Him
: Chapter 8

“Hey, Canning?”

“Yeah?”

Pat, the camp director, has come over to the penalty box to talk to me. I don’t take my eyes off the scrimmage I’m coaching, but he won’t think I’m rude. “Got you a roommate,” he says.

“Really?” That’s good news, because every summer Pat scrambles for coaches. And this year is no different. Guys like me keep graduating and moving on. He wants the best coaches at his camp, but the best guys are in high demand.

This year I’m one of those. I’m due in Detroit for training camp six weeks from now, which means Pat will have to replace someone to fill in for me when I go. I glance at him for a split second before looking back at the boys’ game in progress.

He’s sizing me up, and I don’t know why. “Be nice to him, okay?”

It takes me a moment to answer, because I don’t like the direction the scrimmage is taking. Tempers are about to flare. I can feel the tension mounting. “When am I not nice?” I ask, distracted.

A firm hand lands on my shoulder. “You’re the best there is, kid. Although your goalie is about to lose his shit.”

“I can see that.”

It’s like watching an accident. I know what’s about to occur, but forces are already in motion and I can’t stop them.

My best goalie—Mark Killfeather—has stopped twenty shots in this scrimmage already. With quick reflexes and a big, agile body, Killfeather has all the physical traits a good goalie requires.

He also has, unfortunately, a lightning-quick temper. And the talented French Canadian forward on the other team has been playing him like a fiddle all day—taunting him and teasing him on every offensive push.

I see the play the Canadian is about to make. He passes back to his buddy on the blue line then takes the puck again as the other side’s D-men get hung up in the corners. He fakes left, then right…and sends a flying saucer past my man Killfeather. It is a beautiful play until the Canadian kid sprays the goalie with ice shavings and calls him “un stupide.”

As if it were a boomerang, Killfeather throws his stick with enough force to crack it like a matchstick against the boards. It falls onto the ice, splintered.

Check, please. I blow the whistle. “That’s the game, we’re out of time.”

“Pourquoi?” protests the aggressive forward. “Zhere is time on zee clock!”

“Debrief with your offensive coach,” I say, waving him off. Then I skate over to Killfeather, who stands panting in the net, helmet yanked off to reveal his sweaty head. He is only sixteen and looks it. While other kids his age are kicking back under the sun or playing video games, he’s spent his hours duking it out on the rink today.

I’d been that kid, too. It was a good life and I wouldn’t trade it for anything, but it helps to remember these are still kids. So I don’t open with, “Hey asshole, you just trashed a hundred dollar stick.”

“Who’s your favorite goalie, kid?” I ask instead.

“Tuukka Rask,” he says immediately.

“Good pick.” I’m not a Bruins fan, but the man has an excellent record. “What does his face look like after he lets in a goal?”

Killfeather quirks an eyebrow. “Why? He just takes a drink and puts his mask back on.”

“He doesn’t lose his shit and throw his stick,” I say with a smile.

The kid rolls his eyes. “I get that, but that guy is such an ass.”

Leaning down, I tug the net off its spike so the ice can be resurfaced. “You did great goaltending today. Truly exceptional.”

Killfeather begins to smile.

“But you have to learn to keep your cool, and I’m going to tell you why.” His smile fades. “Rask is calm after he messes up. But it’s not because he’s a better person than you or me, or because he meditates or never gets mad. It’s because he knows that putting it all behind him is the only way to win. Seriously—when he’s having that gulp of water, he’s already moved on. Instead of saying, ‘Man, I wish I hadn’t done that,’ he’s saying, ‘All right, now I get a brand new chance to stop him.’”

The kid is scowling at his skates now.

“You know that thing they say about goldfish? Their memories are so short that each time they swim around the bowl, it’s all brand new again.”

The corners of his mouth lift up. “That’s deep, Coach Canning.”

Aw. It kills me to be Coach Canning for a few weeks a year. I freaking love this job.

“Be my goldfish, Killfeather.” I give him a little punch on the chest pads. “Forget every stupid thing that guy says to you. Because the world is filled with dicks who will rile you up for fun. You’ve got the moves. You can do the job. But only if you don’t let him wreck it for you.”

He finally looks up at me. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Hit the showers,” I say, skating backwards away from him. “Then get your credit card out and buy another stick.”

