Chapter 6 Jackson
six
Jackson
“Aright, Rigsby,” I hustle through the arena doors, encouraging him to walk a bit faster by holding him by his sleeve.
“I’m going to need you to find a seat, and you have to be quiet.
I know I don’t have anything to worry about with you because you will behave.
Just in case, let’s go over a few rules. No leaving your seat.”
His eyes widen with concern as they laser up at me. “What if I have to go to the bathroom?”
“Well, if it’s possible for you to hold it, I’d rather you wait. I don’t want you getting lost or wandering around unsupervised.”
“Got it. Pee my pants.”
“No, that’s not what I said.” I block out the mental image he’s just given me. Kids can be so gross. “I don’t feel right if you’re somewhere I can’t see you.”
“Okay.” He slides his backpack from his shoulders and hooks it on his arm, pulling it forward, but it makes a thud sound.
I give his bag sideways stare. “What was that noise?”
His reply is quick. “I brought my iPad. I thought it might be something to do.”
It didn’t sound like any iPad I’ve ever heard, but I really don’t have time to look at it now.
If his iPad keeps him sitting still during practice, I’ll take it.
“Good idea.” I take a deep breath as we round the corner, entering the arena.
I walk to the row directly behind our penalty box and hold my arm out to usher him to a seat.
“You can sit here. Don’t talk. We aren’t supposed to have visitors at practice.
I basically need you to act like you aren’t even here. ”
Dragging his feet at the slowest possible speed, he crosses in front of the seats and plops down. He’s quiet as he stares forward, seeming to understand his assignment. “Any questions?” I ask, tilting my head down to make sure I capture any confusion in his expression.
“I got it.” He nods confidently, and I take a step back with my eyes still glued to him.
Nothing about this feels like it’s going to have a good outcome.
I don’t have a choice. When I’m confident he’s going to stay in his seat, I spin on my heel and race to the locker room.
My stomach is looped into knots, but I’m going to push through it.
It’s just one practice.
How bad can it be?
And please, don’t let this be the day that Bill Baker shows up for practice.
Running my finger along the edge of my skate blade, I double check it before I slip it on. The guys are huge prankers. Any chance they get, they will add clear tape to someone’s blade. I hope everyone is on their best behavior this week, because Bill made it clear he’s watching.
Even so, I don’t trust these guys.
I’m not taking chances with my gear. I can’t afford any mishaps without my lucky glove.
My blade is clean, and I drop my skate to the ground and slip my foot inside to begin the process of lacing it up.
Tension pools in the back of my neck, making me strain to look down.
I usually handle stress well, but this morning was a nightmare.
I can’t even think about the fact that I still don’t have my lucky glove. I pray it’s at that bank when I get done with practice. Resisting the urge to shake my head, I ruminate on how that woman carelessly left her bags in an Uber. My flabbers are seriously gasted over this whole incident.
“You coming?” I look up and find Axl’s foot propping the locker room door open, his gaze zeroed in on me.
I quickly scan the room—all the guys are gone. I was so zoned out that I didn’t notice. “I was double-checking my gear,” I mutter under my breath as I stand and lumber toward him. “Besides, we can’t all be overachievers. Someone has to keep us average.”
“Thanks for keeping us average.” Axl chuckles, but as we move through the tunnel, we both get quiet. I haven’t seen Bill, but he could seriously be lurking around any corner.
It sounds extreme.
It’s not extreme for him.
“Guys, this isn’t the day to slack,” Coach Carlson calls from up ahead as he jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Get on the ice.”
Rolling my bottom lip under my teeth, I bite down.
I’m not one to mouth off. That’s Axl. He’s more than earned that title for our team.
I’m the quiet one who knows my place is in the net.
I bob my head toward our coach and hustle forward, sighing a breath of relief when my skates finally meet the ice.
My mind clicks into focus, and I take my spot in the crease and start my ritualistic procedure of skating back and forth to scuff the ice.
