Page 3 of Curves of Steel

Yeah, these interviews pay good money. But there’s got to be good money to be found elsewhere. Surely my expertise is worth more than this sensationalist segment?

I’ve got to be worth more, I think desperately as I prattle on.There’s got to be more than this waiting for me.

I’m done waiting to find out.

Operation: Michelle Sincero 2.0 starts as soon as I’m done with this interview.

Dan

“Good job today, boys.” My breath freezes in tiny clouds of condensation as I call the end to the high school guys’ early-as-fuck hockey practice. I gesture with my stick toward the warm locker rooms awaiting them off the pond.

The boys skate by, steam rising from their backs thanks to the sweat they worked up under their gear. They murmur respectful good-byes to me that turn into jibes and teasing as they pile off the ice, tumbling like puppies.

Hang on. Did I just call hormone-infused, sex-crazed teenage boyspuppies?

Crap. My buddy Rex was right. I am getting old.

Okay, so sure, I’m pushing forty. But aren’t your forties supposed to be the new twenties or some shit?

I don’t feel old.

But I’m certainly older.

And that’s . . . strange. Uncomfortable, if I think about it too much. So I try not to.

That tactic’s worked for me quite well — up until recently. Now it’s not quite so easy to shake off the sense that, while I’m not winding down in life, I’ve certainly used a good chunk of the time allotted to me.

Time’s passing, and what have I got to show for it? A pension from the Army Rangers — where I met Rex, who’s now living over in Heartwood, Montana — a cabin in the woods, a damn fine beard, and a volunteer hockey coaching gig that I got roped into by the high school principal on my last grocery run before the season started.

My life’s felt full. Maybe too full at times, thanks to the trauma that tends to go hand-in-hand with being a Ranger. But full enough . . . until I examine it from age thirty-nine.

Now that I’m nearing the mid-point of my life, I find myself wishing I had more to show for the days I’ve walked this earth. Or at least someone to share the rest of the days I’ve got left.

I used to think living up on the mountains above small-town Colorado was heaven. Hell, I still do — it just feels a little more lonely.

Ash, my assistant coach that’s recently moved here from Massachusetts with his wife and stepdaughter, skates up and does a neat hockey stop, shaving the ice with his blades. “Good practice, don’t you think?”

I shrug. “Good enough.” I slide a glance at him. “You have any suggestions?”

Ash grins. “Nah. I’m just having a good time. It’s been so long since I’ve been on the ice with my hockey stick. It feels nice.”

I nod. “I know what you mean.”

My own absence from the ice had gone on far too long. I’d been the local hockey star when I was attending the high school I’m now coaching for. Then I’d gone into the Army Rangers and never quite managed to strap my skates on again once I got back.

Not until the high school principal put two and two together and cornered me in the produce section of the grocery store, asking what I was doing on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. When I said not much, he told me to show up here at the pond or risk the wrath of underpaid, overwork educators everywhere, but specifically here, where people know exactly where I sleep no matter how hard I try to keep to myself.

I skate to the edge of the pond and, sliding rubber guards onto my blades, trudge in the wake of my team over the trampled snow to the locker rooms. Ash follows.

We duck into the warm building. The place is more than just locker rooms — it’s the equivalent of a skating rink, but where there’s no rink, just the neighboring outdoor pond.

We head for the lounge. Our team gets the hot showers of the locker room, but we’ve staked our claim on the room with the coffee.

There, we trade our hockey skates for boots, then each pour ourselves cups of the drip coffee we set brewing before we went out to the ice.

“Got any plans for the weekend?” Ash asks, stirring creamer into his coffee.

Shrugging, I sip mine black. “Just the usual upkeep around the cabin.”

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