Chapter Three
CARTER
Tom: Text when you’re just about to enter the rink through the southside entrance and wait around the corner. It’s supposed to be a surprise.
Tom’s text comes through right as I shut the door to my car in the rec center parking lot, and I respond with a thumbs up before shoving the phone back in my pocket.
The deterioration becomes clearer the closer I get to the building. Damn.
Tom might have under sold how much help the center needs.
The white paint on the large, rectangular building has yellowed, chipped, and is flaking off in some places on the exterior. The “Twin Rinks Rec Center” sign’s light is out on half the letters, so it just spells “T i Ri s R c nt r”, and half of those are blinking furiously like they could go out any second. If not for the sign, someone might mistake the building for a large warehouse.
I make it to the doors, where the privacy film is peeling from the corners of glass. The door makes an embarrassingly loud groan when I open them, and I cringe, surprised that no one has filed a noise complaint yet.
Inside isn’t much better. The lobby needs more than just a new coat of paint, and when I look above, the ceiling tiles are water-stained and warped. In the hallway is more of the same, including some cracks in the concrete that must have come from frost heaves. The handrails are falling down in some places, leaving them bolted to the wall on only one end, and that is a safety hazard.
I finally approach the southside entrance to the actual rink and push the doors open, pleased that these ones don't screech like nails on a chalkboard. Leaning back against the wall just inside the doorway, I shoot Tom a text.
Me: I’m here
“Jr. Thorns, I’d like you to meet a very old friend of mine. Some of you might recognize him from the NHL, but before he did that, he played in the rink here, just like you.”
That’s my cue.
The fervent whispers of adolescent boys meet me as I round the corner, and I see Tom in all of his coaching glory, complete with a black and burgundy “Jr. Thorns” hoodie, a matching hat, and jeans. He taps the clipboard as his eyes meet mine. The team is in a huddle facing him, so they don’t see me right away.
Before they spot me, I take the rink in. It’s strange being here again, State championship banners line the rafters, including the one I won for my own team nine years ago. It’s more rundown than I remember, but that same feeling of… home fills my chest when I look at it.
The small gasps of parents in the bleachers have my attention snapping back towards the kids as they turn their heads towards me. Red, sweaty faces meet mine, their expressions turning from exhausted to excited in a split second.
We hadn’t planned on me meeting the team today, but when I told Tom that I was coming early, the timing worked out perfectly. He just asked that I let him go through his post-practice notes with the boys before introducing me.
“Carter Williams.” Tom grins, and kids rush me.
“Mr. Williams! Do you have a pre-game ritual?”
“Is it true you used to play here?”
“Jordan says that you knew him as a baby but I think he’s lying.”
“Woah, woah, woah!” My voice rings out as I put my hands up. “Hold your horses there, Jr. Thorns.” I take a deep breath, readying myself to answer their questions in rapid-fire. Each kid gets my attention as I supply them with the answer to their questions. “No real ritual, just meditation and hydration.” Pointing to the next kid, I follow up, “I did play here. I started when I was younger than you, and played every season up until I left for college.” My attention moves to the last one. “And yes, I most definitely did know Jordan as a baby—since he was born, in fact, and we used to hang out all the time.”
I easily pick Jordan out among his teammates and shoot him a wink. Even if I hadn’t been sent an image of Jordan in his Jr. Thorns uniform, a hockey stick in one hand, and his helmet tucked under his other arm just last week, I still would have recognized him. The kid is the spitting image of his dad, from his eyes to the shape of his nose. The only thing different is his sandy brown hair and freckles.
I can’t suppress my grin when his teammates all turn and gape at him. Jordan’s chest puffs up and he gives a smirk that straight up says “I told you so”, and I’m so glad to set the record straight. I stand up, pulling myself to my full height. “Three more questions.” After answering their random inquiries, like what’s my favorite food and have I ever been to Australia, they ask for autographs.
Parents rummage through bags trying to find something that I can sign, but I mostly end up inking up some jerseys, helmets, and hockey sticks. Everyone disperses, parents ready to go home and get dinner started, and I’m left with Tom, Jordan, and two other boys from the team.