My gaze slides to the stands to find Rigsby. Thankfully, he’s right where I left him. He smiles at me, beaming that one-front-tooth smile he’s been rocking for weeks.
As I turn my head back, my neck feels even stiffer.
My whole body wears a new tension. I have to believe it’s because I’m worried about my glove.
I don’t know what else it would be. The guys are done stretching, and Coach has instructed them to run through some plays.
I slide into position and watch the puck as they bring it down the ice.
Everyone seems to be skating in slow motion today. Maybe they are also on edge, but I never lose sight of the puck. I’m more than ready when Axl skates in, flicks his wrist, and slams the puck toward me.
I kick my pad out and brace for the thud. Everything goes quiet. Blinking, I check behind me.
The puck hit the net.
That was about the easiest save ever, and I let it slip past me. I roll my neck, hoping to loosen something up. I can’t shake this feeling like there’s something pressing on my shoulders. I never get this stressed out.
I take a deep breath, pulling in as much air as possible, and slowly let it out. The guys are in play again. I track the puck as they skate toward me again. This time I’m not going to miss an easy block. I ready my stick into position and will my eyes not to blink.
My mouth is dryer than normal, because I didn’t have proper time to hydrate this morning.
I run my tongue along my bottom lip. A strange sour taste lingers on my tongue, grating on my nerves a little.
I do my best to ignore it. I bend my knees and laser in on the puck as Axl brings it down the ice. There’s no way I will miss this shot.
Errt! Bang! Clang!
A whistle slices through the cacophony of sounds, and Coach shouts, “Who brought a kid and a giant rat to practice?”
My head whips to the sound. Sure enough, Rigsby is trotting after a tawny streak up the stairs.
Behind them is a tipped over garbage can and a trail of the garbage.
The streak is too big to be a rat. I have no idea what that animal is, but now Rigsby’s heavy backpack makes so much sense.
I swallow hard, half amazed he got it by me this whole time, and half horrified.
“One of you brought a kid and a cat,” Coach hollers when nobody fesses up. “Get them out of here!”
Resisting the urge to groan, I skate forward. Coach isn’t one to accept excuses or even apologies. He wants our actions to correct our mistakes, and I know nothing I say will smooth this over.
“This’s your kid?” His piercing gaze lasers through me, and heat rises over my neck and ears. It’s an odd way to show embarrassment, but it’s how I’ve always been.
“My sister’s. I’m babysitting while she has a baby today.
He missed the school bus. Sorry, I don’t have anywhere to take him.
” I skate around the rink and exit the ice.
I can feel everyone’s eyes on me as I lumber forward because I’m still in my skates.
I’m trying to balance on the concrete as I’m about to whisper-yell at Rigsby, but I freeze before I get a word out.
He’s crawling over the seats to catch his cat-rat.
It’s clearly a game to the creature. I’m going to have to help him catch it, and I can’t do anything with skates on.
With a heavy huff, I lean over, unlace my skates, slip my feet out, and start the process of climbing the stairs after them, which is nearly impossible to do with goalie gear on.
I drop my helmet right as the creature sees me.
Arching his back as if he’s getting ready to challenge me, he takes off, hopping from the back of one seat to the next like he’s spring loaded.
He’s flying! Now that I’m closer I can tell it’s not a cat or a rat. It’s a ferret!
Aw man, Jackie never told me he got a ferret.
She’s going to owe me so big for this. I run at top speed, leaping over chairs.
Rigsby lunges forward, narrowly missing the ferret.
I race to the top to try to get him from that angle.
He’s a ninja ferret who drops to the ground and darts under the seats.
Apparently, he has invisibility powers now, because I can’t see even a streak.
I stop, resting my hands on my knees as I catch my breath and scan the arena. I get a glimpse of the ferret’s long body all the way down on the ground floor. How he traveled that far in such a short amount of time is beyond me. He’s sprinting to the exit!
