Edge(9)

“Are you heavy? Slow? Did you pick up weight while you were on the reserve?”

“I did physical therapy every day. I’m up about five pounds, but I’m not slow.”

He scoffed into the phone. “The hell you’re not. When you’re big, you’ve got to stay lean to move as fast as the little guys. You should’ve been back a month ago—”

“Tell it to the doctor.”

“If one wouldn’t clear you, another one would.”

I flopped back on the couch and stared at the ceiling. “We’ve got a team doctor.”

“They need a new one, then.” I could tell from his agitated tone that he was pacing. “You lose your edge when you’re off eight weeks. I fucking told you this would happen.”

“My knee was fucked up, Dad.”

“I’m gonna give Tom a call. This is bullshit.”

“It’s not your place to call any of my coaches. I got hurt and I’m rehabbing. I’ll be back with my team soon.”

He was practically yelling into the phone. “Not playing this way, you won’t! They never should’ve sent you to that shithole B team for rehab.”

“This is the way it works. They’ve got a big investment in me and I’m worth nothing if I re-injure my knee.”

“Those fucking minor league guys are more likely to injure you than anyone. They’re street fighters.”

“Plenty of fighters in my league, too,” I said. “I have to go, I’m going back to the rink.”

There was a second of silence. “Good. That’s good. Focus on your game. Quit disgracing the name on the back of your sweater. You had your fun eating like shit and getting led around by your dick for eight weeks, now get serious.”

I shook my head. Why bother telling him I’d spent that entire two months focusing on healing my body? I hadn’t made it to the top of the sport by being lazy and uncommitted. No, I’d missed out on a lot the past 15 years because hockey was always first. I was always traveling, playing or training.

“Yeah, I’ll talk to you later,” I said, hanging up when he grunted a goodbye.

The old man stressed me out worse than anyone. I got up and grabbed my keys. My apartment in the block of player housing provided by the team here was tiny and stank of cheap beer. But at least I didn’t have roommates like the other guys did. I’d be an asshole to live with right now.

I’d go back to the rink and get in a few more hours. If hard work would fix my rusty game, it was as good as done.

A thought about one of my college coaches, Ken Zircher, made me grin as I rubbed the fresh stubble on my chin. He’d been a NHL great who loved the game so much he came back and coached at the college level. After a brutal loss, he’d told the team we were in for a grueling week of practices.

“See, boys,” he’d said in his thick Boston accent, “it’s not that I was any better than the other guys who tried to make it to the NHL and couldn’t. But when they were rolling out of bed to scratch their balls and make some coffee, I’d already been at the rink for two hours. Champions aren’t born. They’re made with hard work.”

I’d been a champion before. I hadn’t expected to fall so far that I’d be unsure if I could work my way back to being one again. Fucking John London. One of the main reasons I wanted to get back to my team was so I could give his smug, pretty face a close-up view of the ice.

***



Dell





I turned my key in the steel side door to the arena. It was after 8:30 – would Luke even be here? I’d read Kyler a story and tucked him in at eight. He was asleep five minutes later when I checked on him and then left with a wave at Sadie, who was watching one of her travel shows on the couch.

The rink lights were on. As I drew closer, I saw a lone figure on the ice. Luke. He was weaving around orange cones on the ice, snow flying up from his skates. When he reached the end of the rink, he spun around and went the other way.

I frowned, not liking the unnecessary stress it was putting on his knee. My skittishness over how to approach him and offer help disappeared and I strode purposefully to the locker room to unearth my skates from a cabinet in my office. I didn’t use them much anymore, but skating was second nature in my family.

When he saw me skating his way, Luke looked over, his expression a cross between confusion and amusement.

“Dell?”

“Is your knee wrapped?”

“Uh … I left it wrapped from earlier.”

I pointed to the bench. “Let me check it.”

He skated toward me and I could tell how hard he’d been pushing himself. His dark blond hair was wet with sweat and his cheeks were flushed.