My eyes catch on Tom’s gait as he limps his way to one of the bleachers. Fucking hell. He told me it was a bad injury but I haven’t seen the guy in nine years… that shit looks painful. He catches my stare and slightly shakes his head, telling me he doesn’t want to talk about it right now.
Respecting his wishes, I join him on the bleacher, and focus my attention on the three small hockey players in front of me. “You don’t have any questions for me, Jordan?”
His eyes—Tom’s eyes—stare back at me and widen as if he can’t believe I’m actually talking to him even though I just told his whole team I’ve known him since he was born. He looks to his dad for reassurance, and Tom just laughs. “Come on, Jord. I told you, I’ve known him a long time. You can ask him anything.”
Jordan’s cheeks flush, and he chews on his lip nervously. I’m not sure why he’s so nervous, Tom told me that the kid is even more outgoing than I used to be.
“It’s true.” I smile gently, trying to put him at ease. “Ask me anything.”
He screws his eyes shut tight before he blurts out in one unintelligible sentence, “Wouldyoumaybeeverbeabletoworkwithmeontheiceyou’remyfavoritepalyerofalltime!”
Tom and I exchange a glance. “Do you want to try that again, bud? Maybe a little slower?” Tom’s trying to hold his laughter in, and I do my best to keep a straight face as Jordan’s face flushes an even deeper red.
He nods, taking a deep breath, and looks down, starting over. “I was wondering, Mr. Williams, sir, if you would ever be able to, maybe work with me on the ice? You’re my favorite player of all time.”
A grin splits my face, knowing the kid who I thought would be my nephew the first year of his life, my best friend's son, sees me as some sort of hero. “Jordan, look at me.” He looks up hesitantly, and I say in a dead serious voice, “Number one, call me Carter. Number two… we’re going to be on that ice so much that you’re going to have to get your dad to get rid of me.”
His eyes light up and he turns to look at his friends before looking back at me, “Can Bodhi and Theo come too?” The two boys standing behind Jordan look at me with vastly different expressions.
The one on the left only runs a hand through his sweaty hair—hair that’s so blonde it’s almost white. His brown eyes are pointed downward like he doesn’t want anyone to think he’s too excited.
The one on the right has hair almost as black as mine, and bright green eyes that shine with hope.
“I would love that,” I say, and find that I actually mean it.
The three boys all hiss out some variation of “Yesss!” and turn to face each other, doing some ridiculously complicated three-way handshake that I couldn’t replicate even if I wanted to.
“You boys ready to go?” a woman calls out by the door, who I notice has the same bronze skin and black hair as the friend who had been standing on Jordan’s right. This must be his mom. “Why don’t you guys go rinse off in the locker room so my car doesn’t smell like sweaty hockey players.”
The boys nod, and Jordan gives his dad a quick hug before he and his friends rush to the locker room with their bags. “Bye, Dad! Bye, Carter!”
“Thanks again, Selma.” Tom nods to the woman, who waves back before heading out the door. “That’s Theo’s mom,” he explains. Ah. So the one with the white hair is Bodhi, and the other one is Theo. “They’re doing their Friday sleepover. We rotate whose house it’s at every week.”
“They seem close.” I smile after them, remembering how tight-knit my high school team and I used to be.
“They are. Selma and Bodhi’s mom, Tara, were all in the same mommy and me group with Sarah, so they’ve known each other their whole lives. We tried to make sure they kept seeing each other… after everything.”
After the accident where his wife Sarah died, he means.
He stares into space before he blinks himself out of it. “Shit, it’s good to see you, Carter.” Tom’s expression changes to a broad smile as he takes a step and squeezes me in a quick hug. “It’s been too long.”
Guilt pangs in my gut as I return the embrace. “I know, man. I’m sorry, my dad?—”
He cuts me off, shaking his head. “Don’t. You told me all about what that bastard had been doing. I get it. I’m just glad he’s gone now.”
“Fuck, me too.” I let out a shaky laugh. “He’s finally gone, and I’m free to come back home and save this place.”
Sighing, Tom shakes his head. “I hope so. Let’s go for a walk. I can show you what needs fixing so you can walk into the council meeting with a clear picture of what we need.”
