Beau relaxed as the cold air from the rink caressed his face. He liked the sounds and feel, if not the smell, of the rink during the team’s morning skate. He’d been skipping them lately and cutting corners on his afternoon workouts in order to work at the house. It was starting to show. Coach had reamed him for how slowly he’d skated last game. He wasn’t wrong.

“Morning, Hopper,” Raver called from the ice, right before catching an edge and going down. “Fuckin’ figure skaters with their goddamn toe picks,” he bitched as he slid across the ice on his stomach to the cheers and applause of his teammates. He got easily to his feet and skated over to the bench. “Coach, can’t we get the Zamboni out here before we start?”

Coach Mooney didn’t bother to look up from the clipboard in his lap. “Yeah, sure. Hold on, let me get my wallet out,” he said around the unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. Joseph Mooney had played on five out of the Original Six teams over the course of his twenty-one-year career. His pro career started in 1958, with the Toronto Maple Leafs at a time of cutthroat competition for spots at the highest level of the six-team league. It ended with the New York Islanders in 1979, the year before they won the first of four consecutive Stanley Cups. He was still bitter about that. He was a tough man who only got tougher the closer he got to eighty, and right now, eighty was breathing down the back of his neck.

He was four-times divorced, bankrupt more than that, and all alone. Hockey was all he had left in the world, and now he was spending his old age coaching the team with the worst record in the ECHL. A team which, if Beau was reading the signs correctly, was going to be bankrupt by the end of the season, if not before.

Mooney scowled at the clipboard and scribbled something with one hand while reaching for his phone with the other. Most likely, there was an issue with the lineups for tomorrow’s game. At this level, team rosters had so many scratches and additions each week that they were almost entirely new teams by the end of the season. Some guys got called up to the A, some quit, deciding they didn’t want to put up with the conditions; shit wages, crappy living conditions, and constant injury, all for a chance to play a game. Beau loved it.

Even though he’d only been on the Tornadoes for four months, he knew most of the guys around his age from his years with the ECHL. Easy Come, Hard to Leave, they called it.

Most of the eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds still had dreams of making it to the top. And some of them would, for sure. Riley would, and Youngblood. Probably Cope. The thirty-and-above crew knew they weren’t going anywhere. They knew that every passing month diminished their chances of moving up. Beau had no idea how their partners and spouses put up with the lifestyle. Come to think of it, most of them didn’t. Winsted had been divorced twice, Delia three times with kids in two different cities, and he wasn’t the only one on the team in that situation.

While he’d been at Harvard, Beau had been a late-round draft pick by the St. Louis Blues. He waited until he’d graduated to sign. A less-than-stellar training camp had him playing the next three years on their AHL team, the Chicago Wolves. He’d gotten the occasional call-up when injuries and illness left holes in the roster. But he’d never quite lived up to expectations, and he’d found himself moved down and shuffled around for the last few years.

It hadn’t really hurt as much as people assumed it did. As much as he’d enjoyed his time with the big boys, he wasn’t sure he really wanted the pressure and obligations that came with that lifestyle—the self-discipline it needed, the dedication. In a way, he had only done it because he couldn’t think of anything else he wanted more. It was enough for him to know he could have played at that level if he really wanted to and had worked harder at it.

Beau realized he sounded like a douchebag. He knew how privileged he was that the money didn’t mean anything to him. Not everyone was that lucky. His attitude toward the game had pissed off more than one guy with dreams of the ice over the years.

Beau shifted his bag higher on his shoulder. Whatever. He still had a few months to make a decision. There was no need to make it today. Today, he just had to skate.

A fluorescent light flickered rapidly in the dim locker room. The guys were taking bets on when it would die completely. The pot was at one hundred and seventeen dollars right now. Beau didn’t get why their facilities were such shit. The rest of the sports complex was fine; not top notch, but not like something out of a German POW camp movie. Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but it could really use a thorough cleaning, a few coats of fresh paint, and a can or two of air freshener.

“Morning, boys,” Beau said to Eric Delia and André Riley, dropping his bag in front of a bench.

“Morning,” they both mumbled.

At thirty-six, Delia was the oldest on the team, and it showed. He had more grey hairs than he should have at that age, and stress lines cut deep grooves around his mouth. When he smiled, he was missing a tooth. Knowing the shit pay they earned, he probably had never had the money to fix it. His body had gone through so much, and for what? The love of the game?

“Youngblood here yet?” Beau asked, trying to sound like he couldn’t care less. He started pulling the pieces of his uniform out of his bag.

Delia nodded. “Got here about fifteen minutes ago. Probably already out on the ice.”

