Chapter 1
1
We are the sort of people that make health insurance popular.
Terry Sawchuk
Frank
A dark morning. When I look out the sliding glass door, I can see the frozen Chicago River and twinkling holiday lights beyond. Snow piles up on the balcony. Can’t eat much, but yogurt with a topping of granola should give me enough to get through morning skate. Two double espressos with some painkillers help me get moving. When I turn on the radio, we’re finally holiday-music free.
I’ve already collapsed twice, my wonky knee not yet ready for the day. Yesterday, the first day after the holiday break, we played a brutal afternoon game and I was the guy with a target on my back. Two bad hits. The second one almost sent me to the showers. Getting up, my knee gave an ominous pop but I ignored it.
The confrontation with Marty Bernard was the coup de grace. When he suggested going, I turned away. Then he dropped the gloves and I had no choice. He’s a young gun and once my helmet was off and he’d pulled off my sweater, I was done. The five-minute penalty with five minutes left meant I didn’t sit in the box, just went down to the locker room to start stripping off.
Mom’s ringtone, “Highway to Hell,” snaps me out of my reverie. I slam the empty cup down and it cracks into several large shards, as I reach for the vibrating cell.
Before she gets out the daily sermon, I cut her off. “Late for practice. Talk to you later.” Then I hang up and turn off the phone. Drops of sweat break out along my hairline and I wipe my face, trip over the stylish tweed overcoat I dumped in the hall late last night. My watch shows a temperature of minus five Fahrenheit. Minus twenty Celsius. Limping to a waiting car, I curse my choice.
The Uber slides around to the back of the arena, avoids some piles of snow, and drops me in the icy slush near the curb. Trudging through, my trainers sink and I can feel wetness seeping into my socks. My legs shake, and my arms ache as I walk the few feet to the entrance.
There isn’t a part of me that doesn’t hurt. I need to find our senior physio and get something stronger. Hank hasn’t been around the last few days, but I figured with the holiday break he decided to spend time with his family somewhere out west. I hope he’s back, so he can work on me for at least an hour before I have to get on the ice.
Can’t control the shivers before the leather palm of my fur-lined glove slams against the control bar for the team entrance to the Aero Center. You’re Canadian, I keep telling myself waiting for it to creak open, the mechanism stiff from the cold.
Once through, I straighten my shoulders, hold in my abs, and try to minimize my limp. Last night’s ice bath, whirlpool, hot and cold compresses proved short-term remedies. At home I took some pills but still couldn’t get much sleep.
Couple of equipment guys are already in the locker room putting out practice jerseys and clean towels. “Not Strong Enough” plays through the sound system, taunting. I’m one of the old guys on the team and the physical wear and tear shows. With free agency this summer, I need an extension for a couple more years. I might even take a team friendly, just so I can retire on my own terms.
Looking around, I don’t see the physio. A slow burn starts up my torso at his defection. “Hey guys, where’s Hank?”
They give me a funny look, then one says, “Sorry, Sourpuss. Haven’t seen him.”
I earned the nickname as a kid from my love of dill pickles, but over the years it stuck from my grumpy nature.
At the pace of a giant tortoise, I move toward my stall, where my equipment sits as if in expectation. Dropping to the bench, I stroke the swollen, inflamed knee wrapped in ACE bandages like it’s a wounded animal. If I can make it through the end of the season, I might finally have the ACL surgery I keep putting off.
After half an hour of waiting, I strip, get into the whirlpool for a while to loosen my muscles, then begin to put on my equipment. Pads, practice jersey, pants, socks, skates. Every move arrows through me and I stifle a groan when I start lacing up.
Noise rises around me as more guys pile into the room. A slap on the back knocks the breath out of me. Olaf Jorgens?n, my very young D partner, laughs and the giant Swede hits me again. “You look bad, man. Do I need to guide you out onto the ice?”
I shoot a death glare but before I can snap a comeback, our head coach, Merritt Alexander, better known as Ax or The Iceman, pops his head around the locker room door with a grim expression. “Out on the ice, boys.”
The door closes. Just before it clicks, he reappears with a glare in my direction. “And, Sourpuss, stay on the ice after we finish.”
What’s that all about? We were all bad last night, not just me. Grabbing my helmet and stick, I hustle out, swearing under my breath at my aching ribs, stiff joints, and the throb of the mother of all headaches. Hank is still nowhere to be seen.
I grit my teeth and fumble for another couple of ibuprofen and swallow them dry. Maybe they’ll take the edge off. Not playing tonight, so Doc Gnauss can give me a cocktail of painkillers and muscle relaxers. Too bad Toradol is off the market. It was kind of a miracle drug.
