Page 9 of Home Ice

Chapter three

Rafe

Morning skate ran hard for a Wednesday. Coach Markel had us working the new entry until the bump-back stopped being a decision and started being a reflex. On my fourth rush I hit the line, felt Rook step up, and slid it back to Heath without looking. We came in three across.

“Better,” Coach Markel said.

Trier appeared beside me while I was catching my breath at the boards. “Walked past your stall on the way in this morning.”

“Okay.”

“It’s a show home, Mikkelsen. Tape in rows. Gloves squared up to the shelf like they’re for sale.” He took a long drink. “I’ve played this game for fourteen years. I have never once seen a rookie’s stall that didn’t look like a raccoon situation.”

“I like knowing where my stuff is.”

“Everyone likes knowing where their stuff is. That’s not what this is.” He capped his bottle. “The haircut was a symptom. I see that now. I was treating the symptom.”

He skated off before I could ask what he thought the disease was.

Varga found me during stretching, dropping onto the mat beside me and folding himself over one leg with a groan.

“Did you find out what the suit wanted?” he asked. “Yesterday. Mark.”

“Meeting’s at ten thirty. I don’t know yet.”

“Sponsor thing,” Varga said with total confidence. “One day after you come out, warm coverage, everybody crying online. Some brand wants your face.” He switched legs. “Here’s the whole science of it. Say yes to the money. Say no to anything where you have to hold a product and smile. If you hold the product and smile once, it’s attached to you forever. Ask Rook about the yogurt.”

“What happened with the yogurt?”

“Ask Rook about it,” Varga said. He pushed himself up and offered me a hand. “You want company? I can come sit in the meeting and be a problem.”

“I think I’m okay.”

“Obviously, you’re okay. That wasn’t my question.” He hauled me to my feet and held on one beat longer than the pull required, looking at me. “Ten thirty. Go be famous.”

The main PR offices were at the arena. They also had a small room on the second floor of the practice facility. I’d been there twice to sign things. The hallway still had framed photos of guys the team had traded.

The door was open. I heard Mark on the phone inside, wrapping up.

I checked my phone. 10:26.

Mark appeared in the doorway, reaching out for a shake.

“Rafe. Right on time. Come on in. Can I get you a coffee?”

The office had a couch and two chairs arranged around a low table. The coffee intended for me was already there, sitting on an Ironhawks coaster.

“Sit, sit.” He took the chair opposite me. He buttoned his jacket, and then unbuttoned it again, seeming more nervous than I’d ever seen him.

“So, first, how are you? Any weirdness about coming out? Anything land wrong online that we should know about?”

“No. It’s been good. My mom’s getting more attention than I am. The Saskatoon paper called.”

“They would.” He smiled. “Okay. So.” He put his hands flat on his knees. “I want to run something by you, and I want to say upfront: this is a request, not a demand. You can say no to this, and if you say no, we never speak of it again and nothing changes for you. Understood?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Our sponsors are excited about you after the first half of the season. Yesterday made them even more excited. The warmth you project is unusual, Rafe. People don’t just respect what you did; they like you, and in this business, that’s gold.” He leaned forward. “Here’s the idea. There’s a man named Max Gregory. He’s a creator, home and design, renovations. He has a big audience, bigger than some of our broadcast numbers, honestly, and he’s funny, professional, gay, and out, possibly the most media-fluent human being in this city.”