Penny beamed, a distinct twinkle of mischief in her eyes. “Yes, you do, Breezy girl. Yes, you certainly do.” She patted the seat next to her. “Scoot over, sunshine. Amy, order us some chicken wings. Tutoring session has commenced.”
This was so weird.
He had only ever entered this building with his bag slung over his shoulder and a bagel in his hand, so walking up this particular sidewalk empty-handed was the strangest sensation he’d known in some time.
Clint shook his head, shoving his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, wishing he had listened to himself and just forgotten this whole thing. Why did he need to reconnect with old teammates and touch base with his hockey roots anyway?
As he glanced up at the building, two things registered: the building looked exactly the same, and it looked horrible.
It had needed upgrades when he left, and the last he knew, those upgrades had been forthcoming. The only thing he could tell was even remotely different was that the place had aged. It showed more wear and tear, less cleaning, less landscaping, and absolutely no upkeep.
A few kids raced by him, their hockey bags as big as they were, and they darted up the stairs ahead of him. He smiled at that, wondering if they were excited, apprehensive, or both. He had only been late to a practice or two in his entire life, and there was no forgetting that fear. Coach Hal Fenwick, legend that he was, expected and demanded the very best a player had to offer, and the commitment to go with it. Late arrivals paid for their infractions with the dreaded Tardy Drills, and even the workouts he endured today paled in comparison.
Emotionally, anyway.
Physically, it was different. The work he put in now was by far more intense, but during those Tardy Drills, you knew death was imminent.
“Respect our time,” Coach Hal would say, “and we’ll respect yours. Respect the sport, and it will respect you. Respect your teammates, and they will respect you. Respect yourself, and the rest of the world will too. Respect is given, and respect is earned. Give it, and earn it.”
Respect. Maybe that was the driving force keeping his feet moving towards this building full of memories.
The ice of this place had shaped him into the player he was today; the lessons of this place had made him into the man he was.
He exhaled slowly as he reached the top of the steps, his hand going to the bar of the door.
No turning back now.
With a yank, the door swung open, and Clint was hit with a wall of memories. The smell, the sounds, the annoying buzzing of the lights overhead, and the edge of frost to the air that reminded you ice was near. Home away from home back then, and just as familiar to him now.
Who’d have thought?
He followed the main hallway, past the glass cases with team trophies and photos, and took the first flight of stairs up to the boardrooms. He could hear the whistles of coaches in the distance and the sound of blades against ice, and he suddenly had the feeling that he would much rather go there than where he was headed now. He was a hockey player first and foremost, and he’d much rather battle out whatever was coming out there than up here.
He knew how rough the ice could be; he had no idea what to expect from this.
“Here goes nothing,” he muttered to himself as he hesitated outside of the boardroom, then turned the handle and pushed the door open.
Four guys sat around a huge table, and they all looked at him when he entered.
“Well, well, well,” the biggest one said, turning in his chair, black baseball cap backwards on his head, drumming his fingers on the wood of the table. “If it isn’t Mr. Semper Fi himself.”
The coolness in the tone was unmistakable, but there wasn’t anything to be done about that now.
Clint nodded once. “Zane.”
A corner of Zane’s mouth lifted, and he startled Clint by pushing up to his feet and extending a hand. “Should have started with this the other day in St. Louis.”
Blinking, Clint took his hand, shaking it hard. “Good to see you.”
“Good to be seen.” Zane grinned in his usual way. “My biggest fear, you know. Not being seen.”
“Mmm, pretty sure everybody sees you coming.” Clint dropped the handshake, sliding his hands back into his coat. “Except for me in St. Louis.”
Zane showed zero remorse, but there was also zero anger. “That was a good one.”
Clint shook his head, unable to keep from laughing to himself. Zane hadn’t changed a bit. “I wondered if it was a sign of affection.”
“Nah.” Zane shook his head, shrugging. “Just knew I could get in a good hit without someone thinking it was personal.”
“I did think it was personal.”
“Yeah, I just felt like hitting you.”
Clint raised a brow at him. “And the elbow?”
“Okay, that was personal.”
“Why?”
Zane folded his arms, his upper-arm tattoo of a sabercat, the mascot of Northbrook, peeking out from the sleeve of his T-shirt. “You don’t write, you don’t call . . . ”
Clint scoffed a laugh. “Neither do you.”
“Let’s not focus on me right now.”
“Give it a rest, Zamboni,” another voice called out from the table. “Let the man come in, at least.”
Zane grinned and turned around, returning to his seat. “You know what, Diesel? I’m tired of your opinions.”
“Tough, man.”
Clint managed a weak sigh of relief as he removed his jacket and took a seat at the table, nodding in greeting at the intimidating guy giving Zane a hard time. Trane “Diesel” Jones was one of the toughest people Clint had ever met, let alone played with. Came from a rough part of the city, grew up just as rough. But turned it all around with just a few years in the Northbrook programs. Now he was one of the slickest goalies in the league, as well as one of the most feared and respected.
“Sup, Fido?” he greeted with a small smile. “You look good, man.”
