Prologue #5
"Now that Noel's back in town," Jimy is saying, "what if we put together a hockey game?
A few years back, after my cousin Phil was killed during a routine traffic stop, his community put together a cops-versus-firefighters hockey game, and the proceeds from the ticket sales went to his family.
Guns ‘N Hoses, they call it, I guess." He continues before I can interject.
"I know you don't need the money, but what if we did it in Taylor's name and the proceeds went to a charity or something? "
This gets my attention. "Not a bad idea, Jimbo. Not a bad idea at all."
"Noel's back in town, too, and I know the folks would love see their hometown hero on the ice again."
"I dunno if he'd play in it, though," I said.
“The rest of us around here play for fun. Rec leagues and pickup games, shit like that. Noel is one of the best players to ever touch ice, Jimbo. The Skyhawks are already planning to retire his number. Him on the ice with the rest of us would be like…I dunno. Me playing against the Peewees.”
"True, true. Maybe he'd coach or something. Just having him involved would get butts on benches."
“I'll talk to him. I love the idea of a hockey game in Taylor's name.
She was never so happy as when she was on the benches watching Noel practice or me playing rec league games.
" My heart cracks and my eyes burn and my throat goes hot and tight.
"She'd have her grandpa's Stanley thermos full of hot cocoa and her hand-warmers and her blanket, and she'd just hang out and watch us on the ice.
No one was prouder of our boy than she was, Jimbo. "
"I'll make it happen. Where do you want the proceeds to go?"
"I gotta think about that one."
"Take your time. I'll get the ladies working on plans in the meantime. You need anything, you just let us know."
"How's about the four horsemen head upriver for some flyfishing?" I say. "Can you make that happen?"
"You know it, Noah. I'll call the guys and find a day. When's your next stretch off shift?"
"Just started my forty-eight off today, so…" I glance at the SkyHawks Hockey calendar on the fridge, which features the Skyhawks players in varying degrees of undress; Noel gave it to Taylor as a joke, and I can't bring myself to get rid of it. "Next Tuesday."
"Plan on heading out at dawn on Tuesday, then. Pack your shit for a few days on the river and let us worry about everything else."
Gasping for breath and dripping sweat, I hold my helmet by the chinstrap in one hand and the microphone with the other, my stick in the same hand as my helmet.
For a few moments, I just take it all in—the bleachers of Tomlin Falls' ice rink are packed.
I'm pretty sure literally the entire population of the town is here, except the skeleton crews at the firehouse, police station, and hospital.
"Hey, everyone. Most of you know me, but for those who don't, I'm Captain Noah Austin.
I just wanted to take a second and thank you all for showing up today.
Obviously, we all love a good hockey game, right?
" Cheers and applause greet this. “We're Alaskans, after all!” More cheers.
"But this wasn't just any hockey game; it’s not just a fundraiser, either. "
Gathering my fortitude, I drift toward center ice, away from the home team bench.
"We're here to honor and remember my wife, Taylor Austin.
She was a fixture in this town. To know her, to meet her even once, was to love her.
After she passed, you guys, the community here in Tomlin Falls…
you showed Noel and me so much love and care, and I can't thank you all enough.
Truly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for the kindness and generosity you all showed us.
It came to my attention that you felt the meal train wasn't enough.
You wanted to raise money." I pivot slowly on my skates, seeing familiar faces and those less familiar.
"I appreciated the thought, but I couldn't possibly take your money.
But this?" I gesture around us, at the cops on the away bench, the firefighters on the home bench, and them, the audience.
"This is you honoring Taylor. We play some hockey, a game my wife loved to watch from those very seats, and we raise money and spend time together as a community.
I honestly can't think of a better way to show Taylor that we're thinkin' about her. "
My voice catches, and I pause, drop my head; the bleachers stay silent. Someone coughs. A child squeals in irritation.