Good. Beau wouldn’t have to deal with him in the locker room. Beau had met guys like Travis Youngblood before—cocky, arrogant, and selfish with the puck and a homophobic, racist asshole. He could deal with it on the ice and in the locker room, but when Youngblood had started bringing it back with him to the house they shared, Beau folded. He was tired of it, tired of guys who thought ‘fag’ was the worst insult they could think of. He didn’t want to fight it, he just wanted it to go away.

“How’s that new place of yours working out?” André asked.

“Better than finding Youngblood fucking two girls in my bed,” Beau answered.

Delia huffed. “Still think you should’a beat the crap out of him. Don’t let him walk all over you, man. He’ll keep pushing. This team’s a fucking piranha tank.”

Beau would have to if it got much worse, but he’d rather just ignore it and hope that not being on Youngblood’s radar day and night would cut down on the shit-talking. “Should I wait outside the locker room for him one night, jump him from behind?” Beau asked

“It could not hurt. I will hold him for you.” André Riley said, surprising Beau. André was soft-spoken for a hockey player, a young guy with a French-Canadian accent and dimples that drove the female fans crazy, if the signs they held up at games were any indication. If Beau were reading André’s expression correctly, those women were going to be very disappointed.

Is he bothering you, too? Beau asked in French.

Riley shrugged like only those with the blood of France in them could. “A little bit. The usual shit on the ice. Veiled comments that he thinks are so clever,” he replied in the same language. André strapped his chest protector on. “Personally, I think he is dying to know what it feels like to fucked. We should buy him a leather daddy.”

Beau burst out laughing and clapped Riley on the shoulder. He may have made a new friend.

Delia pointed accusingly at both of them. “I don’t know what all you said, but that last part, I got. If you need some cash for it, I’m in.”

Other players started making their way into the locker room in varying stages of wakefulness, ending the discussion of what Youngbood could use.

Beau’s phone buzzed as he was tightening his hockey shorts. He glanced over and smiled. Charlie, his favorite cousin, was texting him. Hey can I call you real quick?

In theory, there was a ‘no phones’ rule during practice, but the guys didn’t care as long as no one took naked videos or photos. If someone was into that, they could do it on their own time.

Sure thing, he typed out.

A moment later, Lady Gaga’s song “Telephone” echoed against the cinderblock walls of the locker room.

André laughed. “That your mother?”

“No, it’s yours,” Beau shot back. “We have a phone-sex date.” He nudged the kid gently on the shoulder. Grabbing his gear bag, he headed to the empty shower room.

“Hey, what’s up?” He pulled the curtains back on the seldom-used changing cubbies. In Beau’s experience, most hockey players lost their modesty somewhere in high school.

“Hey,” Charlie said. “You busy?”

“I will be in a few. What’s up? Everything okay?” He picked one reasonably clean stall and sat down.

“Everything’s fine,” Charlie said. “Samantha says hi.”

“Hi, back.” He wasn’t sure exactly how he, Charlie, and Sam were related. Their family was huge, with several main branches. They tended to lump all kids of similar ages under the cousins designation.

“I need your opinion. Your old man and I are butting heads.” Charlie sounded two steps beyond exasperated. He must be desperate to call Beau. Everyone knew Dale Buckman didn’t much value his son’s opinion.

“Shocking. What now? Did you beat him at Monopoly?” Beau put the phone on speaker and set it on the bench next to him. He needed two hands to get kitted up.

“Like I’d play board games with him.” Beau’s father was a notoriously sore loser. He could turn Candyland into a heated competition. “You know the Argentina expansion we’ve been looking into?”

“Yeah, it was my idea.” He wasn’t a huge fan of cattle or the physical part of running a ranch, but he liked the business planning just fine. He was good at it, too.

“Uncle Dale and I don’t agree on which breeds to farm. He wants to use the stock we have now. I’ve been looking into Droughtmasters. They’re hardy, and better yet, they’re already established in Argentina.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Beau attached the thick hockey socks to the Velcro tabs at the bottom of his compression shorts.

“They came from Australia in the seventies, so they’re more established than any of our stock would be.”

Beau’s first impulse was to suggest crossbreeding the Droughtmasters with the Brangus that his father raised. But surely Charlie would have thought about that. He picked up the phone. “I don’t know, Charlie. You and dad are the cattle guys. I’m just the guy who throws out ideas. Why are you asking me?”

“You’re the numbers guy. So here are the numbers. A Droughtmaster bull is $7,500. A cow is $2,000.” Not the worst prices. “To ship a thousand head of cattle, it’d be something like two hundred grand.”

“You want me to see which would be more cost-efficient.”

“Or find a better solution that we’re not thinking of.”

Beau tapped his finger against his lips. “Well, my first thought was to buy Droughtmaster cows and cross them with the bulls we already own. It’d save us the cost of buying new bulls and likely, some of those calves will be male.”

