Ice Time (12 page)

He pushed the door open and stepped into the lobby.

“You are getting out right now!” Ritchie yelled. He pushed Carl in the chest.

“I have business,” Carl said menacingly.

“You go. I do not want your
business
in my building,” Ritchie said. He stepped closer.

“You’re costing me money,” Carl said. “You’re going to get hurt.” He pushed Ritchie away.

“You are not scaring me,” Ritchie said. He pushed Carl back.

Rocket grabbed Carl from behind and whirled him toward the door. He’d taken enough abuse from Barker. He wasn’t putting up with any garbage from a jerk like Carl.

“Out the door, now, or I’ll call some of my teammates, and we’ll explain some things to you — very clearly,” Rocket said. He showed Carl the Racers crest on his sweatshirt.

A bluff, but Carl wouldn’t know that.

Carl looked at Rocket’s sweatshirt. “
You’re
a Racer? And you live in this dump?”

“Where do you want me to live?” Rocket shot back.

Carl straightened up and smoothed his jacket out. “I got a right to do business with whoever I want. This is a free country. You can’t stop me.”

“I see you in this building again and you’ll be seriously unhappy,” Rocket said calmly.

His head was still pounding, but he forced himself to look relaxed, as if he would like nothing better than to fight.

Carl’s face turned pale. “Yeah … Whatever. I got lots of clients. I don’t need this.” He reached for the door.

“Typical,” Rocket muttered. He shrugged and turned to Ritchie. “The trash is gone,” he said loudly.

Ritchie reached his arm out. “Look out!” he yelled.

Something — or someone — hit Rocket from behind.

He couldn’t say what happened next. He tried opening his eyes, but he couldn’t focus. Everything was fuzzy. His cheek felt cold. In the background, he heard some muffled talking, like someone was speaking to him underwater. His head spun and felt heavy. Something was resting on the small of his back.

“Bryan?”

His eyes slowly began to focus. The floor? He was lying on the floor?

“Bryan, do you hear me? Bryan?”

Rocket knew that voice. Who was it?

“Are you able to sit up?” That was Ritchie.

Of course, he could sit up. He tried to tell Ritchie that, but for some reason, the words didn’t come out. He pushed up with his hands. His stomach lurched, like he was on a roller coaster, and for a moment, he thought he might throw up. The floor began to spin.

Ritchie helped him to sit.

“That awful Carl hit you from behind. He runs away, too, the
cobarde
.”

Rocket took a deep breath. He remembered telling Carl off and turning to talk to Ritchie. He must have been sucker-punched.

“Should we take him to a doctor?” Mariana said.

“I am a doctor,” Ritchie said flatly.

“I know that, Ricardo,” Mariana said. “I only meant …”

“I am sorry. I am being a rude person. It is not you I am angry at. I forget that here I am cleaner of buildings, nothing more.”

“You will always be a doctor,” Mariana said.

“You’re a doctor?” Rocket blurted.

Ritchie peered into Rocket’s eyes and put a hand on the back of his neck. “I am a doctor in El Salvador. Here, I am not allowed to be one.” He touched Rocket’s back. “You have most definitely received a concussion — most definitely. That was a very bad hit to your head, and you probably received another hit from the floor. You should probably get a scan to make sure you didn’t crack your skull.”

Rocket struggled to understand. It was like his brain had stopped working. “Carl hit me?”

“He did,” Ritchie said. “Then the coward runs away.”

Their apartment door opened.

“Rocket Man!” Rafa cried. “Can we play ball hockey now?” He wore a Racers hockey jersey.

“I’m playing, too,” Leona said. She paused. “Are you all right?” she asked, kneeling beside Rocket and rubbing his arm.

“What happened?” Rafa said.

“That bad man, Carl, punched Bryan from behind,” Ritchie said.

“¡Qué cobarde!”
Rafa exclaimed.

“Do you think you can stand?” Ritchie asked Rocket.

Rocket tried to summon the energy. He felt completely drained, like he’d played five hockey games in a row. Ritchie and Mariana reached under his armpits and pulled him to his feet.

“Mariana, you need to go to work,” said Ritchie. “We will take him to the hospital. Children, please get your shoes — and bring something to read. We may have to wait for some time. Hospitals are slow.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow — on a road trip,” Rocket said to Ritchie.

Ritchie grunted. “You will be taking a hockey vacation. Concussions are very hard to judge. Maybe a few days, maybe a few weeks — or even months. You never know.”