“Thanks.” Clint glanced over at Dice, who gestured a salute with two fingers. They’d just played in Denver and had caught up a little then, so he didn’t feel the need to talk much.
That had been a huge relief. Dice’s reaction to seeing him had given him the final nudge he’d needed to make the trip to Chicago. If Zane wasn’t going to line him up for another hit, maybe this whole thing would be worth it.
“Since when did you get a new name, man?” Rocco asked from his chair, rocking back and forth like it sat on some porch in the country. “You stop liking McTrouble?”
Clint smiled at the reminder. “You’re the only person who ever called me that, you know.”
“Shoulda stuck with it.” Rocco shook his head in disappointment. “Could have been famous.”
“Fido’s a pretty good name,” Trane pointed out. “Plus he’s a Marine. It works.”
“I didn’t say it didn’t work, I just said the other one was better.”
“No, it wasn’t,” the other three said as one.
Rocco threw his hands up. “Where’s Jax? He’ll back me up.”
The door opened just at that time, and it was clear that Jax had caught the end of Rocco’s statement. “Not likely. No offense, Rocco.”
A chuckle went around the table, and Clint turned to greet Jax, who looked a little too serious for his liking but nodded at Clint anyway.
Jax was followed into the room by a middle-aged man with a receding hairline in a suit. The guy was built like a hockey player, but he was clearly a has-been at this point. His smile at the gathering was tight and did nothing to make Clint feel better.
“Hey, boys,” Jax said, standing at the head of the table, his thumbs hooking into the pockets of his jeans. “Thanks for coming out. I know we’re all busy, but this is important.” He gestured to the man in the suit. “This is Deacon White, chairman of the board here. He wants a word.”
And just like that, Jax sat down in the nearest chair, his attention immediately going to Mr. White.
Mr. White moved to the head of the table. “Gentlemen. Thanks for showing up. I knew if we got Jax here to send the message out, we’d get a better response than if I did it myself. I’m a Northbrook alum myself, played here in the ’90s. Not quite as good as you all—I never went pro—but some of my best memories are in there on that ice.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the rink.
Clint found himself nodding, more inclined to listen to someone who not only knew the sport but knew Northbrook.
“Jax told you that I am chairman of the board here,” Mr. White went on with a sigh. “The truth of the matter is . . . I am the board.”
Clint blinked hard, positive he’d heard the man wrong.
Rocco’s incessant rocking stopped. “Say what?”
Mr. White nodded. “There is no board of directors at Northbrook anymore. There’s just me.”
Jax sat forward, his eyes narrowing. “Since when? There used to be all kinds of positions on this board. What happened?”
“Maybe seven years ago, a couple of major businesses that had been supporting us couldn’t afford to donate anymore.” Mr. White shrugged. “Then some other local companies opted out. After that, we had to increase fees to keep up the cash flow, and that didn’t go over well. Parents didn’t want to pay, the scholarship program couldn’t be supported, and numbers started going down. When numbers went, so did interest.”
Clint raised his hand, his brow furrowing.
“Mr. McCarthy,” Mr. White invited, pointing at him.
“I think, out of us here”—he paused to look around at the table—“I’m the most recent Northbrook alum. When I left, all of the talk was about the new facility. I remember my parents talking about it, the plans were approved, and the funding was in place . . . ”
Mr. White nodded along with everything Clint was saying, his expression never changing. “We were in negotiations for final details of all of that when we started losing our funding. Money had to be diverted towards things we needed most. Equipment for the kids, travel expenses, tournament fees, scholarships . . . ” He offered a helpless shrug. “Northbrook is dying. We don’t even have a full squad in the elite program anymore. Camps are a joke, the feeder programs just trickle in. We have people who only come because, and I quote, ‘there isn’t anything better to do,’ so you can imagine what that does for our reputation. There’s no money for advertising, and clearly there’s no money for upkeep. We’re bleeding out, fellas. The only people on staff here anymore are Coach Hal Fenwick and me.”
That took a moment to sink in, and Clint, for one, slumped back hard against his seat.
How had such a dominant and popular program gone so far downhill so fast? The waiting list for even the feeder programs had been insane growing up, and it sounded like there wasn’t even a need for one now. The team parents of Northbrook had been incredible, and the board always fully staffed with capable, intelligent people who were invested in the programs and in the community. He couldn’t even count all of the fundraisers, service projects, community outreach, and a dozen other things they had done as a team and as a program.
All of that was gone now?
“Coach Fenwick is still around?” Trane asked with a slight smile. “That’s something.”
Mr. White did not return the smile. “Fenwick wants to retire. He’s been doing this for forty years now, and he’s tired.”
“So why doesn’t he?” Dice gestured for emphasis, a furrow deep in his brow. “There has always been a team of assistant coaches here. Surely someone would be happy to come take over.”
“A dying program with no money?” Mr. White shook his head. “Believe me, Declan, I’ve put out more feelers than I’d care to admit. No one is interested in taking over Northbrook as is. And if Fenwick goes now, the program will die out with him. And that’s not an exaggeration. I’ve asked about that too.”
No one had a response to that. The clock on the wall ticked in perfect time, each second seeming to be an agonizing reminder of what they had just been told.
