Ice Time

by David Skuy

  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.

  The whistle sounded, and Rocket backhanded the puck behind him and continued across to the bench. That felt good.

  A defenceman threw an elbow into Rocket’s shoulder as he skated by. Rocket spun and fell to the ice.

  “Didn’t they teach you to keep your head up in junior?” the defenceman said. He skated off.

  “Get up, Rockwood. You can have a nap later,” Barker yelled. “Get back for another draw.”

  Rocket growled under his breath. But rookies had to earn respect. He got that.

  Strauss lined up exactly as before. It looked like he was gripping his stick tightly, and his eyes were blazing. Rocket knew that look — too stressed, too uptight. Strauss wanted to win the draw too badly.

  Kaufman held the puck out. Strauss went early and swung his stick. Kaufman pulled the puck back. Technically, Strauss should be out of the circle. Rocket stood up and rolled his shoulders back.

  “Put your stick down, Rockwood. Geez. Hurry up,” Barker said.

  Rocket ignored him and set up. The puck dropped. Rocket drove his top hand forward and pulled back on his left hand, which was lower. His blade nicked the puck and sent it back between his feet, and in the same motion, he spun into Strauss to block him from pressuring the puck carrier.

  Rory did a nice job boxing Goldsy out, so the defenceman Rocket had passed to had nothing but open ice. He rounded the net and gave Rocket a soft pass. Again, the opposing defencemen had to give up the blue line. Rocket crossed the line and then snapped a very hard pass to the defender who’d elbowed him — just to give him something to think about. He curled back to the defensive zone to set up against Strauss again.

  Rocket didn’t know much about Strauss as a player, but it was tough to move from wing to centre if you weren’t used to taking draws. Still, he needed to work on his faceoffs.

  McGill pulled on Kaufman’s sleeve and said something to him.

  “Straussy, take a seat,” Kaufman said. “C.C., take his spot.”

  Strauss hung his head and skated slowly to the bench. A few guys tapped his shin pads.

  Rocket bent over, stick across his knees. Huge test. C.C. was very skilled. He hadn’t lost many draws. He was a right-handed shot, and he favoured the reverse grip.

  The draw was still to the goalie’s left, which meant C.C. would be trying to send the puck to his right defenceman near the boards. Rocket looked over to Rory and ever-so-slightly nodded at the faceoff dot. Rory nodded back.

  Rocket was loving Rory. He totally understood: Rocket would tie C.C. up, and Rory would come over and take the puck.

  Barker held the puck over the dot. For some reason he’d taken over from Kaufman.

  “Set up, already,” he said to Rocket.

  “I’m coming,” Rocket said.

  Barker just dropped the puck. C.C. whisked it back to the right point.

  “What was that?” Rocket said.

  Rory and Goldsy straightened up. They assumed Barker would call it back.

  He didn’t.

  The puck went to the left defenceman. C.C. slipped past Rocket as the defenceman let the puck go. The goalie stopped it with his right pad, but the puck dropped in front. C.C. grabbed the rebound, cut left with the puck on his backhand and flipped it high into the net over the goalie’s arm.

  “How was that a faceoff?” Rocket said to Barker.

  Barker jabbed him in the chest with a finger. “You cost your team a goal. Pros don’t give up on a play. Ever. You’d better figure that out real quick, or it’ll be the East Coast League for you — which is probably where you belong.” He turned away. “C.C., nice hands in front.”

  Rocket was too angry to talk. He gripped his stick tightly, shifted his weight back and forth on his skates and set up for the draw. Ridiculous.

  “Take a seat, Rockwood,” Barker said. “Watch how the professionals play. Beauclair, take defensive centre.”

  Rocket popped his mouthguard out and skated off. No one said a word to him. He reached behind the boards for some water, tilted his head back and took a long sip.

  Suddenly, he got the feeling he was being watched. He lowered the bottle and looked across the ice. McGill and Kaufman were looking right at him. Kaufman turned and began talking to McGill. The head coach merely nodded, his face cold and hard. Rocket lowered his gaze.

  Barker dropped the puck. C.C. knocked it to the wall.

  Rocket put the water down and pressed his back against the boards.

  “Bring it, Rockwood,” he whispered to himself.

  CHAPTER 9

  Nadav was coming out of the dressing room, and he held the door for Rocket, who was coming in.

  “Getting in a little extra skate?” Nadav said.

  Rocket had stayed out after practice to take some shots. He shrugged. “I watched most of the practice. Needed to work off some energy.”

  Nadav smiled warmly. “I was watching. You can really move out there. They call you Rocket, right?”

  “That’s more to do with my last name — Rockwood.”

  Nadav chuckled. “Maybe.”