“Yeah, we thought of that,” Charlie said. “Or rather, I thought of that. I haven’t talked to Uncle Dale about it yet. Can you run a cost projection for all three scenarios?”

“Sure thing. Send me the info, and I’ll get on it.”

“That’s why I asked.” Beau could hear the smile in his voice. “I wish you would consider taking a position in Argentina. We could use you. You speak the best Spanish of everyone. You have that business vocabulary. All I can say is, ‘Put the fence there’.”

“No, thank you. I prefer to do my failing outside of Dale’s line of sight.”

“He’s not even going to be in Argentina most of the time.”

“Still close enough. I know he’ll be in Oklahoma waiting for me to mess something up.”

Charlie sighed. “I don’t know why you keep acting like you’re some kind of fuck-up.”

No matter how much he liked Charlie, this was not the kind of conversation he needed to have before getting on the ice. “I gotta go,” he said. It wasn’t totally a lie. Coach Mooney would be yelling for him any second now.

“Yeah. Go. Just think about it, okay?”

“I will. I promise. Quick question, why’d you rule out cross-breeding?” Beau wedged the phone between his shoulder and jaw as he bent down to put on his skates.

“We haven’t, but there are issues with moving the cattle between countries.”

“Uh-huh.” Beau said, quickly tying his skates. “I thought I read something not that long ago about the benefits of paternal heterosis in cattle. Maybe you could look into something with the ART people and the import/export arm of the company.” Beau had often thought the assisted reproductive technologies were the most interesting thing about cattle breeding. Maybe the only thing.

“Yeah, okay. That’s a great idea.”

Beau laughed. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Shut up. Promise you’ll call soon? Give me and Sam an update on your love life? You know we live vicariously through you.”

“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” Beau said. “But I promise. Talk to you later.”

“Later, B. Happy skating. Don’t break a leg.”

“I make no promises.” Beau smiled and ended the call.

* * *

Beau was wiped out after the morning skate. He really had to stop skipping them and his morning workouts. They had two back to backs coming up, and he needed to be at the top of his game. Well, he wanted to be. Which was unusual for him, but watching Connor working so hard to do the best he could made Beau acutely aware of how much he’d been coasting through his life for the last few years.

Coach Mooney followed them into the dressing room. His normal scowl had been replaced by a look Beau had never seen before. Normally, Mooney had two, maybe three, emotions, tops: anger, annoyance, and grudging respect. That last one was more of a rumor that anything Beau had witnessed with his own eyes; Mooney’s smile approached urban-legend status.

But now he just looked tired, sad, and every one of his eighty years. “Alright, alright, y’all settle the fuck down,” Coach said as if he didn’t care whether they did or not. Of course, the room went quiet.

The old man cleared his throat and stared down at the soggy end of his cigar. “Now. I got some bad news for you guys. The season’s coming to an end, and there’s some things you need to know.”

Beau had a feeling he knew what was coming next.

“What kind of things, Coach?” Delia asked.

“The team’s broke. Unless some miracle happens, this is the Tornadoes’ last season. We’re going dark.”

Murmurs broke out in the room, but no one seemed too shocked. This was merely confirmation of something they’d discussed in whispers the last few months. All you had to do was look at all the empty seats during the game and the number of guys put on waivers during the season.

That’s the way this league worked. The Alaska Aces had closed at the end of last season, and they’d been around forever. Most of them were going to be free agents at the end of the season anyway. An ECHL team could only make offers to eight players for the next season.

He exchanged glances with Delia, Jones, and McCallan. They were the four veterans on the team. By league rules, each team could only have four players classified as veterans on the roster. The chances of them getting new spots were slim. The younger guys rotated in and out between leagues and countries, but the veterans were just looking to play as long as they could.

The situation was worse for the non-Americans like André. If they weren’t playing, their visas would be revoked, and they’d have to go back home.

Coach Mooney paced across the room while the players stripped down to their under layers. “Dawson’s got feelers out, trying to get some places for as many of you as we can before the deadline. Maybe get some of you moved up.” He nodded at their goalie. “But you know how this game is played.”

Beau had never met Fred Dawson, the owner of the Tornadoes, but from all reports, he was a decent guy. A transplant from Minnesota and a lifelong hockey fan, he’d taken the millions he’d made in his farm-management software and brought the ECHL to Hidden Creek. Even got a local bank to buy the naming rights to the stadium.

“What are you gonna do, Coach?” Delia asked. “Find a new job?”

Mooney pointed at him with his cigar. “I’m gonna do nothing. I’m gonna get a nice recliner and the biggest cable package I can and live out the rest of my life yelling at the TV.”

The mood in the locker room was grim as everyone ran through their options, trying to figure out all the possible outcomes.

Argentina was looking more like an inevitability for Beau every day. Looked like fate was taking the decision out of his hands.