CHAPTER TWELVE
CARTER
It’s quiet save for the hum of the Zamboni as I drive around the rink, the ice a silver mirror. I savor the smell, the atmosphere. But within it I’m thinking about Wren and the perfection of her body, its own sweet scent and warm, wet places. I never dreamed it was possible to be this happy, this fulfilled, and there’s not a pill or bleached blonde in sight.
I come around for the final pass and spot someone standing in the shadows beside the rink. I finish up and garage the Zamboni, journeying around the rink to meet my mystery guest.
A familiar face steps into the light.
I stop short. “Coach Williams?”
The cap-wearing head coach of the Vancouver Canucks nods. “You’re looking good, White.”
I come forward to shake his hand. “For a con.”
Coach Williams takes my hand and waves off the suggestion. “Don’t talk yourself down, son. Everyone makes mistakes. It was a helluva mistake, granted, but I’ve never thought it right to judge a man on his past actions.”
“You’re looking pretty good yourself, Coach.”
He takes off his Canucks cap, running his hand through his hair. “Well, there’s more salt than pepper up here now, I piss four times a night, but I’m still kicking ass.”
I lean against the glass. “So I’ve heard. The Canucks killed it last season.”
He smiles with pride. “It’s a great team, a real nice mix of boys we’ve got, but I miss your slapshot, son. You used to get so much stick on the damn puck I’m amazed it never caught fire.”
I smile back. “What was it you used to say? Pain goes away, pride lasts forever?”
“I say a lot of stupid shit.” Williams beams. “But yeah, I believe that, and has it? Has your pain gone away?”
I reach down to my knee. “It’s fine, been fine for a long time now, in fact.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “I’m not talking about your damn knee, son.” He taps his chest. “This pain.”
I exhale. “Yeah, it has. I’m in a good place, a great place,” I correct.
Coach Williams looks through the glass. “I know. I’ve been watching you.”
I wasn’t expecting this. “Watching me?”
He points above us to the office overlooking the rink with its one-way windows. “Steve called me up one night, told me you working here, training in your off time.”
Fucking Steve. “He did, did he?”
“It’s a long-ass drive out here to Nowheresville, but I was curious.” He jerks his head to the ice. “You’re back in form, Carter. I mean, you look seriously good out there.”
I can’t help the smile deepening. “Thanks, Coach.”
“Are you looking to make a move back into the big league?”
I hadn’t even considered it as a possibility. I address the elephant in the room. “I don’t think the league would take too kindly to the Canucks hiring back a convicted felon.”
Williams lists off his fingers. “Craig MacTavish: got a year for vehicular homicide. Mike Danton: seven-and-a-half. Dany Heatly, Slava Voynov…”
“But these guys were convicted of crimes while in the NHL. They weren’t exactly welcomed back.”
Williams turns his lip up. “A valid point, but I’ve got a lot of pull with the Board these days. I think I could make it happen if you’re willing to show you’ve turned your life around. The NHL loves that fluffy, Hallmark shit deep down.” He sees I’m not convinced. “Look, come down to Rogers Tuesday night, meet the team. We can go from there.”
Coach Williams extends his hand. I shake it again. “Alright, Coach.”
He claps me on the shoulder with his free hand. “That’s the spirit, Crusher.”
*
I’m walking into the crisp night air, walking on a fucking cloud given Coach Williams’s visit. It drops when I spot the same busted-up white Accord I saw the other day. It’s parked in the lot across the road.
Motherfucker.
I cross the street as quick as I can.
The Accord’s lights come on. It starts to back out of the lot, but I’m already at the window, tapping on it with my fist.
It comes down, the camera that was just levelled at me placed on the passenger seat. “Matt fucking Leroux. I feel like Ebenezer Scrooge with all these blasts from the past tonight.”
“Yes,” the infamous reporter nods. “I saw Coach Williams just now. What was he after?”
I shake my head, arm pressed up against the A-frame of the car. “Like I would fucking tell you anything after the shit you published about me back in the day. What I should do is reach across your scrawny ass and smash that camera into a thousand fucking pieces.”
Matt grins. It’s only been two years, but he looks more like a man in his fifties than thirties. “That was local paper stuff, Crusher. You were the only celebrity in Oatville. What the fuck else was I going to write about? The state of Main Street? New management at the General Store?”
“And I suppose you’ve moved up in the world?”
“New York, in fact. I’m writing for The American now.”
“What does a big, fancy paper like The American want with me?”
He shakes his head. “No, not you, Carter. Wren. Wren White.”
I lean in. “What the fuck do you want with her?”
He puts his hands up. “Easy, big fella, but let’s face it. Your brother was something of a high flyer in the Big Apple. People want to know what happened. They want the real story.”
“Wren had nothing to do with it.”
“And how would you know that?”
I reach in for the camera. He picks it up, handing it towards me. “Go ahead. It’s on Wi-Fi, every shot I take instantly streamed back to the office.”
I slam my boot into the side of his car. Another dent’s not going to make a difference. I’ve had just about enough of this asshole. “Leave us the fuck alone or I’ll Wi-Fi that camera right up your ass.”
I stride away furious.
Forget it, I tell myself. Wren’s safe from vultures like Matt Leroux.
But for how long? Comes the quiet reply.