Northbrook couldn’t go under. The cases down in the hall held relics from teams past that had won their divisions, even gone on to national championships. If they were to track it down, Clint was sure the number of former Northbrook players who had gone into the pros would be astounding.
The two kids he’d seen racing into the building suddenly returned to his mind. Did they have the passion for hockey that every kid who’d skated on that ice in earlier years had? Or were they some of the newer ones who’d only come because there was nothing else to do?
“So what do you need from us?” Jax asked slowly. “Money? A news spot?”
For the first time since he’d entered the room, Mr. White looked as old as he must actually be. “Honestly, I don’t know at this point. All I know is we need help, and you six are probably in the best position to help me figure out what we can do.”
Clint stared, wide-eyed, then looked around at the others and found similar expressions of near shock and an almost windswept look. He didn’t know about the others, but he wasn’t exactly rolling in massive amounts of money. He’d only just been called up; his contract wasn’t even worth fighting over yet. He couldn’t fight over it yet.
He had nothing to offer in the efforts to save Northbrook.
“Okay,” Zane said slowly, sitting forward to rest his elbows on the table. “Let’s brainstorm.”
An hour later, and no good ideas had come from them. Creative ideas, sure, but nothing actually feasible. It was one of the most discouraging meetings Clint had ever had to sit in, and he’d made it a point to avoid the type of work and life where meetings, other than team ones, were a necessity.
Silently, the six players and Mr. White filed out of the boardroom.
“Well, if you guys think of anything, let me know,” Mr. White said with a tired smile. “I know it’s a lot to take in. Email, call, text, whatever, if you think of anything or need more information.”
They all made some sort of farewell grumble as he waved and walked away from them, leaving the group standing there.
“Well, that sucked,” Zane said, leaning back against the wall.
Dice shook his head. “I never thought the club would tank like this. It was always a beast, you know?”
“I wouldn’t be a hockey player at all if it weren’t for this place,” Trane admitted bluntly as he looked around. “Never could have afforded this without scholarships. If not for Northbrook, I’d straight up be in jail for sure.”
“I didn’t know he meant that kind of trouble,” Jax murmured, looking almost lost. “I thought they might need us to give the club a boost or something, not actually save the place.”
Rocco grunted. “Think Daddy Money can buy the team out, Golden Boy?”
“Rock . . . ” Dice warned, shaking his head.
Jax didn’t rise to the bait, Clint was relieved to see. “I won’t pretend it hasn’t crossed my mind, but even if he did, he’d put himself on the board, and that wouldn’t help anybody.” He ran a hand over his hair. “Even if we had the kind of money to save the place, it’s not like it would keep things sustainable.”
“Sounds real smart, Jax,” Zane interjected from the wall. “Almost sounds like you went to college.”
“Clint went,” Dice pointed out.
All eyes turned to Clint.
He held up his hands in surrender. “Uh, I did two years of juco to rehab my knee and keep in shape, and that is all that can be said for my educational background.”
Zane thumped his head against the wall three times. “Well, I got nothing, but I don’t really think off the ice. You boys wanna skate?”
They all perked up at the suggestion. “Is the ice free?” Rocco asked eagerly.
“Who cares?” Zane shot back. “We’re the big time, and we’re alum. I say we just do it.”
Nobody had any better ideas or particularly strong objections, so they walked o
ver to the stands of the rink, watching the last few skaters finish up drills.
It was nostalgic and tragic at the same time. The kids were laughing and teasing each other, calling out encouragement and heckles just like they used to do. The drills were just as familiar to Clint now as they had ever been then, and in fact, they’d done a more advanced version of this drill in practice just the other day.
The tragic part was seeing the kids themselves. Not one of them had the sort of hockey gear they ought to have training with Northbrook. There had once been a standard set of equipment that each player received when they joined, and as the players grew, new ones were ordered. There had been practice jerseys in the traditional green or white of the team, always fairly clean and in good conditions, but these kids were playing in faded, torn, falling-apart jerseys.
They could have even been the same ones Clint and the others had worn when they had been their age.
This wasn’t Northbrook; this was something else entirely.
But the love of hockey was there. He could see it in each of the kids’ faces. Coach Hal wasn’t even on the ice; it was a few of the older boys running these drills for the younger kids.
“Boy, does that take me back,” Dice said to no one in particular.
Nods rippled around the group, then Zane gestured for them all to follow him down the stairs to the locker rooms, though any of them could have led. It was a path they could have done in their sleep, and probably had done for some of their early morning practices.
They each picked up a pair of skates from the stockroom, though none of them were particularly high quality, and headed out to the rink, the kids from the ice passing them on their way in. No one paid them any attention, none of them were recognized, and it wasn’t until they got out to the ice itself, where the older kids were picking up equipment, that a word was even said.
“Hey,” Zane called to one of them, gesturing as he skated. “You mind if we borrow a few sticks and a puck?”
The teen’s eyes went wide as he looked up at Zane, obviously recognizing him. “You’re . . . you’re . . . ”
“Just an old Sabercat looking for some practice,” Zane finished with a grin. “That okay with you?”
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