10. Mason
MASON
Three sharp blasts from Coach Wilson signaled the end of practice. Everyone sagged, picked up whatever equipment they’d been working with and skated toward the locker room.
“Shaw, hang out for a bit.” He leaned against the ledge of the rink and motioned for me to stay where I was.
I hooked a puck out of the bucket of collected ones and passed it around while I waited for whatever extra drills my father had suggested Coach have me do.
When he couldn’t be here, Coach served as an extension of his reach, which also extended to the board of directors of Hawthorne Prep and meant Coach couldn’t exactly refuse, although he always seemed to hate it whenever my father sat in on practices.
Instead of extra handling drills, Coach and another man approached. Recognition fired off in my brain the second his skates hit the ice.
The man was in his forties but looked at least ten years younger than my dad, despite being the same age. He extended his hand as he skated forward. “Hey, Mason, I’m—”
“Dane Larson. I know who you are.”
His smile widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “My reputation precedes me.”
During one of my mom’s sober stints, she’d spent hours searching for a hockey jersey and had taken the bus to five different places before finding one—it had been Dane’s.
She’d given it to me wrapped in blue tissue paper.
We’d had chocolate cupcakes and watched a matinee movie.
It had been one of the best birthdays I’d ever had.
Automatically, I raised my gloved hand for a fist bump, still not believing we were on the ice together. “It does.”
“I’d thought after my run-ins with your dad, I might need to protect myself from a high stick.” He faked a block with his forearm, still smiling.
I lowered my hand and remembered why his jersey wasn’t in my collection even though it had been one of my prized possessions.
I’d always kept it in my backpack, so even if we got evicted and couldn’t get our stuff out of whatever apartment or motel we’d been living in, I’d never had to leave it behind.
It hadn’t just been about him, but about holding on to a time when my mom was like a real mom, and how great that day had been.
I’d found her passed out in the tub a month later.
I’d thrown the jersey in the fireplace the day I moved in. My father oversaw the task with a steely gaze. Holes burned through the fabric and blackened the blue jersey, destroying the cloth, and sadness bubbled up in me before it all disappeared into ash.
It’d been stupid to bring the jersey into my father’s house. I was lucky all he’d done was make me burn it.
I shot a glance over my shoulder now, as if my father would appear in a puff of smoke behind me.
Dane Larson and my father had collided during the Cup semi-finals in what commentators and sports fans had called a freak accident.
One of those things. And it had ended both of their careers.
Even before that moment, my father had hated him.
They’d always been compared, and Dane had one more Cup win than my father.
Bracing my hands on the top of my stick, I waited.
“Loyalty, I can appreciate that,” Dane said without a hint of annoyance or anger. “Skate with me.”
“I need to get showered and get home.” I scanned the stands again. Was this a loyalty test from my father? No, he’d never even want to be in the same building with Larson, let alone speak with him.
“Five minutes is all I’m asking for. A little passing, then you can go.”
Ingrained hockey player obedience was the only reason I could give for why I didn’t march off the ice.
“I’m the new head coach at Washington-Seattle.” He soft-handed me the puck and skated forward. I followed, feeling like this was more of a game of catch played on a sunny Sunday afternoon rather than practice drills.
“I hadn’t heard.”
“If it doesn’t have to do with Rhode Island, I’d imagine the news doesn’t even register to you.”
He wasn’t wrong. If the guys hadn’t signed already, I wouldn’t even know who was coaching where. Erik and Galen would be going to Boston, but different schools. And Calder still dragged his feet signing even with six commitment letters now. I hadn’t had any, but only Rhode Island mattered.
“Congrats on the new coaching gig.” I tried to keep my responses neutral and checked the dimly lit stands again.
“Thanks. It’s been a whirlwind.”
“How’s your leg?” The career-endingly bad break had replayed on sports commentary for months, right along with my dad’s.
Dane had played for nine seasons. Longer than the average, but he’d had at least two more solid ones in him—at least that’s what talking heads had said every time they rewatched the clip from every angle.
He smirked. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to ask about that.”
