit the gravel road and blasted the puck, kicking up a plume of rocks and dust.
CLUNK!
The puck clobbered the can, sent it flying backwards, and stapled it into the grass.
Max just stared at where the can had been a second ago, his jaw hanging open in disbelief.
“You just did that with a slap-shot? No way … no way that just happened!”
Rust grinned and handed the stick back to Max. “Want a few pointers on your slapper?”
Max snatched the stick in a hurry. “Uh, yes please!”
Clay smiled from ear to ear. “You guys have fun. I'm gonna go clean up.”
30
Leo and Bolt
– Clay –
After a long, sleep-deprived day, Clay stripped out of his damp clothes and stepped into the shower.
He let out a fatigued-yet-satisfied groan as he brought the bar of soap over his hairy chest and worked up a heavy lather.
Nothing like a hard day's work, he thought.
Some combination of not sleeping all that well last night, and working his tail off, reminded Clay of his always-on-the-road hockey days. Back then, he ended every day feeling so physically exhausted, he practically fell asleep the second he hit the sheets.
It was a good feeling. A good reminder of the life he and Rust had once shared together.
Having Rust out on the farm was awesome. The staff loved him. Seeing the way he worked and spent time with Max was sweet as hell—especially the hockey lesson. Max could get under someone's skin in record time, but Rust didn't seem to mind him. All Max's antics rolled right off his back.
Clay was sure that Rust was a good, patient leader on his squad back in Columbus.
He was probably dying to get back into action and lead his team into the playoffs. That's why he was pushing himself so hard today—to make sure he was truly feeling good. Clay had forgotten what a Spartan warrior that kid was back in the day.
That was a bittersweet feeling.
Obviously, Clay wanted Rust to get better. But some selfish part of Clay had hoped that maybe, just maybe, Rust would decide to retire anyway and stay with him out on the farm.
Rust didn't have anything left to prove, after all. And concussions were scary shit. Even more scary, once you had one concussion, you were susceptible to having more and worse concussions. It was a risk for Rust to go back to that life. They both knew it.
But Rust was a hockey player. A true professional. A leader. He'd grown into the hockey player, the man, that Clay always knew he could be.
Clay already knew what Rust was going to tell him tonight. He could sense it in the air, the same way his horses started whining and smashing their hooves into their stalls when they knew a storm was coming.
It's our last night together, isn't it.
***
When Clay had finished cleaning up and put on a fresh pair of clothes, Rust was just saying his goodbyes to Max. Clay watched out the window. The two shook hands, hugged. And although Clay couldn't hear the words exchanged between them, he sensed this was a 'it was nice to meet you' type of goodbye.
Clay felt the same dry tightness in his throat anytime he had to part with a horse. It was always good to see them go off to a better situation, but … it always hurt on some level, too. You grew attached, and a part of you felt like it left with that horse.
Rust came back into the house. He wiped at his face, stopping a few beads of sweat as they raced down his temple. His shirt was soaked, the ends of his hair oily.
He smiled at Clay. That smile, those eyes—they were weighed down by something.
Clay piped up before he could say it.
“Bet you could go for a shower?”
“God, yeah.”
“I got you set up already. Everything's in the bathroom waiting for you. There's a change of clothes on the bed, too.”
“Thanks, Clay.”
When Rust went off, Clay hurried off to pack up a satchel with a few things and saddled up two of his favorite horses for riding, Leo and Bolt.
***
Twenty minutes later, Rust emerged in his fresh clothes and found Clay waiting on the couch in the living room.
“Feeling clean?” Clay asked.
“Oh yeah.”
“I was thinking we could h
ave a little outdoor picnic for dinner, if you're feeling up for it.”
“Sure man, that sounds great.”
Clay hopped up to his feet and slung the satchel over his shoulder.
“What's in the bag?”
Clay grinned. “Oh, nothin', just some food and things. Come with me.”
Clay led Rust out the front door, where Leo and Bolt were saddled up and waiting to go.
Rust's eyes lit up when he saw the two horses. “We're going for a ride?”
“Yup. You ever ride horseback before?” Clay asked.
“Nope. Should I be worried?”
“We're just riding up the trails. Besides, Leo's real calm. Here, give him a pet. The other guy is Bolt.”
Rust stroked his horse and got to know him a little before Clay helped him up on the saddle. Then Clay hopped on Bolt and gave Rust some instructions before they rode.
“Thing is, these are very, very patient horses that have been up and down these trails so many times, and with a ton of kids and inexperienced riders. So they're basically on auto-pilot, and there's not much you have to do as a rider. But it's all about balance, Rust, just try to move with the horse. If you want him to slow down, yeah, you can gently pull back on the reins. But, like I said, balance is key, and instead of pulling on the reins you could put your weight deep in the saddle, and lean back gently, slightly. These horses are sensitive and smart, and if you move with them, they'll know what you want by how you move. It doesn't take a heavy hand.”
“Okay, I think I got it. How do I make him go forward?”
“Give him a light squeeze with the inside of your calves. Real light, though. Don't kick him like you see in the movies.”
Rust squeezed the horse and Leo started moving forward.
“Whoa!” Rust laughed. “He's going!”
“Praise him! Tell him he's a good boy and pet him.”
“Good boy,” Rust said, petting the horse's neck.
“Alright, Bolt, let's go.” Clay gave Bolt a squeeze and he trotted ahead of Rust and Leo to lead, and the two horses headed for the winding, tree-covered trails.
