Page 4 of No Rhyme or Roughing
I stopped as I opened the door, turning back to her. “I’ll take care of all this. I promise. I just… really need to go.”
For a moment, I let the carefully built persona drop, letting the real boy behind the mask show through.
Her eyes flicked to the note again, her voice quieter now.
“You really don’t know who I am?”
“Sorry, I’m in a rush.”
I felt like a dick leaving so quickly. There would be apolice report, insurance claims. But I couldn’t think of that right now.
Not when this team, this town, was my last chance to escape whatever waited for me in the real world.
“Cassidy!”
Coach Griffin Grimshaw’s voice had a way of reverberating through a person, shaking them from the inside out.
I closed my eyes for a moment before turning to him. By the time I got to the rink, the team was already on the ice for the pregame skate—sans captain. My suit was wrinkled from… well, life, okay? And my jersey hadn’t been where it was supposed to be. The guys had swapped it with Dennis Fischer’s, and since he was out with an injury, there was no one to find it until I went looking.
It took me way too long.
Teddy clapped me on the shoulder. “Griff is just a big old bear.” He didn’t specify whether he meant stuffed or polar. Was he a black bear who’d run if I fought him, or should I just lie down?
I skated over to where Coach Griff stood behind the bench, arms crossed over his expensive pinstriped suit. The man had good taste.
“Yeah, Coach?”
“‘Yeah, Coach?’” he mimicked, his voice dripping with disbelief. “He comes in over an hour late, weeks after I gave him the captaincy, looking like he just slept in his clothes, and all he says to me is, ‘Yeah, Coach?’” He lifted his eyes to the rafters.
“I’m sorry?”
“Was that a question?”
“No?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something in what we all suspected was Gaelic. It was the only time his Irish accent slipped through. “Let me ask you a question, son.”
I bristled at the endearment. Only one man could claim to be a father to me, and I’d always hated when coaches tried to fill that role.
He continued. “Do you enjoy hockey?”
I nodded.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-two, Coach.”
“The AHL is a young man’s league. You realize that, correct?”
“Of course. But if you’re asking if I’m dedicated to the team?—”
He waved a hand to shut me up. “I wouldn’t have given you the C if I didn’t know you are. What I do wonder is what you want out of this.”
“Want, Coach?”
“Some of the younger guys still have NHL aspirations. You don’t.”
I didn’t respond. No need to be so blunt about it.
