Page 7 of Fake-Off with Fate
He rolls his eyes. “Heck, no. Bill Thompkins is the perfect man for that job.”
“Dedicated and pushy?” I guess.
With a laugh, he responds, “You must have already met him.” His phone rings before I can tell him about my brief conversation with the mayor. Troy looks at his screen before pressing a button to send the call to voicemail. “It’s just my brother, Zach. He can wait.” He rolls his eyes before adding, “He and his wife are expecting their third child and he’s in a constant panic about what they’ll do when the kids outnumber them.”
Before I can make an uninformed comment about children, he tells me, “We have a lot of high school and college teams scheduled to come up for hockey clinics and to see the Ice Breakers play. I know they’ll be excited to meet you.”
“I’ve always enjoyed talking to kids who love the game,” I tell him. Then I add, “With the Ice Breakers in town, Maple Falls must be on the precipice of some pretty big growth.” At least I hope they are. I’m starting to second-guess my decision to rusticate.
Troy shakes his head. “Most of the woods around here were donated to the town when old Victor MacDonald died.” He explains, “Victor was one of the first settlers of Maple Falls. When he passed and the town took ownership of the land, they protected most of it from being developed. That way our little hamlet will stay just the way we like it.”
Super.“Do you have any idea where Dale is?” I ask.
“If he’s still here, he’s probably in the locker room.” He points down the hall. “Just follow the signs.”
I reach out and shake Troy’s hand. “I’m happy to see you again, man.”
“You’ll have to join my family for supper some night soon,” he says with a smile before walking off.
I’ve barely been in Maple Falls for a day, and I’ve already made plans to meet three people for meals. At this rate, I’m guessing food will be the focus of my social life. Not that I’mcomplaining, I love food. I just can’t imagine a small town like this will have the kind of variety I’m accustomed to.
Instead of going to the locker room, I decide to head into the arena to see if any of the guys are there. That’s where I discover several players are scrimmaging. Sitting on the bleachers, I kick my feet up in front of me and watch the action. Even though everyone is geared up, I still recognize a couple of faces.
“Weston, watch your left!” Lucian shouts loudly as the puck races forward. His teammate reacts stealthily and with determination. Weston lunges to block the incoming missile, and I know from experience he’s probably relishing the feel of the hard rubber as it smacks against his pads.
With a sudden movement, he deftly passes the puck to another teammate. The receiver takes control, gliding gracefully across the ice. He weaves between defenders with skill you only see in the pros. My blood starts to pump in excitement at what is about to happen.
With a final flick of the wrist, the shooter sends the puck sailing right past the goalie and into the net. The winning side raises their arms in victory, and the goalie shouts out, “That’s the last time, Grazer! You’re not going to pull that move on me again!”
“I’ve heard that one before,” the shooter laughs.
I like what I’m seeing. Dale is nowhere in sight, so it’s clear these guys can play without a babysitter. Hopefully, that means they get along reasonably well. Which would be a major accomplishment for any pro hockey team.
Instead of heading down toward the boards to greet the guys, I stay put and watch as the dynamics continue to play out. A player I know to be Canadian shouts out, “I’m gonna tap you like a maple tree and make syrup out of you!” The two things I know our neighbors to the north love more than anything are maple syrup and poutine.
The guys separate into small groups to work on passing drills. Lucian tilts his blade down to securely cup the puck. Thisis a move that will ensure the biscuit stays controlled on the stick and remains primed for quick release.
Next, he shifts his weight from the back of his feet to the front before executing the pass. His follow-through is flawless, which is clear when the disc hits its intended target. In this case, the player he’s passing to.
The only thing better than watching hockey is playing it, and I can’t wait to get onto the ice with my new team. But for now, I simply continue to observe the different personalities I’m expected to lead.
Leaning back, I get comfortable and while away the next hour. Any sense of trepidation starts to slip away as I follow the players’ progress. I’m confident I’m going to get on well with these men.
If only Harry Franks wasn’t one of them.
CHAPTER 5
ASHLYN
I can’t helpbut fixate on my dad’s excessively cluttered desk. Leaning forward, I start to tidy it up, putting the pens in one container and the paperclips in another—why does this man have so many paperclips?
Meanwhile, he’s prattling on about this year’s Maple Fest. I’m barely listening when he says something about trying to talk the single members of the Ice Breakers into sponsoring a kissing booth to bring in more people from outlying towns.
“No one does kissing booths anymore, Dad. People are too afraid of catching a cold or God forbid, getting hoof and mouth disease.” Don’t even get me started on Covid.
My father looks appalled. “They don’t kiss with their mouths open, for Pete’s sake.”
“So, they pay to get a kiss on the cheek?” I want to know. What century is my dad living in?
