14. Fresh Ice
FRESH ICE
The Northeasterners’ dressing room was larger than the one in Veil Lake. The stalls had wide benches, shelves for helmets and gloves, and narrow metal slots where permanent nameplates could be fitted. For camp, the equipment staff had printed each player’s name on a strip of white card.
An equipment manager met Caleb at the door, checked his clipboard, and directed him halfway down the left side.
Caleb carried his bag into the room himself.
It smelled of rubber, damp equipment, cold concrete, and the faint oil-and-metal scent from the skate room.
In Veil Lake, bags crowded the floor and players shifted along the benches to make room for one another.
Here, every piece of equipment had somewhere to go.
Before entering, Caleb stopped at the corridor window. The ice lay untouched beneath the arena lights. More than three thousand empty seats rose around it, disappearing into the dim upper reaches of the building.
“Caleb?”
The equipment manager was waiting.
“Sorry.”
“Your stall’s on the left.”
Caleb found his name printed in block letters above an empty stall. A grey practice jersey, two pairs of socks, and a folded towel waited on the bench. The card bearing his name could be removed in seconds, but it still felt special. He set down his bag and began unpacking beneath it.
Most of the other players were polite. A few introduced themselves without being prompted.
Thibodeau, a winger from Sault Ste. Marie who went by Thib, showed Caleb where to leave laundry, which skate sharpener complained if he was given more than three pairs at once, and why no one used the shower nearest the training room.
Thib was compact and dark-complexioned. He spoke easily in the room, whether he was correcting a rookie’s position in a drill or telling someone to move out of his stall. A small Pride pin was fastened beside the zipper of his gear bag.
On the second morning, Thib mentioned that his boyfriend had made dinner reservations for seven.
“Tell him eight,” another player said. “Frank’s never finished by six.”
“That’s what I told him.”
The conversation moved on to the power-play units.
Caleb wasn’t out to the team. He wasn’t ready to fasten a pin to his own bag either. Now, for the first time, he could imagine doing it.
Thib never asked him about the attention he gave the pin. On the third morning, he tossed Caleb a roll of tape from beside the bag and asked whether he had ever killed penalties.
“A little,” Caleb said.
“Good. Frank needs another center who can win a draw on his strong side.”
That was all.
The ice required another adjustment. The boards were newer than the ones in Veil Lake, and the surface was maintained at a level the town arena couldn’t afford.
On Caleb’s first stride, his skates ran faster than he expected.
When he set an edge properly, it bit cleanly.
When his balance was late, the play moved on without him.
Connor’s work showed in Caleb’s first three steps.
Over longer distances, some of the other players still pulled away.
He mistimed rotations because he did not know the Northeasterners’ systems, but he won battles along the boards and intercepted two passes after recognizing the forecheck.
By the end of the first practice, he could identify where he belonged in some drills without following the player ahead of him.
The first week became a cycle of practices, meetings, meals, laundry, and sleep.
Caleb arrived early and stayed for every extra repetition Frank offered.
He asked questions when he did not understand a system and wrote the answers in the blue folder Connor had made him.
By Friday, the terminology that had overwhelmed him at the development skate was making sense.
Frank offered little indication of what he thought.
Near the end of Friday’s practice, Caleb read a defensive-zone rotation correctly, forced a turnover, and carried the puck through the neutral zone. He sent it wide to Thib, drove the middle, and reached the net in time for the return pass.
The goalie stopped the shot.
Frank skated over while the next group prepared.
“Connor was right,” he said.
“About what?”
“You can play at this pace.”
Frank pushed away before Caleb could answer.
Caleb returned to the back of the line. When his turn came again, he called for the puck.
Caleb called Maya on Thursday. She answered on the second ring.
“Well?” she said. “Give me something more useful than fine.”
“It’s a lot.”
“What kind of a lot?”
“I don’t know yet.” Caleb sat on the edge of his bed. Two boxes remained unopened against the wall, and Maya’s lamp was still wrapped in a towel on the dresser. “There’s a guy on the team named Thib. He has a Pride pin on his gear bag.”
“Has anyone bothered him about it?”
“No. That’s the strange part. He talks about his boyfriend, and everyone keeps taping sticks and complaining about training. Nobody treats it like it’s different.”
“How does that feel?”
“I keep waiting for someone to make it a problem.” Caleb ran his hand over the folded towel covering the lamp. “I don’t think I’m ready to wear a pin like that. I’m not even out to the team.”
“Then don’t wear one,” Maya said. “You don’t have to turn somebody else’s pin into a decision about your life. Take it as a win. It’s safe if you decide to come out.”
“I didn’t know something like that could exist in a hockey dressing room without becoming the only thing anyone saw.”
“Now you do.”
Caleb shifted back against the wall. “How are things there?”
“The evening program needs another volunteer, the bar’s walk-in cooler has developed a threatening noise, and Kowalski has decided summer hockey requires a committee.”
“I asked how you were, not for a municipal report.”
“It wasn’t municipal. The bar is privately owned.”
