Page 44 of Pucking Around

The guy nods, as if Caleb is a coach and not an equipment manager, skating off into the middle of the rink to flick a fresh puck off the pile. I watch as he does a circle to pick up some speed. Then he’s flying between the cones, his blades slicing left and right, as he works the puck. He blasts out the end of the cones and takes a shot on goal, aiming for the five-hole. The puck whacks the board instead, ricocheting away.

“You’re trying too hard to control the puck,” Caleb shouts. “It’s all in your stick, Walsh. Get outta your own head.”

One of the other guys is taking a breather against the boards, water bottle in hand. “Can you believe this joker gets to start next week?” he says, squirting some of the water on his head until it’s running down his neck into his pads.

Caleb just shakes his head. “He thinks his flashy footwork is gonna compensate for sloppy stick handling. My bet is they bench him after game two.”

He says this loud enough for Walsh to hear as he skates up to the boards. The poor guy looks crestfallen. He does know he’s an NHL player, right? Maybe with all this criticism he’s forgotten.

I scowl at Caleb. “Jeez, Sanford,” I call, drawing their attention. “Who died and made you head coach? If it’s so easy, you put on some skates and show him how it’s done.”

The second the words are out of my mouth, I know I’ve said something wrong. Caleb’s glare turns murderous. At the same time, the two guys share a nervous look.

I glance between them, confused. “What—”

“See you boys around,” Caleb mutters at the other two, turning on his heel and stomping away.

I watch him go, feeling suddenly guilty.

“Yeesh,” Walsh mutters. “That was harsh, Doc.”

“Yeah, going’ in for the kill,” says the guy with dark hair.

“Clearly, I just stepped in something,” I say, slipping off the bench and walking over to the boards.

“Eh, Sanny’ll be alright,” says dark-haired guy. He skates off, ready to do another drill.

I look to Walsh. “Will he?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, probably. But maybe you should google him. And cut him some slack,” he adds as he sets his water bottle aside. “It can’t be easy for him.” With that he skates off, leaving me with my head spinning.

The secondI get back to my office, I shut the door and whip out my phone. I google ‘Caleb Sanford hockey’ and after the most cursory of glances down the search result page, I’m ready to crawl inside a hole.

He was a player. A forward, just like Walsh. The articles are a mix of his college stats and interviews, glowing reviews of his speed and scoring ability. I read the press release announcing him as the number three draft pick for the NHL. He signed with the Pittsburgh Penguins before he was even out of college.

But then there’s the articles…and videos. They’re almost too awful to watch. He was taken out game one of his first season in the NHL. A brutal hit from behind smashed him into the boards. The defenseman was twice his size. He went down and he didn’t get back up again, writhing in pain, his mouth open on a scream you can’t hear as the camera feed cuts away.

One article has me frozen, eyes glued to the phone. It includes a photo from earlier in that first game. Caleb is skating towards the camera with his arm slung around the shoulders of a smiling No. 42.

Jake.

They were both signed to the Penguins. For one shining moment, their shared NHL dreams came true. But then Jake watched his best friend go down. He had to watch him be carried off the ice, his dreams shattered with his leg.

I set the phone aside, tears in my eyes. That’s why Caleb was limping the other day. He never recovered from his career-ending hockey injury. He can’t play anymore, certainly not at the level required for the NHL. So now, Jake lives out their dream alone, while Caleb gets to watch guys like Walsh who have less talent than him, skate down the ice with sloppy stick handling.

Yeah, I’m a total jerk.

I have to say something. I have to apologize. I leave my office and go in search of him. I don’t know the back side of the rinks very well. This is an all-in-one facility—laundry, loading docks, food service, maintenance. I ask a few guys as I pass the locker rooms and they point me towards a stairwell that opens below into a wide hallway.

Sy pops out of a doorway, and I smile, knowing I must be in the right place. He comes running over, tail wagging. He’s such a sweetheart. He’s got the coloring of a border collie, but a body more like a pointer—longer in the legs, with the spotting of black under his white fur. My favorite feature is his blue eyes.

Like ice, I realize with a smile. His eyes are the same white-blue glossy color of fresh ice on a hockey rink.

“Where’s daddy, huh? Is he down here?” I murmur, giving him a pet.

I walk down the hall, taking a deep breath before I peek into the open doorway. Inside the bright room is a wall of industrial size washers and dryers. A table is set in the middle for folding and ironing. A massive stack of white towels sits on the end of the table, all but concealing Caleb from view. He’s standing, quietly folding more.

Sy goes prancing in, sniffing the floor as he snakes behind Caleb.