Excerpts of Work

Bad Boy, Good Man
(Book 1 in the New Jersey Ice Cats series)

Ice.

It was raining ice.

For the first time in his life he hated the stuff.

Jake glared up at the steel-grey heavens and cursed the cosmic irony as frozen rain clattered off the mahogany coffin. He welcomed the biting pain as the ice chips hit his face. At least he was alive.

It could so easily have been him.

There, but for the grace of God. And a seatbelt.

Leaning heavily on his cane, he tried to find a comfortable position for his plastered leg.

“Damn idiot. You should be in a wheelchair,” muttered his best friend, Tru Jelinek. “You don’t have to prove you’re a hard man here.”

“Leave it.” Ike Jelinek nudged his younger brother, a warning in his eyes.

Jake glared at the men who’d been part of his life for as long as he could remember; the brothers he’d never had. “I’m not trying to prove anything. The cane is easier than crutches or a wheelchair because of the cast on my wrist.”

But Tru wasn’t fooled. “Ike or I could have pushed you.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “As if I’d let …”

A low keening sound interrupted his reply.

Adam’s mother had been dry-eyed until the funeral director’s men began to lower the coffin into the hard, dark earth. Her pale hand reached towards the crossed hockey sticks that adorned the lid. Worn and taped, marked with Adam’s surname and number, Jake recognised them as being from her son’s last game.

Mr. Stewart, who wore his son’s ‘Hawks sweater, wrapped an arm tightly around his wife; holding her back when she seemed ready to throw herself into the deep hole after the coffin.

Slowly, quietly, Jake’s friends and team-mates filed past the grieving couple. One by one, they offered their wordless condolences. A touch, a nod. From the General Manager to the Zamboni drivers, room-mate and rival, everyone had shown up in this tiny Minnesota town to pay their final respects. Yet none could find the words to express their sorrow at a shining talent lost before his time.

Jake, Tru and Ike were the last to leave. Each whispered a silent farewell before turning and heading back towards the rental car they shared.

The ride to the post-ceremony lunch was as silent as the funeral. Jake couldn’t begin to tell the two men how much he appreciated them flying out to be with him. Not that he had to worry; they knew.

Ever since he’d woken in the hospital bed five days ago and remembered what had happened, he’d been dreading today. He hadn’t wanted to face the reality of what that coffin represented. For Adam. For himself.

Inside the gym at the local high school, players stood around waiting for a sign as to what to do. How to behave. They’d never dealt with anything like this before either. Jake caught sight of Nick, the ‘Hawks player who’d shared a room with Adam on the road. He looked pale and ill at ease; running his finger beneath his collar as if it was strangling him. He avoided meeting Jake’s gaze, but Jake couldn’t blame him. This place had his own emotions running high enough.

The room looked like it was set up for a wedding reception. Long trestle tables were covered with bowls of steaming food. Easels held large boards displaying every year of Adam’s too short life and every stage of his too short hockey career. The walls were hung with tributes; from the local projects Adam had helped, the charities he’d donated funds to and the kids he’d inspired.

A microphone screeched. Mr. Stewart cleared his throat and began to speak. He made it clear that this gathering should celebrate his son’s life. “Share your favourite Adam memories. Tell your favourite Adam tales. Let him know he’s not forgotten, that he’ll never be forgotten. Because knowing my son, he’ll be around here somewhere waiting to see how good a party you’ll give him.”

Jake couldn’t help but wonder what his funeral would have looked like. What tributes he’d have had. What he’d have been remembered for.

Pain speared through him at the image that came to mind. He saw tabloid headlines instead of letters of condolence. Paparazzi snaps instead of wholesome photos. Mourners rehashing gossip about his high octane life, his bad boy reputation, his endless parade of women, instead of sharing stories of the good he’d done or the success he’d achieved.

What had he done? What had he achieved?

Jake’s chest tightened with recognition of the truth. It hurt to breathe.

Was that all his life had been worth to now?

Had he become no more than the personification of his nickname?

He looked across at a large photograph of Adam. It’s true what they said about it being only the good who died young. If it were otherwise, it would be him lying in that snow-covered grave. The turmoil inside him churned his stomach.

“We should eat.” Ike grabbed some plates and told Jake and Tru to make sure they were filled, while he went to get some drinks.

“I’m not hungry.” Jake put his plate down.

“You need to build your strength, bro.”

“I won’t be back this season, there’s no rush.” There was no guarantee he’d be back at all. And if his career really was over, what did he have to show for it?

“Since when aren’t you busting to get back on the ice?” Tru’s penetrating look saw too much. “You’ve never let an injury slow you down before.”

“I’ve never been hurt this bad before.” He kept his tone even. “I’ve got pins and plates holding my leg together. The dizziness and sickness aren’t easing.”

“Concussion takes a while,” Tru admitted, “but by the time your leg is ready, those problems will be history.”

“This isn’t your first concussion,” Ike chipped in as he handed them each a plastic cup of Coke. “It’s bound to take longer than before, but it will go.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Easier to give in, than explain.

Once again, he couldn’t mask his true fear from his closest friends.

“You could always ask for a transfer,” Ike said softly. “Make a fresh start.”

Tru nodded. “Come to New Jersey. With you and me on the same line again and Ike between the pipes, the Ice Cats would be unstoppable. Give us a real chance at winning the Cup.”

A fresh start. A chance to do more, to be more.

The phrases echoed in his mind.

He didn’t have to accept things as they were. Nor did he have to accept what he’d become. He could change. Prove to the world, and to himself, that he was more than his reputation. More than his nickname. Become someone he could be proud of -- a great hockey player and a good man.

“You don’t have to make any decisions right now,” Ike counselled, understanding in his eyes. “Just know there are options.”

“Thanks.”

The ache in his leg warned him he’d been standing too long. But, he didn’t want to join the only others sitting down; the old folks.

“Do you think we can cut out of here?” Tru asked. “The ‘Hawks have to leave soon anyway. They have a game on the west coast day after tomorrow.”

Jake shrugged. “We’ll make a move when they do.”

“Man, you’re stubborn. Your face is whiter than my shirt and it’s been a while since you had any kind of pain killer. Let’s pay our respects and get out of here.”

For once, Ike agreed with his brother and they managed to manoeuvre Jake towards the door, where Adam’s parents stood saying goodbye to people.

“Thank you boys for coming. Adam would have appreciated it. He always spoke so highly of you all.” Mr. Stewart swallowed hard. “Especially, you Jake.”

Tru and Ike murmured something, but Jake kept silent. What could he say?

As they turned to go, Adam’s mother grabbed Jake’s arm.

“I need you to do something, Jake.” Tears shimmered in her pale blue eyes. The anguish etched into the lines of her face twisted his gut. “For Adam.”

How could he refuse?

His throat tightened. Unable to speak, he inclined his head.

Gratitude filled Mrs. Stewart’s watery gaze. “Be the best you can be,” she whispered urgently. “Do it for him. He can’t any more, but you can. Please?”

Her request needed no explanation.

His heart gave a thunk then pounded a steady, heavy beat. Like a spark on kindling, determination took root and spread until it burned fiercely within him.

 “I’ll do it,” he promised firmly. “I’ll win the Stanley Cup.”

*        *        *

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