Page 64 of Puck Daddies
The bell on the back door jingles.
It’s just Oliver with a new box of gloves and a roll of blue tape. He looks at my face and doesn’t ask. He moves a chair away from the wall so I can keep working. Hudson walks through with a trash bag and ties it without flair. Rocco hums while he paints the scratch by the back door. They don’t hover. They just work.
At three thirty, I take photos of every fix and put them in a folder labeled DONE. I print a checklist and place it on a clipboard for the inspector so she can follow our path. I set sanitizer test strips and leave them where she can see them separate from the buckets so she knows we know. I take a last look at the wall behind the three-bay, which now looks like a wall in a picture in a manual. I smile at that and then stop because my face hurts.
At three fifty, the inspector returns. She walks the line in the same order. Her flashlight finds nothing new. The milk fridge is at 36.7. The gasket seals. The ice scoop sits in its holder. The chemical bottles are labeled. The mop sink area looks like a supply catalog. The restroom soap level is full. The baseboardsare clean. She checks off boxes with a neutral face that doesn’t give me anything.
She signs the recheck. “All items corrected, I suppose.” She sounds defeated. There’s a petty part of me that relishes it. “Next routine inspection in six months.”
“Thank you.” I grin, even though those muscles hurt too. “Have a good day.”
When she leaves, I lean against the counter and let my eyes close for ten seconds. Then I write OPEN TOMORROW on the whiteboard and add a bee. Tom claps once and then twice.
I sit at the office computer and open Callie’s email again. I read the line about not being exciting enough and feel the clean anger that has a straight back. I open a reply and keep it simple.
No. I’m not selling. I’m not giving up. We corrected the inspection list and will be open tomorrow. If your goal in life is to be exciting enough for a used car salesman, you’re welcome to him. Future communications can go to my counsel, Dana Kline. Have a good night.
I cc Dana and hit send.
I stand, stretch my back, and walk out to the floor. The baseboards look like the day Aunt Bea painted them. The wall behind the three-bay is clean. The gasket seals. The air is cold and smells like citrus and coffee. The place is spotless, and I’m pretty sure Callie is fuming.
It’s a good day.
22
HUDSON
Overtime is three-on-three.I take left, Rocco takes the dot, Oliver lines up right. Coach wants clean possession and a quick change if we get stuck.
We’re not getting stuck. Not on our watch.
Rocco wins it back and pulls to the wall. I swing underneath for speed and take the outlet in stride. Their defender shades the middle. I fake cut and rim it to Oliver. He gathers and feeds back to Rocco for a one-timer. Blocked. Puck jumps into the neutral zone.
I turn and go, high between the tops. Their winger grabs at the puck. I slide it flat to Oliver, then slip past for the give-and-go. He returns it sharp. I catch, open my hips, and shoot a low blocker. Pad save. Rebound dies in the blue. Their goalie covers.
The game is tight. Tighter than I want it to be.
Right then, Travis jumps early. He should be at the gate waiting for the whistle. Instead, he hops and cuts across my lane, screaming for the puck. He drifts right into my path and clips my inside knee. I stumble, lose my edge, and bump Oliver’s stick ashe releases. The pass skitters. Their D knocks it down, hits their center with a stretch, and now it’s a two-on-one the other way.
What in the fuck is he doing?
I dig back. Oliver turns to cover. Rocco takes the middle. I’m one step late because I’m recovering from Travis’s screen. Their puck carrier fakes shot, slides the pass under Rocco’s stick, and their guy one-times it off the bar and in. Horn. Game over.
The building goes dead, then loud. Our bench stares at the ice. Travis coasts to the gate like he didn’t just cut me off. I skate straight to him and say, “What was that?”
He shrugs. “Trying to help.”
“You were supposed to wait.”
“Coach wants fresh legs.”
“Coach didn’t tell you that.”
He lifts his chin. “You didn’t finish, old-timer.”
I see red. Rocco slides between us with a glove on my chest. “Tunnel,” he barks. I turn and slam my stick once into the rubber mat because if I hit the wall, they’ll bill me for it. The sound echoes and dies.
In the locker room, the air feels wrong. No music. Guys peel gear in silence. Coach writes two words on the board: DETAILS MATTER. He turns, looks at the group, and then at me. He doesn’t call anyone by name. He doesn’t have to. “We gave that away. We will not do that again.” He dismisses us to the media.