  Rocket was embarrassed to admit the real reason he’d stayed out — to show off his skills. Hopefully, one of the coaches had been watching.

  He would work hard on his defensive game. He’d comm
it to that. But like André said, NHL teams paid the big bucks for goal scorers, and that’s what Rocket was.

  Looking at the clock, he saw he was pushing it. He’d agreed to meet someone in an hour to see an apartment. It didn’t look like the nicest place, but it was close to the rink. He had three other places to see after that one. He sat and began untying his skates. The guys were joking around, the usual dressing-room banter.

  This was hardly Rocket’s first new team. He knew the drill. Keep quiet and be cool. Prove yourself on the ice first, and then the guys would accept you. Rory was talking with C.C. and Goldsy. Rory didn’t have to prove himself. He’d played more games in the NHL than anyone in this room.

  C.C. showed Goldsy his phone. “Yeah, that’s right. I’ll be golfing with Ray-Ray in an hour.”

  Goldsy gave C.C. a shove. “So what? You carrying his bag?”

  “It’ll be golf carts all the way,” C.C. said. “You know Ray-Ray. He’s too lazy to walk the course.”

  Rocket wondered who Ray-Ray was. C.C. didn’t seem to think much of him.

  “R.C. Cola, you golfing much these days? I could see if Floyd needs someone,” C.C. said.

  Floyd was the owner. Did the guys call him Ray-Ray?

  “Thanks, bro, but I’ll take a pass,” Rory said. “I haven’t played in a couple of seasons. I’m going to hit the bike and then stretch.” He unstrapped his knee brace.

  Nadav came back in, cleared this throat and nodded at Strauss. “Floyd wants to talk to you, Straussy. In Blywood’s office.”

  “My wife’s waiting for me in the stands,” Strauss said. “Can we talk tomorrow before the game? I’ll come in early.”

  Nadav’s eyes softened. He looked sad. “They want to do it now. Sorry.”

  The room quieted down. Rocket felt bad for Strauss. He didn’t know the guy, but he had a feeling he was in for a serious lecture about faceoffs. His wife would have to wait a little longer.

  “Tell them … tell them, I’ll be there in a minute,” Strauss said.

  “Sure, Straussy. No problem.” Nadav backed up to the door. “Guys, don’t forget to leave your stuff out to dry,” he said to rest of the team. “We’ll run the fans today.”

  “You’ll never get the stink out of Goldsy’s equipment,” C.C. said. “He gets pretty nervous in the corners.”

  “I might not shower, I smell so good,” Goldsy said. He struck a body-builder pose.

  C.C. threw a towel at him.

  “Listen up, boys,” C.C. said when Nadav had gone. “Ray-Ray will be speaking to us before the game tomorrow, so get here a little early and watch the language. He’ll be bringing Queen Stella, too. Apparently, she’s our good-luck charm.”

  “Please don’t tell me she’s singing the anthem,” Goldsy said.

  “It’s opening night,” C.C. said with a grin.

  Goldsy towelled the sweat from his head. “I need a daddy like Floyd’s. All my dad ever bought me was some hockey sticks. Floyd gets an AHL team.”

  “Speaking of money, Ray-Ray better be in a generous mood and feed me this afternoon,” C.C. said. “There has to be some perk to hanging out with him.”

  He headed toward the showers, but stopped in front of Strauss. “I’ll give you a call later,” he said quietly.

  Strauss nodded, then got up and shook hands with a few guys. After he left, they leaned their heads together and began to whisper.

  “Floyd must be a fearsome guy,” Rocket said to Rory. “Strauss looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

  “At this point, Strauss would probably rather see a ghost,” Rory said. “Hey, what’s the deal with you and Barker?”

  Rocket told him about Barker taking over his minor bantam team, then about his run-in with Barker at the junior draft. Finally, he talked about how they’d gotten into it during the games that followed.

  “You should probably fix that,” Rory said. “Barker strikes me as a guy who’s full of himself. Butter him up by asking him to explain something — the simpler, the better. Gives him a chance to sound like a hockey genius, and it’ll make him think you’re in awe. Do it a few times, and he should get off your back. He totally hosed you on that faceoff, by the way, so don’t worry about it.” He headed off to shower.

  Rocket stacked his equipment to dry. He and Barker seemed to be connected in some strange way. They kept running into each other. Hockey was a fairly small world, so maybe it wasn’t that weird. But couldn’t the guy let go of something that had happened ages ago? Rocket had only been twelve!

  Rory was right. Rocket would butter Barker up and ask for advice. The “suck up” was the perfect play.

  He felt better already. Hopefully, the apartment would be okay, and he’d get that out of the way. Then tomorrow he’d have the best game of his life.

