“Goalies need all the help they can get,” I said.
Jason gave me a mirthless wink. “You ought to know, eh, Carpie?”
Jason had been sitting on the opposing team’s bench when I allowed the goal that cost the River Rats the state title eighteen years before. He’d moved to nearby Mancelona with his parents as a teenager. He was quick and agile for a tall kid. And mean as a snake. Our coach begged him to defect from the Pipefitters to the Rats, but his parents had other plans-college hockey and then the NHL. He lived with a teammate’s family near Detroit during the Pipefitters’ season and spent summers up north. Our paths didn’t cross much.
While I was taking journalism classes at the University of Michigan, Jason skipped college for Canadian juniors. He played one game in the NHL and later wound up skating for two hundred dollars a game in minor-league towns like Raleigh and Baltimore, where people went to hockey games to drink beer and howl for players to spill one another’s blood. I had heard he was briefly a celebrity in Hampton Roads, Virginia. Local youngsters wrapped their knuckles with white tape to emulate their brawling hero.
He was briefly a celebrity in Starvation, too, after he retired from the minors and moved to town to sell insurance in the early 1990s. By then I had been working in Detroit for years and planned to stay until, as I dreamed, the New York Times or Washington Post hired me away. I never quite understood how Jason managed to woo Darlene. In a matter of weeks, my mother had told me, their romance went from a few weekends in Jason’s cabin in the woods to a wedding in the Pine County Courthouse. After hearing that, I wasn’t able to bring myself to go back to Starvation for months.
Darlene didn’t like to talk about her years with Jason. Everyone in town knew that he was much better at video golf in bars than he was at selling insurance, which was why he and Darlene could manage only to rent the little apartment over Sally’s that she lived in now. I teased her once that she had married Jason because he had skated for the team that had made me the town goat, that she had wanted to make me jealous. She went silent for two long nights, which made me think that what I had said in jest might actually have been a fact.
Which meant I never had to bring it up again. It was all in the past anyway, I told myself. But here Jason was, sitting across from me, my girlfriend’s husband. I wondered what Haskell knew about it, whether Jason had told him or he had heard it around town. Hell, I wondered what Jason knew.
“So, first practice is what?” I said. “Boxing lessons? How to get the other guy’s jersey over his head?”
Jason folded his arms on the table and leaned forward.
“This is a whole new package, my friend,” he said. “I’m here to prepare young men to be winners in life, on the ice and off.”
“Precisely,” Haskell said, placing a hand on Jason’s arm. “Past is past, now is now, and the future for the Hungry River Rats is brighter than ever, with a new rink, a new coach, and some fine new players.”
“That’s right,” Jason said. He glanced at Haskell, who removed his hand from Jason’s arm. Then Jason turned back to me. “I’ll tell you the same thing I’ve been telling his son: Winners win. Players play.”
“And goons goon. Isn’t that what they say in the East Coast League?”
“I don’t expect you to understand.”
He seemed pretty cocky for a guy who’d lost his wife to me. I turned to Haskell. “How much are you paying him?”
Coaches normally received their annual pittance from the local hockey organization funded by parents and fans and silent auctions and sponsors like Enright’s and Fortune Drug. But I assumed that, if Haskell was handling the announcement, he would be writing Jason’s checks.
Haskell slid the manila envelope to me.
“Everything’s in there,” he said, and I knew my question wouldn’t be answered. “Press release, bio, photo, and other materials you may find helpful. It’s all yours. Nobody else has seen it.”
“How much is he getting to be coach? I don’t think Poppy makes more than like fifteen hundred.”
Jason started to answer but Haskell quieted him with a gently raised hand. “Candidly,” he said, “I don’t see how it’s relevant.”
“Look, if you’re paying him out of your pocket, or your unbuilt new rink’s pocket, then I guess it’s none of my business. But you said you might be seeking a ‘bit of help’ from the town, so I think-”
“Whoa,” Haskell said. “Hold on there, mister. That was off the record.”
“I understand, but I still heard what I heard, and my question-”
“No.” He wagged a finger back and forth in front of his face. “You don’t even know that, sir. I never said it. That’s what off the record means.”
Jason sat back and knitted his hands atop his head, enjoying the show.
“I know what off the record means,” I said.
Haskell looked at his watch. “My gosh,” he said. He picked up the phone again, punched two numbers. “Fel,” he said, “are you taking Taylor?” He turned away and lowered his voice, but I could still hear him. “Not-no. No. He needs to do his balance class. He has not been-dear? Dear? He hasn’t been getting from post to post like he-I’m sorry, but-please, Felicia, that’s simply not fair. He is not going to be playing in the New York Philharmonic so let’s just put that whole fantasy to rest.” He listened for a few seconds. I glanced at Jason, who’d let a barely disguised smile creep onto his face. “I understand that’s how you feel,” Haskell said.
He hung up the phone and pushed his chair back. “I’m afraid that’s all the time we have. Thank you for your time, Gus.”
“I had a few more questions.”
“I’m sorry,” Haskell said. “I didn’t realize how much time we’d already spent. But feel free to call me if you have follow-ups.”
“This afternoon?”
Haskell gave me one of his jury frowns. “Today is really not going to be good. Try me tomorrow.”
“I have a paper to put out.”
“Great,” he said. He pointed at the envelope. “You have a great front page story right there. Which reminds me. I have a question for you.”
“I thought you were out of time.”
Jason was smiling more broadly now.
“Have you been made aware,” Haskell said, “of our plans for advertising in your paper when the rink opens?”
“I don’t have a thing to do with advertising, Mr. Haskell.”
“Really?”
“Really. Love seeing it, though.”
The door opened and a buxom rail of a woman in jeans and a cashmere sweater the color of oatmeal appeared. I recognized her initially from the pictures on Haskell’s credenza; then I remembered seeing her at the rink, once with her son, another time with her son and husband. Her silver hair, drawn back into a billowy ponytail, belied the youth in her emerald eyes. Her left wrist was wrapped in an Ace bandage. Bracelets in silver and gold speckled with highlights matching her eyes covered her other wrist.
“Did you hurt yourself, dear?” Haskell said.
Her eyes darted from Haskell to Jason to me, where they lingered for an uncomfortable second before returning to her husband.
“Slipped on the back porch. Our plow crew missed a spot.”
“Let me see that.”
Haskell reached for her injured hand but his wife pulled it away.
“It’s fine,” she said. “I really would rather Taylor not miss another piano lesson.”
“Dear, I thought-”
“I went ahead and called his trainer and he said he’d move the balance session back an hour. So Tay can do both. I’ll have him back here for his pregame meal in plenty of time.”
Haskell gave her a look long enough to make me wish I was somewhere else. Felicia folded her arms. As she did, she took a tiny step backward.
“I see,” Haskell said. “We can talk about this later.”
“If you like.”
“Have you met Gus?”
I stood and extended my hand. “Gus Carpenter, Mrs. Haskell.”