I leave him, unlacing my skates and slipping into my Chuck Ts. When you’re the coach, you don’t have to gear up. Just skates and a helmet. I’m wearing hiking shorts and a Rainier College sweatshirt. And they feed me three meals a day in the camp dining room.

Did I mention this is a sweet job?

Leaving the rink takes me past every kind of Olympic sports memorabilia. The rink where I stood a minute ago trying to talk some sense into a sixteen-year-old goalie is the same ice where Team USA won Olympic gold in 1980. So there are “Miracle on Ice” pictures everywhere. During the winter months, there are more athletes per capita in this little town than most anywhere. People move here to train for hockey, skating, ski jumping and alpine events.

But when I push open the glass doors, it’s a warm June day. Mirror Lake glitters in the distance and I have to shield my eyes. The town of Lake Placid is five hours from New York City or Boston. The closest real city is Montreal, and that’s still two hours away. Smack in the middle of nowhere sits this cute little touristy town surrounded by unspoiled lakes and the Adirondack mountain range.

Heaven. Unless you need airport access.

But today I don’t. I’m walking past a ski shop and an ice cream parlor, measuring the hours until dinnertime. I have a lot of nostalgia for this town, probably because it’s mine. When you’re the youngest of six kids, nothing is ever just yours. I think that’s why I went out for hockey in the first place—my family is all about football. No Canning had ever set foot in the Adirondacks until I was invited to this camp. In fact, leaving the family cuckoo’s nest to come here as a teenager felt like venturing to the moon.

It’s four o’clock, and there’s time for a run or a swim, but I’ll need to change clothes.

All the campers and coaches are housed in an old dormitory that was built to accommodate European athletes for the 1980 winter Olympics. The building is a five-minute walk from the rinks. As I jog up the steps I pass a plaque that describes the original occupants and the medals they won, but I don’t stop. Spend a few years in this town and you forget to be impressed.

My room is on the second floor, and I always take the stairs instead of the creaky old elevator. The dim hallway smells of floor wax and the lilacs blooming outside. Plus a whiff of old socks. You can’t have a building full of hockey players without that.

I am ten feet from my door, keys in hand, when I realize someone is standing stock still beside it. That alone is enough to startle me. And then I realize who it is. “Jesus Christ!”

“I still go by Wes,” he says, pushing off the wall. “Or Ryan. Or jackass.”

“Are you…” I’m almost afraid to say the words, because he’s shut me out for so long now. “My roommate?”

I open the door to my room to give my hands something to do. A surge of joy builds low in my stomach. Just the idea of another crazy summer with Wesley…it can’t be true.

“Well…” His voice is uncharacteristically cautious. And since light from my open door spills into the hallway, I can see his face properly for the first time. He’s worried. That jaunty jaw is tucked low, and his eyes dip when I study him.

Weird.

I push into the room and fling my keys onto my bed. “I’m about to go running. Feel like a jog? You can fill me in. I assume you’re coaching for Pat, or you wouldn’t be here.”

He nods. But when I strip off my shirt, he jams his hands in his pockets and turns away. “We have to talk, though.”

“Okay.” About what? “We can do that while we’re running. Unless you’re getting fat since your big victory?”

He snickers. “Fine.” From out in the hall he grabs a big duffel bag.

“Pat just said something to me at practice about replaceing me a roommate. He meant you, right? He was just pulling my chain?”

With his back to me, Wes nods. Then he yanks his faded T-shirt over his head. And Jesus Christ, he’s enormous. Tattoos and rippling muscles as far as the eye can see.

I’d forgotten we were really only boys the last time we stood here together. Teenagers. Feels like yesterday.

“Nice room you got here,” he remarks as he changes into a wife-beater and gym shorts.

It’s true. Instead of bunk beds, we’ve got twin beds built into the walls. And there’s a comfortable expanse of floor between them. “The coaches get a little more breathing room. I’ve been living it up in here the last three years.”

He spins around. “Who do you room with?”

“Whoever.” I drop a wicking shirt over my head and then toe into my running shoes. Tying them takes only a few more seconds, and I’m anxious to get out of here and run. Maybe Wes will stop acting like a weirdo and just tell me what’s on his mind. “Let’s go?”

He gives his bag a kick. “I’m going to leave this here.”

“Where else would you leave it?”

He winces, and I don’t know why.