Nauseated by the drills and the bag skate, the only option is to collapse onto the bench while most of the guys file out. Corey “Madman” Madison, our team captain, and Volo, aka Konstantin Voloshin, his right wing, stay out on the ice practicing shots.
“Join us, Sourpuss,” Volo yodels. “You know you want to.”
The Iceman skates over. “Drop it, boys. Get to the showers and have some breakfast.”
Madman cackles. “Waffles and bacon, Volo?”
“Nah, I asked for herring.”
Ax rests his arm against the rail. “Showing your age today, Sourpuss. You took some pretty hard hits last night.”
I blow it off with a shrug. “That’s the game. I’m an enforcer, so I expect the rough stuff.”
His face twists into a grimace. During his playing days, he’d been on the receiving end of my hits. One of them broke his neck and it ended his career. He disappeared for a while but put his life back together and came back to hockey. When the team CEO announced Ax was the new coach, I thought about asking for a trade, but so far we rub along okay. At least until this morning.
His face is a mixture of serious and sympathetic. “Look, Frank, stop trying to be the tough guy. Your knee has been a problem all season. You need treatment for all that pain.”
Guess I’m not hiding it as well as I thought. I’m on my feet before I know it, jaw clenched. “Hank has been taking care of me.”
“Hank’s not an orthopedic specialist.” He bites off the words and they crack like peanut brittle.
My thoughts swing wildly and settle firmly on disaster. “Are you pulling me? Putting me on IR?”
“No, I just want you to get checked out, then work with our new PT.” He motions to someone standing in the doorway that leads down to the locker room.
My eyes swivel, then blink. I’m sure the figure is female. In fact, if I was in the market for a date, she might tick all my boxes. Medium tall, athletic body. Curly brown shoulder-length hair, pale finely grained skin. An oval face graced with a long narrow nose, a wide mouth with thinnish natural rose lips, and the hint of straight white teeth.
She holds out a long-fingered hand with unpolished, blunt-cut nails. Her voice is deep and melodic. “Maya Pullman. And I guess you’re Frank Sauer.”
I look her up and down, noting the professional gray pantsuit, cream blouse, and flat black ankle boots, before I briefly touch my fingers to hers. Then I pull back like I’d touched a hot burner. The air smells like fried wires.
Flames roar from the soles of my feet to the top of my head. Mom’s early morning harangue floods back. The effort to keep my mouth shut increases the headache that pings at my temples. No. No way. Not going to happen. Just walk away, little girl. You’re not getting your hands on me.
Ax and Maya stare at me, eyes full of question marks. “Where’s Hank?” I choke out. “He’s always been my guy.”
“Gone,” Ax says, voice terse.
Shock knocks me back onto the bench. Hank is my wizard; the alchemist who gives me the drugs I need to keep going. This Maya woman looks like Princess Slap Your Hand. She won’t give me the treatments to stay on the ice, doing my job.
My mouth opens, closes, opens again. “Better job? More pay? He was a genius. You should have done everything to keep him.”
Now Ax is glaring like a devil has taken up residence in his eyeballs. “Can’t discuss it, but he’s had a change of circumstances.”
“What does that mean? He’s gone back to Wyoming to take care of his elderly parents? A goddamn Hallmark holiday movie?”
The muscles around Ax’s eyes tighten, his lips almost disappear. “Don’t you watch the news?”
The woman’s sharp intake of breath and rapidly blinking eyes mean she’s made a connection. My head shakes back and forth bewildered. Then I remember a news story a few days ago, reporting the arrest of some hockey team’s staffer for drug dealing. I hadn’t paid attention. Nothing to do with us.
Was it Hank? The guy was a goddamn miracle worker—as a drug dealer. And I’m one of his junkies. The bleakness of my future flashes by. First thought, maybe one of the guys has a connection. Then I realize that will totally tank whatever career I have left. #!$*&*#
Like a flash, a smile replaces Ax’s Satan face. “Maya, here, really is brilliant. All the skills, sterling recommendations from her last job. Very familiar with hockey. You’ll be a new man before the end of the season, without drugs.”
The last two words toll like a death knell. “ Without drugs. ” I see my career spool away like water swirling down a drain. I want to sink to my knees, beat my chest, howl.
Instead, I take a deep breath, get to my feet, and turn away. I push past Ms. Pullman and stalk off to the dressing room. Another nail pounds into my heart when she says, “Well, Ax, I wish you’d warned me he’s an asshole.”
But I deserve it.