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Retirement?!
Icouldn’tretire. I had no family, no adoring wife or young kids excited at the prospect of havingDaddyhome full-time. There would be “no riding off into the sunset” for me.
Once hockey was over? I had no idea what came next.
“Whoa, whoa. Hold up,” I said, showing my palms. “I’m not even close to calling it quits. I’m only thirty-seven.” I always imagined I’d play until I was atleastforty.
“The league gets younger and faster every year,” he said. “Hell, thirty is considered ancient these days. Thirty-seven? In today’s game?” He whistled an impressed note. “You’ve had a hell of a career, Rust. Nothing to be ashamed about at all.”
Had!Why was he talking like it was already over?
I put my hands together. “Killer, man, please. Is thereanythingI can do to get back in the lineup?”
He frowned and shook his head. “Not unless you find the fountain of youth. Right now, I want you to mentor those kids by showing them how a respected vet deals with coming to the end of the road.”
“Fuck,” I hissed. Slowly, I rose to my feet. I cracked the door open, but turned back to say one last thing. “I gotta say, Killer, you picked a hell of a night to scratch me.”
“Why’s that?” he asked, lifting his eyebrow.
“My best friend’s in town with his daughter. They’re coming to the game tonight to see me play.”
“Sorry, Rust. I’ve been there before, too.” Coach Miller gave a sympathetic head shake. “But hey, why don’t you watch the game with your buddy in the club box? Just leave your buddy’s name with Fan Relations and they’ll put him on the list.”
“Thanks a lot, Killer,” I grumbled.
* * *
Without my pre-game routine, I was lost. I sat in the locker room, still wearing my suit—there was no point in taking it off, after all—and watched my teammates go through their warm-up stretches and pre-game rituals. But the vibe in the room was all wrong, like everyone was afraid to smile or joke or laugh. Deep down, I knew why. It was because ofme.I didn’t want to be a burden.
“Good luck tonight, boys,” I said. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
I left the arena instead and went for a beer at the sports bar and grill across the street.
I got out my phone and scrolled through the contact list until it landed on John Rocco. Johnny was my best friend. We grew up together in St. Paul, Minnesota, where we played hockey together all the way through high school. Like I told Killer, Johnny was in town with his daughter to catch the game.
With a sigh, I called Johnny to break the news.
He answered on the first ring. “Hey, big fella! What’s up, buddy?”
We’ve called each other “fella” forever—it’s a best friend thing. Ever since a growth spurt in high school made me shoot up to six foot five, though, Johnny upgraded me from “fella” to “big fella.”
“Hey, Johnny. I’ve got good news and bad news, fella.”
“Let’s get the bad news out of the way first, then,” he said.
“I’m scratched tonight.”
“No shit? Are you hurt or did Killer health-bomb you?”
“I got health-bombed back to the stone age, bud,” I said with a chuckle. As shitty as I felt, at least it felt good to have a snicker. Johnny always cracked me up with ridiculous phrases he flung around.
“Well, fuck it. You’ll get back in,” he said. “Alright, so what’s the good news?”
“Since I’m sitting, you and Isabelle can watch the game with me up in the team’s club box.”
“Ni~ce,” he sang. “Hey, is it cool if Izzy’s boyfriend comes, too?”
“Boyfriend?” I asked, appalled. “You let little Isabelle have a boyfriend?”