“Maya.”
“The apartment is too quiet,” she said. “I keep expecting to hear you on the stairs. There. I miss you. Enjoy hearing it, because I’m not repeating myself.”
“I miss you too.”
“I know. How could you not?”
“What about Riley?” he asked, ignoring her joke.
“She’s coming over tonight to make dinner. She says I eat like a raccoon when nobody supervises me.”
“She may have a point.”
“Don’t side with her. She already brought groceries and put fresh basil in my kitchen.”
“That sounds serious.”
“It’s in actual plant form, Caleb. Not in a plastic shaker.”
“Whatever. You like it.”
“I’m tolerating it.” Maya’s voice softened. “We’re figuring things out. I still don’t know exactly what it is, but I’m not trying to feel like I have to.”
“That sounds difficult for you,” Caleb said with a chuckle.
“It’s terrible. She won’t even let me make a pie chart about our relationship.”
A knock sounded on Maya’s end of the call, followed by Riley announcing that she had brought too much garlic.
“No such thing,” Maya called back.
Caleb laughed. “Go have dinner.”
“Call me after the scrimmage tomorrow. I want the real version, not ‘it was fine.’”
“I will.”
“And Caleb? I’m glad Thib’s pin is there.”
“Me too.”
Caleb phoned his mother on Sunday. They spoke more often now.
She answered on the first ring. “Hi, Caleb. Have you been eating enough?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Something besides protein bars?”
“I made pasta last night.”
“Good. That counts. How is the weather?”
“Warm. It rained this morning.”
“I looked up the Northeasterners,” she said. “They had a respectable record last season.”
Caleb sat straighter. “You looked them up online?”
“I know how the internet works.”
“I didn’t know you followed hockey.”
“I follow you.”
The words caught him unprepared.
She asked about the arena and how many players were at camp. Caleb told her about the practices, though not about Thib’s pin. When he mentioned that Connor had driven him down and helped unload his boxes, she said that it had been kind of him. She didn’t ask anything more about Connor.
“I’m proud of you,” she said. “I know this hasn’t been easy.”
“Thanks.”
“Your father wants to speak to you.”
His father came onto the line before he could say anything. They hadn’t talked in months.
“Caleb?”
“Hey, Dad.”
“Your mother showed me the camp schedule,” he said.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes.” His father cleared his throat. “You know I don’t follow hockey much anymore, but I know how hard you’ve worked. Your mother’s proud of you.”
“She said that.” Silence.
“I’m proud too, son.”
Caleb held the phone more tightly. “Thank you, Dad.”
“Send us more details when you have them.”
“I will.”
“Good.” He heard his dad hand the phone back to his mom.
The conversation stayed within the subjects they could manage: hockey, work, weather, and the drive to Thunder Bay. She didn’t ask about the parts of his life they were not prepared to name. Before hanging up, his mother reminded him twice to eat properly and said she loved him.
After the call, Caleb emailed her his schedule.
The boiler knocked inside the wall as he broke down the last of his boxes. He had put Maya’s lamp by his bed and placed the Christmas photograph against it. His books went on top of the dresser, the blue training folder into the top drawer, on top of his Bible.
When he finished, Caleb switched off the lamp and went to sleep in his new room.
At the end of Friday’s full-contact practice, Frank pinned the next day’s lineup to the dressing-room bulletin board. Players read it as they passed on their way to the showers. Caleb waited for two defencemen to move aside.
His name appeared at center on the third line.
Frank stopped beside him. “You’re dressing tomorrow. Don’t turn that into a promise about next week. You earned one game.”
“Understood.”
“Get some sleep. Your backcheck gets lazy when you’re tired.”
Frank continued down the corridor.
Most of the team had left before Caleb finished changing. Water still ran in the showers, and Thib remained behind to pack his gear. Caleb sat beneath his temporary name card and took out his phone. He was about to take a picture of the lineup for Maya when Connor’s name appeared on the screen.
howd practice go
Connor still texted without capitals or punctuation. Caleb answered in the full sentences that had stopped making either of them laugh months ago.
Frank posted the lineup. I’m dressing tomorrow at center on the third line.
good. you earned it, Connor replied.
Thanks. Frank said the same thing.
must be true then
Caleb read the exchange again. Ninety minutes of highway separated the dressing room from the cabin. Then he wrote:
I wish you were here.
Connor: me too. call me when you get back to the house
I will.
Thib zipped his bag and lifted it onto his shoulder.
“Third line,” he said. “Nice.”
“Apparently, yeah. Thanks.”
“You had a good week. Just keep it up.”
“I’ll try.”
“Just don’t try harder than me.” Thib winked at him.
Caleb laughed. “Sure.”
Thib left him with the showers running and the ventilation humming overhead.
Caleb took the picture of the lineup and sent it to Maya.
I’m dressing tomorrow. Third line.
Then he packed his phone, shouldered his bag, and headed for the door. On his way out, he passed the sheet Frank had taped there. His name was still on it.