Again, Rocket struggled to understand. A few months? That was impossible.

They went outside. The sun was blazing, and Rocket had to shut his eyes. He would have fallen to the pavement if Ritchie hadn’t held him tight.

The kids came running out.

“We’ll play ball hockey tomorrow,” Rafa said. “You rest up.”

Ritchie waved his hand over his head. A taxi slowed and made a U-turn.

Rocket squeezed his eyes together and then opened them.

He could see he was in front of the building. How had he gotten here? It was all a fog.

“Where am I?” he said.

“My goodness, this is not good,” Ritchie said. “You have been hit in the head, Bryan. Carl hit you. You have a concussion.”

Rocket took a few moments to process that.

“Who’s Carl?” Rocket said.

Rocket took off his sunglasses and began to climb. After two stairs, he had to reach for the handrail and stop.

He’d barely managed to drag himself out of bed this morning. They’d spent half the night at the hospital to find out Ritchie was right — a concussion.

The team was meeting in a couple of hours to catch their bus for the road trip. Rocket figured it would be smarter to tell Blywood about it in person.

His headache was raging.

“Up you go, whiner,” he told himself.

He made it, but it seemed to take forever. At the top of the stairs, he had to stop to regain his breath. He heard voices from Blywood’s office. The door was open.

“I’ll turn this team around so fast their heads will spin.” Barker was in there.

Last guy he wanted to talk to. Rocket was tempted to text Blywood instead.

“C.C. down. Colbert down. Strauss flamed out. Two guys retire on me. What a season, and it’s only a few games in,” Floyd said. “My dad’s on my case, big time. We gotta start winning.”

Just get this over with
, Rocket told himself, but he didn’t move.

“Who do you want on the first line?’ Blywood said.

“That Rockwood kid didn’t look bad to me,” Kaufman said.

“He’s a joke,” Barker said. “Allergic to his own end.”

“He’s got an offensive upside. We can teach him,” Kaufman said.

“We have a championship team. We don’t need a five-foot-tall rookie who’s still learning to play the game,” Barker said. “For some stupid reason Landry thinks Rockwood can learn to play defence. He can’t. If it was up to me, I’d cut him now so he could go serve coffee somewhere. That’s all he’s good for.”

“I’d cut that Turner Rogers, too,” Floyd chimed in. “That kid has no character.”

“He put up some big numbers in junior. Landry’s pretty high on him,” Kaufman said.

“With C.C. hurt, we could use some more offence,” Blywood said. “Terrence Day’s never been a scorer, and Beauclair can’t do it all on his own. Rockwood looks like he can put the puck in the net.”

“Rockwood’s not the answer. Make a trade and get someone,” Barker snapped.

“High-scoring centres don’t just magically appear,” Kaufman said.

Rocket almost smiled at this. Barker could throw all the shade he wanted, but the Racers needed centres, and without Rocket and C.C., they were seriously undermanned up the middle.

“We can’t win with a midget centre,” Barker said.

The room went quiet.

Rocket gathered himself and walked to the door. He knocked on the frame.

“Yeah?” Blywood said.

Rocket popped his head in. “Hi.”

Barker smirked, obviously not upset that he might have been overheard. Floyd looked annoyed. Kaufman sat back in his chair, expressionless.

“Bryan texted me earlier and said he needed to talk to me,” Blywood said uneasily.

“About playing some defence?” Barker shot out.

Rocket forced a chuckle. “Not that, although I know I have to get better. In my own end — in all the ends. I mean, in all the zones.” He was sounding like an idiot. “Anyway, it’s kind of bad news. I sort of got hurt yesterday. It may be a concussion.”

All four men sat up.

“Did that happen in the fight the other night?” Barker said.

“Um, no. It was after yesterday’s practice. At home, where I’m staying. There’s this guy, Carl, and he hangs out at my apartment building sometimes. Bit of a bad dude. My landlord, Ritchie, thinks he’s a drug dealer.”

“Rockwood, we don’t need a two-hour history of your life. How’d this happen?” Barker said.

Rocket flushed. He should have just texted.

“It’s a bit weird — the story, I mean,” Rocket said.

Barker sighed, and he leaned back, arms crossed.

“This Carl guy, he was in a fight with Ritchie,” Rocket began.

“Who’s Ritchie again?” Barker said.

“The landlord,” Kaufman replied.