The sharp blast from the whistle slices through the air as Coach shouts even louder, “Practice isn’t starting back up until that kid and rat are gone!”
A collective groan rises from the team. A few of the guys skate off the ice and start toward me, joining in the search. That’s great and all, but my fingers are trembling. Coach Carlson is not going to forgive this very easily. He’s not a guy with a sense of humor.
Not this week.
Not ever.
In hindsight, I should have called Jackie when we missed the school bus. She’s in labor but she might have had a babysitter I could have called.
I take a deep swallow and get a gulp of air that tastes a little like the perfect blend of failure and frustration. Then I run as fast as I can out the door, trailing that animal.
With a deep scowl on my face, I trudge out of practice.
I’ve never done this before. I can’t even begin to imagine all the ways I’ll be punished when I return, but I don’t have a choice.
With the not-happy ferret jailed in the backpack, and Rigsby snatched by the wrist, I scurry out of the arena.
My head is pounding after all that commotion.
I still can’t believe we caught this ninja ferret.
He ended up running into an open supply closet where we surrounded him.
I’ve never seen Carlson’s face turn a deeper shade of red than when he screamed for me to get the animal out of there.
I guess I’ll go back to my apartment and figure something out. I have a press conference this afternoon, and I don’t dare bring Rigsby to that. The last thing I need is this chaos captured on camera.
Breathing heavily, I propel Rigsby forward, and he trips over his foot trying to keep up with me.
What stands out the most in my mind is how I completely missed an entire ferret.
The kid is either a genius or I’m losing my mind.
I let him into the backseat of my car, drop his bag into his hands, promptly get in the front seat, and take a moment to catch my breath.
“Hey, buddy,” I proceed in my best gentle coax, “how’d you sneak a ferret into the arena?
Better yet,” I rush as my mind reels, “where has he been this whole time?”
“Simple.” Unamused, his bottom lip pushes out. “He lives in my backpack.”
“But—” I drop it because it really is exactly the opposite of how he described it.
It’s a giant feat to conceal a pet, and I’m quite impressed.
I study his expression in the rearview mirror.
Now that the ferrets out-of-the-bag—literally and figuratively—he opens the top of his bag.
The ferret melts into his arms, rolling on his back for a belly scratch. “So, how long have you had him?”
“Since the beginning of last summer. He was our class pet last year. The teacher had to give him a summer home, so I volunteered.” A proud smile curves on the corner of his lips as he continues to rub his pet.
“So . . . your mom doesn’t know?”
“Nah, I wanted to tell her, but she’s doesn’t really like pets. She was pregnant all summer and not in the best mood. I figured what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her, right?” He meets my gaze in the mirror and pinches his lips together. “I guess you’re going to tell her.”
Aside from the whole almost getting me fired thing, it’s kind of funny, but I don’t think it’s my place to encourage dishonesty.
“You know,” I start, but then stop as I realize this is going to come off as scolding.
If he can keep a pet alive and a secret for four months, maybe he deserves to keep it.
“Well, maybe I’ll convince her to let you keep it. ”
His eyebrows rise, as his pupils widen with hope, and I tack on, “As long as you swear to never bring him into a hockey arena again.”
He dips his face to speak to the ferret, “Hear that, Frankfurter? No more hockey.”
“You named him after a hotdog?”
“No,” he speaks with all the seriousness a seven-year-old can muster. “No, not a hotdog. His name is Frank Fur, as in he has fur, and Ter as in more.”
“Oh.” Now that that’s settled, I give the back of my head a healthy scratch and check my phone for any messages from Kaci.
Nothing. I was hoping she would get done with her test early.
Apparently, she’s not in a hurry to retrieve her things or my glove. How irresponsible can someone be? I guess I’ll take care of it.
I crank the engine and shift it into gear, calling back, “We have to stop at the bank, and then we can grab lunch.” As I take a left turn out of the parking lot, I whisper under my breath, “Let’s hope nothing else goes wrong today.”