Page 59 of The Rookie
When I reach the old barn where we store equipment, I let myself inside and am greeted by the familiar smell of diesel fuel and leather.
It’ll be a busy day today, and first on the agenda is changing the oil on the snowblower. I’m grateful for the mindless work. Something to do with my hands will be good.
I haven’t seen Graham yet this morning. He started his workday early, so it’s not like I’ve been flat-out avoiding him. Although after he texted me last night saying we should talk, I was too stunned to reply. Graham isn’t the talk-it-out type, so whatever is on his mind is sure to be serious. And I don’t think I can handle anything else serious right now.
After locating a pair of vise-grip pliers, I get to work removing the thumbscrew. I’m not very far into my task when the heavy barn doors open, and in with a gust of wind comes Graham.
“There you are.” He frowns, coming closer.
“You found me. I’m taking care of Big Bertha.”
He nods, his frown fading. It’s the nickname we affectionately gave our snowblower. She’s a beast, one of the last things Dad bought for the property before he passed. We all love this snowblower.
Once the screw is almost free, I set an empty paint can beneath the machine to let the old oil drain into, then remove the screw all the way.
“You wanted to talk?” I nod to Graham, who’s still watching me, obviously with something on his mind.
My brothers haven’t said much since Summer took off. Maybe it’s a guy thing. They didn’t want to pry. My mother and grandfather had no such qualms, though. They both questioned me repeatedly about what I’d done. They both assumed I’d somehow screwed things up with her.
If they only knew the truth. I asked Summer to marry me that last day. But even that wasn’t enough to get her to stay. The pain of her rejection still stings deep inside.
Graham takes a seat on an empty stool beside me. “You need to go home, Logan.”
I roll my eyes. “This is home.”
“Not for you, it isn’t. Not anymore.”
I watch the last of the oil drain into the paint can, and then pull out the dipstick to be sure the reservoir is good and empty.
“You’ve got a shot most people would kill for. You can’t fuck that up. This will always be your home, but not right now. You’ve got what, five, maybe ten good years to play hockey?”
I replace the dipstick and tighten the thumbscrew. “Yeah, I guess.” An average NHL contract is five years.
“Exactly. Then that’s what you need to be doing.” Graham’s tone leaves no room for negotiation.
Silence settles around us as I grab a quart of motor oil and twist off the top, then begin slowly pouring it into the machine.
“Unless you’re telling me you don’t like playing hockey anymore, and you’d rather hang around here listening to me bark out orders all day?”
I shrug. “Never said I don’t like hockey.”
“That’s what I thought. And I doubt you want to spend your time reroofing the barn or harvesting the garden?”
“It’s honest work.”
“It is. But does the idea of listening to me bitch about the cost of new fermentation tanks appeal to you?
I chuckle. “Not exactly.”
“Then go back to Boston. Your team needs you.”
I consider his words. “And what about you guys?”
“We’ll manage. Just like we always do.”
With the oil topped off, I wipe my hands and turn to face Graham. “You really want me gone that badly?”
He scoffs. “Of course not. I want what’s best for you.”