"Every last penny of the proceeds from this game will go toward the much-needed renovations of the Tomlin Falls Regional Hospital cancer center, which I am told, when it reopens, will be named in honor of my wife—so today, with your generosity, you all are planting the seeds that will become the Taylor Austin Memorial Cancer Center. "
The applause, then, is so deafening that the whole building rattles. I wait until it subsides a bit, and then I lift my stick and helmet for quiet; silence descends once more.
"There's already been chatter about making this a yearly event, and while I can’t speak for these guys," I gesture at the benches, “I can say that I'll be ready to play next year, and every year after that, until I'm finally too dang old to lace up my own skates.
The proceeds, like today, will go to the center.
My hope is that in time we'll be able to create a fund big enough to help cut down the bills for folks who go through those doors, because let’s face it, cancer is a hell of an expensive thing, and trust me when I say I'm well aware that not everyone is lucky enough to have a son like mine.
" I point at Noel, who glowers at me for calling attention to him like that.
"Can we get a round of applause for Noel?
We'd have beaten the cops without him, but he sure did help the cause! "
This is greeted with laughter, cheers, and good-natured boos. Noel, still glaring at me furiously, steps out of the box and onto the ice, does a single 360 while waving, and then steps back into the box and behind the bench, burly arms crossed. I'll be getting a scolding later, I'm sure.
I raise my hands. "That's it, I guess. The ice is now open for the kiddos. Some of the guys will stick around, so lace up those skates and have fun! Concessions will stay open for a while longer, too. Have fun, be safe, do good, and be well. See ya'll next year!"
I drift off the ice and hang back in the tunnel leading to the locker rooms, watching kids take to the ice with glee—toddlers with double-bladed skates and skate helpers, lightning-fast, T-shirted, teenaged hockey players showing off their dekes and hockey stops, and figure skaters doing spins and leaps.
A girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, wearing figure skates, leggings, and a hoodie, out-skates pretty much everyone else on the ice.
She’s an incredible skater, with impeccable edgework, remarkable blade control, and stunning speed.
I watch, impressed, as she dodges a stumbling gaggle of little ones, ducks under the outstretched arm of a gesturing teenage boy, cuts a hard right behind the net, and then makes a blazing break for center ice.
There's a clearing in the scrum of skaters in the neutral zone, and she deftly pivots to skate backward at full speed, coasts a moment, and then launches into a textbook double lutz.
As she nears the goal, she finds herself surrounded by a gaggle of boys about her age, passing pucks and taking slap shots at the empty net.
Passing a pair of roughhousing boys, the girl—hair a long, loose black ribbon streaming behind her—scoops up a dropped stick, snags a puck, and weaves through the chaos in front of the net, deking, juking, and dribbling the puck in a phenomenal display of stick handling before sending the puck rocketing into the top shelf of the net with a wicked slapshot from the outside of the righthand faceoff circle.
Damn.
From a double lutz to a killer slapshot, all from a skinny little filly of a girl.
She tosses the stick to one of the open-mouthed boys, giving him a saucy smirk and wink, and coasts back toward the less chaotic side of the rink, where the kids and supervising adults are.
She's stopped by a stunningly beautiful woman who has to be her mother—she's similarly built, being tall and slender with loose, ink-black hair.
The mother seems unhappy for some reason, gesturing at the net where the boys are now trying, with varying degrees of success, to replicate the girl's series of moves.
Huh. The mom seems pissed at the girl for showing off her hockey skills. Wonder what that's about.
I put them both out of my mind as Noel spots me and beelines toward me, still glowering furiously at my public call-out.
No sooner does he reach me, mouth open to start yelling, than Doug approaches at a jog, his radio squawking at his shoulder, held in place by a bright green nylon strap across his chest and around his waist.
"We've got an overturned semi causing a pileup with injuries just north of town, Cap," he says to me. "We need you."
"On it. Lemme get these skates off." I glance at Noel. "You can yell at me later, bud. Gotta go. Good coaching, though!"
I sprint—as fast as one can sprint down the hallway while wearing skates—for the locker room and change into my station wear in record speed.
Soon, all thoughts of hockey and fundraisers are out of sight and out of mind as I speed in my red Ram 2500 toward the scene, ready to do the job I was born for.