Page 52

“I don’t want to do this anymore. Hockey’s stupid!” echoed across the community center ice.

Rusty looked away from his little group of players toward the other side of the rink where Isaiah faced off against a frustrated twelve-year-old.

They’d split the group into kids who could skate and kids who couldn’t, and Rusty took the actual players so Isaiah could focus on the learn-to-skate group.

After a week, they were making better progress, but not without grumbles.

“I hear you,” Isaiah said to the boy. “But learning new stuff is power.” As a big Black man who’d played college defense and now worked construction, Isaiah looked like a guy who knew about power.

“See, someone says to you, ‘Hockey’s the best sport,’ and you say, “Nah, man, can’t compete with football.

’ Then they say, ‘What the fu-udge you know about it? You probably don’t even know how to skate.

’ Right now, you have to give them that point.

But by the end of the summer, you can say, “Hell, yeah, I know how to skate. Even played a little hockey with a pro coach. And I still say it sucks compared to football.’ Say that, and you win the argument. Amiright?”

Young TJ peered up at Isaiah, his head tilted. “Who’s the pro coach?”

“Rusty over there.” Isaiah waved in Rusty’s direction. “Weren’t you listening last week? He plays for the Gryphons.”

“Hah. Aren’t they, like, the lowest league?”

A new voice said from behind the glass, “Give Rusty Dolan a couple of years and he’ll be tearing up the NHL with the Rafters.” Cross crutched his way into view behind the boards.

“Wow!” one of the kids in Rusty’s group said. “That’s LaCroix!”

Isaiah pivoted to look. “Hey! I wasn’t expecting you, but welcome! Guys, this is Roger LaCroix from the Rafters. Speaking of pros. Stanley Cup winner. Norris Trophy winner.”

“Thanks.” Cross moved along to the door. “Rusty said I could stop by and see how his guys were doing.”

“You two know each other?”

“Sure do,” Rusty said. “I spent last summer working on Scott Edison’s ranch. I know a bunch of the guys.” Was that casual enough?

A tall boy in his hockey group said, “Is Edzie here? Cool!” He looked around as if Scott might appear out of thin air.

Cross mock-glared. “What am I? Chopped liver?”

Rusty saved the red-faced teen who was scrambling for words, by saying, “No, Scott’s in Kansas on his ranch with his two partners.”

“That’s so fucked,” one of the older boys muttered to the boy beside him.

“Oh, I bet Scott gets well fucked,” Rusty agreed, then added, “Sorry,” to Isaiah.

Isaiah waved him off. “Nothing they haven’t heard and Nathan, you want to be hateful? You keep that crap to yourself.” He turned to Cross. “You gonna maybe stick around, see the guys skate?”

“Absolutely. Show me what you’ve got.”

Isaiah said, “My guys will skate a lap around, then Rusty, you get something going with yours.”

While the non-skaters showed off their developing skills, Rusty divided his crew into pairs for a passing drill. He sent them up the ice, passing the puck back and forth between them. His top pair did a decent job, the rest were ragged. When they were done, they gathered in front of Cross.

“Good to see you guys working hard in the off season,” Cross said.

Then he proceeded to give a constructive word of praise to each skater.

“Nice long glides.” “Good bend to the knees.” And to the hockey pairs, “You were faster than your partner but you held back and didn’t outskate the passes.

Good job.” “You chased down the one that hopped over your stick. Good hustle.”

Rusty knew his mouth was hanging open by the end of that. “How the hell did you remember all that?”

Cross raised a cool eyebrow. “Didn’t you?”

“Man,” one of the boys told Cross. “You have, like, an electric memory.”

“Eidetic,” the kid next to him muttered, then flushed. “Whatever.”

“I do have a good memory,” Cross agreed.

“You might not think that’s much help in hockey, but it is.

I watch a lot of game tape, so if I see Nat Johnson from the Orcas coming at me with the puck at the blueline, I can remember that more than half the time, he’s going to try to bounce it off the boards to get around me, so in this case, I don’t play the man, I play the puck.

With a good move, I can steal that sucker right out from under him and head the play back up the ice. ”

“So that’s why you’re so good,” Rusty teased. “You cheat.”

“I don’t cheat ,” Cross protested. “I study.”

“He really does,” Rusty told the kids. “Like, all the time. Hockey knowledge coming out of his ears.”

Rusty’s goalie said, “Studying wouldn’t be so bad if it was all watching hockey.”

“Right?” Rusty clapped his hands. “Okay, guys, we have just twenty minutes of ice time left. Let’s get back to practice and after, Cross can tell us all what we’re doing wrong, and then I bet he’d sign stuff for you.”

