Page 22 of Him

I just… I just can’t let him go yet.

EIGHT

JUNE

Jamie

“Hey, Canning?”

“Yeah?”

Pat, the camp director, has come over to the penalty box to talk to me. I don’t take my eyes off the scrimmage I’m coaching, but he won’t think I’m rude. “Got you a roommate,” he says.

“Really?” That’s good news, because every summer Pat scrambles for coaches. And this year is no different. Guys like me keep graduating and moving on. He wants the best coaches at his camp, but the best guys are in high demand.

This year I’m one of those. I’m due in Detroit for training camp six weeks from now, which means Pat will have to find someone to fill in for me when I go. I glance at him for a split second before looking back at the boys’ game in progress.

He’s sizing me up, and I don’t know why. “Be nice to him, okay?”

It takes me a moment to answer, because I don’t like the direction the scrimmage is taking. Tempers are about to flare. I can feel the tension mounting. “When am I not nice?” I ask, distracted.

A firm hand lands on my shoulder. “You’re the best there is, kid. Although your goalie is about to lose his shit.”

“I can see that.”

It’s like watching an accident. I know what’s about to occur, but forces are already in motion and I can’t stop them.

My best goalie—Mark Killfeather—has stopped twenty shots in this scrimmage already. With quick reflexes and a big, agile body, Killfeather has all the physical traits a good goalie requires.

He also has, unfortunately, a lightning-quick temper. And the talented French Canadian forward on the other team has been playing him like a fiddle all day—taunting him and teasing him on every offensive push.

I see the play the Canadian is about to make. He passes back to his buddy on the blue line then takes the puck again as the other side’s D-men get hung up in the corners. He fakes left, then right…and sends a flying saucer past my man Killfeather. It is a beautiful play until the Canadian kid sprays the goalie with ice shavings and calls him “un stupide.”

As if it were a boomerang, Killfeather throws his stick with enough force to crack it like a matchstick against the boards. It falls onto the ice, splintered.

Check, please. I blow the whistle. “That’s the game, we’re out of time.”

“Pourquoi?” protests the aggressive forward. “Zhere is time on zee clock!”

“Debrief with your offensive coach,” I say, waving him off. Then I skate over to Killfeather, who stands panting in the net, helmet yanked off to reveal his sweaty head. He is only sixteen and looks it. While other kids his age are kicking back under the sun or playing video games, he’s spent his hours duking it out on the rink today.

I’d been that kid, too. It was a good life and I wouldn’t trade itfor anything, but it helps to remember these are still kids. So I don’t open with, “Hey asshole, you just trashed a hundred dollar stick.”

“Who’s your favorite goalie, kid?” I ask instead.

“Tuukka Rask,” he says immediately.

“Good pick.” I’m not a Bruins fan, but the man has an excellent record. “What does his face look like after he lets in a goal?”

Killfeather quirks an eyebrow. “Why? He just takes a drink and puts his mask back on.”

“He doesn’t lose his shit and throw his stick,” I say with a smile.

The kid rolls his eyes. “I get that, but that guy issuchan ass.”

Leaning down, I tug the net off its spike so the ice can be resurfaced. “You did great goaltending today. Truly exceptional.”

Killfeather begins to smile.