I passed the puck back to him and flexed my hand around my stick. No aching, but I was still protecting the hand with my charges, which could cost me and the team during the first game of the season in two days. “Sorry, I—”
“Nah, I don’t mind. Ending my career like that was never how I thought things would go, but I’d been thinking about retiring for a while. I guess this was the universe’s way of forcing my hand.” With a whisper-quiet turn, he flicked the puck into the net and skated to the wall.
“How’s your hand?”
I shook it out of my glove and curled each finger. “Good.” I hesitated. “A little stiff, but I’ve been keeping up with what the PT told me to do.” Why’d I tell him that? Why was I still on the ice?
“That’s what I thought. I figured some schools might be wanting to see how this season turns out for you, but I’ve watched your tapes, I know who your father is and there was no doubt in my mind you’d be back to a hundred percent as quickly as possible.”
“I’m going to Rhode Island.”
“Commitment letters haven’t been signed, right?”
“No, but—”
“All I’m saying is that I’m building a new program and I’ve seen what you have to offer.” He skated to the bench, took off his gloves and leaned against the half wall.
“My brother is at Rhode Island. It’s where my father feels we can both hone our skills for the draft.” I dropped my gloves in the box.
“And I think he’s completely right, but that doesn’t mean it’s the only program that can do that.
When I was coming up, I had a brother a year older than me, just like you.
And I’m telling you right now, I wouldn’t be the hockey player I was over my career and I am today if I hadn’t stepped out of his shadow to go to Seattle instead of following him to Michigan. ”
“There’s—”
“I’m not asking for any answers today.” He patted down his jacket pockets like he was searching for something before looking up and smiling again.
“No commitment letter on me. All I’m saying is keep it in mind.
There are other options out there and other teams that could be built around you and get you to that next level with even more opportunities to grow. ” He extended his hand.
I shook it. “Once the Rhode Island letter shows up, I have to sign it.”
The crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened like they were well-worn over the years.
Not a hint of annoyance or anger. “We’ve all got to do what we’ve got to do.
Nice meeting you in person. One hell of a lineup you have on the puck.
I swear, there’s a few times I couldn’t even follow it once you got your hands on it.
You’re an excellent player.” He patted me on the shoulder and walked off through the team box.
Coach Wilson emerged from the hallway leading to the locker room. “How’s the hand holding up?”
“Good as new.” I held out my hand, still dotted with scabs.
“And those new cuts?”
I dropped my hand to my side. “Nothing to worry about.”
Coach’s jaw clenched and he settled a hand on my shoulder. “There’s a fine line between practice and punishment.”
I stiffened. “I’m good, Coach.”
He sighed, squeezed my shoulder and dropped his head, shaking it. “Hit the showers.”
What game was Coach playing? That he’d been the one to set up this little meeting meant he wouldn’t be letting my father know, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t find out. With that small anxious spike contained, I jogged back to the locker room.
Everyone was already dressed and ready to go by the time I got in.
A fully dressed Erik lay on one of the benches, tossing a puck up into the air and catching it.
Galen set his shoes down, stared down at Erik and shook his head.
Erik stayed where he was and brought out a second puck.
Calder tugged on his shirt. “Do we need to get a playpen for you, Erik?”
“Only keeping myself entertained since you guys are so slow.” He produced another puck and juggled them, still lying on his back.
“A man of many talents.” Galen cracked a half smile.
Erik shot upright on the bench. “I worked on this all summer. Watch.” He stood, foot looped through one of the duffel bag straps beneath the bench, and took a hard fall straight to his knee. His pucks thudded to the floor.
He cursed and rocked back and forth, rubbing his knee and hissing.
“How are you never able to stay on your damn feet off the ice?” Calder picked up his jacket. “Mason, you want us to wait?”
“Why did Coach have you stay after?” Erik stared at me with his head cocked to one side.
“Just a little work to check on my hands.” Chatter about Dane visiting with me didn’t need to slip out at a future practice while my father was here.
I hated keeping this from them, but it wasn’t like I hadn’t been lying through my teeth all this time.
All the extra practice my dad put me through. Every interaction with Lilah.
Her dazed expression when she’d almost fallen over in the sewing room still gnawed at me.
“Is this about those new cuts?” Galen’s eyes bored into mine.
“No.”
“Yeah, how did that happen again?” Calder laid a hand on my shoulder.
“It’s none of your business.”