“Sure,” Cross agreed. He moved over to a seat behind the glass and took out his phone. “I’ll make notes.”

Rusty had meant the “tell us” part as kind of a joke, but it figured Cross would take it seriously.

He gathered his boys together and went back to passing drills, working on drop passes.

They were seriously crappy at them, but a few connected.

He joked around and nudged, reminded Levi that you can’t pick up a drop pass if you skate ahead of your partner, and Juan that even though Rusty grew up in Kansas, he knew what Spanish swear words sounded like.

By the end of the twenty minutes, they’d worked harder than he’d got out of them all week, and then gathered around Cross for his analysis.

Followed by Cross joining them in the locker room and signing everything they put in front of him.

Even the least impressed of the non-skaters wanted autographs.

TJ did say, “Bet I can get money for that,” while looking at his signed ball cap, but then he put it on his head and tugged it down tight.

Isaiah led the kids out of the rink to catch their buses home, while calling over his shoulder, “Rusty, don’t you let LaCroix run off without me.”

Rusty waved at him, then headed back to the ice to pick up pucks and cones and clear away the nets. When he returned to the locker room, Cross was still there sitting on one of the rough benches. “I miss this,” he said.

“General air of funk and sweat and splintered wood?”

“Hockey.” The sadness in his voice made Rusty ache.

“Won’t be long now, right? I mean, they’re going to do your second surgery tomorrow and that’s no fun. But then you can heal properly and get back on the ice.”

Cross gave him a look that didn’t seem comforted. “I guess.”

Are you scared about the surgery? Not something he could ask Cross in a public place.

So he sat down beside him on the bench and unlaced his skates, letting his knee bump Cross’s good one.

Well, better one. He was barely started rehabbing even that good leg.

Fuck. Poor guy. But Rusty knew Cross would reject any attempt at sympathy.

“How did you get here? Uber or car service?”

“The service. We’re paying for it anyway.”

“Too bad.”

“Why?”

“Means we won’t ride back together.”

“Sure we can. I told him I was done for the day. If you don’t give me a ride, I might have to sleep on this bench.”

That crooked smile looked good on Cross’s mouth. Rusty was tempted to steal a fast kiss when Isaiah came bustling in. “Hey, Cross, you’re still here. Great!”

“You told me not to let him run away.” Rusty pointed out, as if that’d been a hardship.

“I’m not doing much running these days.” Cross tapped a crutch leaning against the bench.

Isaiah put his shoulders against the lockers opposite them.

“It was a big deal for those kids to have you even show up and sign stuff, but what you did, with coaching them? That was dope. They learned a lot, hell, I learned a lot. And I know you’re a busy man, and we’re just some lame-ass program for kids who are never going to make the NHL—”

“Don’t sell Juan short,” Rusty put in. The thirteen-year-old had some natural talent and a hell of a lot of drive.

“Other than Juan.” Isaiah flashed a mock-glare at him. “But it would mean a lot if you wanted to do it again sometime.”

Rusty nudged Cross. “Instead of sitting around home counting your classic cars, you could come down to this dingy locker room and hang out with teenagers. Whaddya say?”

Cross ignored him to nod to Isaiah. “I’d like that. I have another surgery tomorrow, but once that’s healing, I’d be happy to come by again. Do you want me to arrange it with you?”

“Sure. Or just stop by. Or let Rusty know you’re coming.

That works too.” Isaiah bent to hold out his hand to Cross, his long fingers engulfing Cross’s.

“Thanks. I’m a huge fan and I can’t wait to see you back out on the ice.

Go, Rafters. But this here with the kids?

” He tapped his chest. “This is my heart, you know?”

“I can see that.”

Isaiah said to Rusty, “See you tomorrow,” and headed out.

Cross stared after him. “Did he play professionally?”

“College. Defense.”

He nodded slowly. “Seems like he’s great with the kids.”

“He is. They listen to him. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I mean, I do in hockey, but with eighth-graders?” Rusty was trying his best, but seriously, he didn’t remember being that obnoxious just five years back. Maybe his coaches would say differently.

“You seemed on top of the job to me.”

“They were on their best behavior with the pro in the stands.”

Cross turned to smile at him. “Then maybe I need to come around more often.”

“I’d like that. You could lounge on the bench and give us tips. It’d be like a vacation for you. A working vacation, anyhow.”

Cross pushed to his feet.

Rusty stood too, skates in hand, not helping. Maybe hovering just a bit, since he’d noticed that the first moment up on his feet was Cross’s wobbly point.