We walk around the rinks, Tom pointing out all the things that need repair and the walls that need repainting. “There’s air vents there, there, and there,” Tom points to three different places on the ceiling, “that need to be replaced. Wiring hasn’t been up to code in about eight years. If you look inside the rinks, you’ll see half the boards are beat to hell, and the other half are two hits away from being destroyed completely…”
Tom goes on to list so many other things it’s hard to keep up. I’ve been trying to figure out how I can help the place, but after seeing how much work it needs, I’m wondering if I just need to offer to pay for everything. It’s not like I can’t swing it after a sensational seven years in the NHL.
There’s no way we can raise the amount we would need in a decent amount of time. We’re about halfway around when we’re approached by an older gentleman that I recognize back from my high school days. Benson Scott, the owner and founder of the rec center and Twin Rinks.
“Tom! And is that Carter Williams?!” I try not to wince at the volume, but it’s much louder than I was expecting. Tom did mention that Benson is hard of hearing, but failed to mention how he apparently yells to compensate for it.
He looks between us through the large glasses on his nose, his weathered face smiling broadly at us. He has a surprisingly full head of hair for a man that must be at least eighty by now. It’s not hard to see the man from ten years ago. I remember him being slimmer then, but has rounded out quite a bit since.
“It’s nice to see you, Mr. Scott.” I raise the volume of my voice, reaching my hand out for a handshake. He grabs it with gusto.
“Oh, please, Carter! Call me Benson! Everybody else does!” His voice echoes in the empty area, but I can’t help but match the smile on his face. The man exudes “happy”.
“Got it. It’s nice to see you, Benson .” I enunciate the last word in a teasing matter, and he chuckles. “It looks like you could use some help around here. I’d love to talk to you about a financial contribution?—”
“That’s very kind of you. I won’t turn down more help. I’ve been working with our Sophie on drumming up some exposure for the place! Maybe then she can raise the money we need to save it! But maybe I should let you talk to Sophie and see what she thinks.”
Before I can open my mouth to ask him exactly what he means about Sophie, a loud ringing comes from Benson’s pocket. He pulls it out, and shakes his head before turning to us. “Sorry, boys! I’ll catch you later, I have to take this!”
He walks away with the phone pressed to his ear, yelling loudly into the microphone.
Narrowing my eyes, I turn to Tom. “What the fuck did he mean about Sophie saving it? You never said anything about that during our numerous phone conversations about saving the rec center.”
Tom shrugs. “She’s been attending all the council meetings, trying to figure out ways to keep the rec center from shutting down. She manages the whole thing now, you know.”
Shit. Part of me was hoping to see her again, but for it to be smack dab in the middle of all of… this?
“Why…” I run a hand over my face as I try to process, “why didn’t you say anything?”
“Listen, man,” Tom claps a hand on my shoulder, “I know how hard it was for you to leave her behind. You had your reasons and I respect that. I was just trying to not reopen old wounds. Keep our conversations a “Sophie-Free” zone.”
He’s right. At one point, years ago, I had asked him to not mention her to me if he could help it. It was just too painful. He knew all about the situation with my dad, so he understood, and I was so thankful to him for not giving me a hard time about it.
“But you should know, Carter…” Tom trails off, looking unsure.
“What is it?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.
“She’s not the same Sophie you remember.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Not the same Sophie? I can’t imagine her any differently than she used to be.
He shakes his head. “You’ll see later. Now, come on, Mr. Superstar, you’re coming to this meeting with me.”
We take my car to town hall, and I follow his lead to the meeting room. He stops us in front of a set of double doors, and I can hear the unmistakable timbre of Sophie’s voice through the wall. This is the first time I’ve heard her voice in nine years. Despite the fact that we can’t really make out her words and she sounds absolutely pissed, my cock perks up at the sound of her voice. I vaguely make out her saying something about reallocating some of the town’s funds to the rec center. I don’t think I ever heard her sound so determined in all the years we were together.
I try to subtly adjust myself, and Tom glances at me and shrugs. “She’s very… passionate.” He winces when the pitch of her voice goes higher. A deeper voice sounds, and hers picks up again, lower, calm sounding.
Tom shakes his head and smiles. “You ready for this, Carter Williams?”
I don’t have time to answer before he opens up the doors to the meeting room.