  CHAPTER 10

  Rocket choked back a cough as the bus pulled away, leaving a belch of black smoke. That trip took a lot longer than he’d thought — forty minutes. He should have checked the distance to the arena. There’d be a lot of travel time if he lived here.

  The first three places he’d looked at were near the arena, but they were crazy expensive. Plus, they weren’t furnished, so he’d have to spend a fortune on furniture and kitchen stuff.

  This was the last viewing he’d booked. If this didn’t pan out, he’d have to stay in the hotel even longer. At this rate, he wouldn’t have anything left to send home for Maddy’s tuition.

  He looked around. This place reminded him of his old neighbourhood, and that wasn’t a good memory. The buildings were old and grey, the stores generally rundown and small — ma-and-pa shops, or fast food. He noticed a dingy second-hand clothing store and a lot of bars.

  He checked the address on his phone. This was definitely it — 78 Headley Avenue. It was a squat, ugly red-brick apartment building with small balconies running up each side of the front. A few units had air conditioners sticking out of windows. Rocket pressed the superintendent button.

  “Hello?” a man said.

  “Hi … It’s Bryan Rockwood. I emailed you about the place for rent.”

  “Who is it?” Rocket heard a woman ask.

  “Someone is here to see the room,” the man said.

  The door buzzed, and Rocket went into the lobby.

  The room? How small was the apartment?

  To his right, he noticed a door with a gold nameplate: Superintendent. The door opened, and a short, slight man with thick black hair and a big smile stepped out. His eyes were bright, his movements quick and decisive, and his handshake was firm. Rocket took an instant liking to him.

  “Very nice to meet you, Bryan. I am Ricardo, but everyone calls me Ritchie, ever since I was a little boy. I am thirty-six years old, and still I am called by my boy name.” He laughed heartily and motioned Rocket to come into his apartment.

  “That’s kind of a coincidence — you’re thirty-six and that’s my new hockey number,” Rocket said.

  Ritchie’s eyes grew big. “You are a hockey player? I was thinking you are here for schooling. We get many students in this place. But who do you play with?” His English wasn’t the best, and he had a heavy accent. Rocket wondered where he came from.

  “I’m playing for the Pinewood Racers, the AHL team.”

  “My son loves hockey very much. I do not understand it well, but I like it, too. We play mostly football where I come from — what you call soccer.” He paused. “The Racers play hockey at the Pinewood Barns, yes?”

  “That’s right.”

  “My wife is working there, as a cleaner.” Ritchie’s smile faded. “They do not treat her very nice. But it gives more pay than fast food places.” Suddenly, his good humour seemed to return, and he laughed. “We knew we would be making much sacrifices to come here, but our children will have a better life. So we will work hard. Anyway, please come in and see the room.”

  But instead of leading Rocket to another apartment, he pointed into his own unit.

  “The room is where exactly?” Rocket said.


  “Rafa and Leona will move in together, and you can take Rafa’s room,” Ritchie said. “It is a little small, the room, but very nice — and it has a window that you can open and get fresh air.”

  Rocket wasn’t worried, more like confused. They wanted him to live here — with them?

  He noticed a picture on the wall. Ritchie was in a white coat standing in front of a big building.

  “Is this a picture of where you work?” Rocket asked.

  Ritchie slapped Rocket on the back and laughed loudly. “This is from home, when I was younger. We are from El Salvador. Have you heard of it?”

  “It’s in Central America,” Rocket said, “surrounded by Guatemala, Nicaragua and Honduras.”

  Ritchie looked shocked.

  “I was on the school trivia team for a few years,” Rocket said. “I’m a bit of a trivia geek.”

  “I am very impressed. Young people usually have not heard of my country, and they never know where it is located.”

  Rocket pointed a finger gun at Ritchie. “Capital city — San Salvador.”

  “You are correct. Very good knowledge of geography. We arrive in this country four years ago. It was hard until we learned English — my English is still not so good. But my children speak perfect, and my wife is very good also.” He shrugged. “I work as a cleaner for a big company, and I also do the job of superintendent of this building. So, you would like to see the room, yes?”

  “Okay,” Rocket said, going with it. He’d been imagining his own apartment, but he was used to living with families.

  Ritchie led him down a short hallway into the living room. “Mi amor, come meet Bryan,” Ritchie called out.

  A woman came out of the kitchen drying her hands on a dish towel. She was small and slight, like Ritchie, but more delicate looking. Her eyes were striking: a deep blue, with a thin ring of bluish green on the outside. She was pretty, but she looked tired.

  She was also oddly familiar. Rocket couldn’t place her at first. Then he remembered, the cleaner at the arena, upstairs by the Racers’ office.

  She offered him a brief smile and seemed to recognize him, too. “We have been talking about taking in a boarder.” She spoke with an accent like Ritchie, but her voice was softer.