“This is like a freakin’ soap opera — and about as interesting,” Barker said.

Floyd laughed.

“So, why’s Ritchie fighting Carl?” Barker asked Kaufman.

Kaufman pointed at Rocket. “Ask him.”

Rocket’s urge to bodycheck Barker into the wall was so strong it hurt — almost as much as his head. The lights were killing his eyes, but he didn’t dare put his sunglasses on. He’d look too goofy.

“Carl is the drug dealer,” Rocket continued, “and Ritchie told him to leave the building, and he wouldn’t. So they were fighting, and then—”

“Drugs?” Barker said. “You’re mixed up with a dealer?”

“No,” Rocket said. “Carl is the dealer. I don’t know him.”

Barker looked at Floyd and shook his head dramatically.

“I pulled Carl off Ritchie and told him to leave,” Rocket said. “When I had my back to him — Carl, I mean — he surprised me with a punch to my head. I guess I went down pretty hard. That’s what Ritchie told me. I was at the hospital last night, and the doctor said I have a concussion. They did a CT, and fortunately I didn’t crack my skull or anything. The doctor said I could’ve.”

Barker threw his hands up. “This is awesome. Now we’re down three forwards, all because this one is messing around with drug dealers. Beautiful. The papers will have fun with that.”

“I know a few boys down at the
Guardian
and the cop shop,” Blywood said. “I can keep this quiet.”

Floyd stomped his feet as he stood up. His chair went flying backwards. “Why do I have to deal with this garbage? I’m not paying this kid to sit on his butt. I’m paying him to play.”

Blywood picked up the chair. “If he’s hurt …”

“How bad is it?” Kaufman said to Rocket.

“The doctor said two or three weeks. Maybe more,” Rocket said. “Problem is, this could be my second concussion. I took that cross-check to the neck in the Marlies game, and … and I was kind of groggy after that.”

Barker slapped his thighs and looked around the room. “Do I hear three concussions? How about four?”

Floyd kicked the chair. It went skidding against the wall.

“We can put him on the injured reserve list and bring someone else in,” Blywood said.

“I’m not paying,” Floyd fumed. “I’m not made of money.”

“You shouldn’t have to, either,” Barker said. “There’s no way we can replace him for the trip, so what if we suspend him for a week without pay? We can decide what to do with him when we get back. We’ll keep him on the roster and put him on the injured reserve list — just not as a concussion. That will raise too many questions. We’ll say lower-body injury and leave it at that. We can talk to Landry about it when the trip’s over. He’s the guy who wanted Rockwood on the team.”

Rocket’s heart pounded. He couldn’t afford to lose a day’s pay, let alone a week’s. He was almost out of money. And what if they cut him?

“I like the sound of that,” Floyd said. “We’ll call it a suspension for missing a team meeting.” He thrust his face close to Rocket’s and jabbed two fingers into his chest. “You keep your mouth shut. You do not want to mess with me.”

“Maybe next time you’ll stay out of trouble, Rockwood,” Barker said. “Professional hockey players don’t get in fights with drug dealers.”

“I haven’t been p-paid yet,” Rocket stammered. They ignored him.

“I should run him out of hockey — just to prove a point,” Floyd said.

“This team is so messed,” Barker said. “We need a centre — any warm body will do.”

“I could give Strauss a call,” Blywood suggested.

“Great! We’ll never win another faceoff,” Barker said.

“To be fair, he’s not a centre,” Blywood said.

“He is a solid right winger,” Kaufman put in.

“Better than nothing,” Floyd muttered. “Fine. Call him.”

Rocket caught Barker looking at him, his mouth twisted in a cruel smile.

Floyd was poking at his phone. Blywood shuffled papers on his desk.

Kaufman alone seemed sympathetic, but his body language made it clear there was nothing he could do.

“What should I do during the road trip?” Rocket asked.

“I don’t care,” Barker said. “Go hang out with Ritchie, or Carl, or whoever. We’ll decide what to do with you when we get back.”

“And keep your big mouth shut,” Floyd said. “Your only comment is ‘No comment.’”

“Yes, sir,” Rocket said weakly.

Barker waved his hand toward the door. Rocket stood there, trying to come up with some sort of protest.

“That was the signal for you to go,” Barker said.

Rocket backed out of the room.

Barker got up and slammed the door shut.

Rocket just stood there, staring at the door. He could hear laughing inside.