Page 71 of Taking Sides

“Hey. It’s Landon, right?” I ask him.

“Yeah.” His hands are shoved in his jean pockets and an old, ratty duffel bag is slung over one shoulder.

“Tough game tonight.”

“Been a tough season,” he says, frustration bleeding into his features.

“Heading home?”

“I’m waiting for a ride.”

“You want to hit a few?” I ask. If anyone needs to blast a few shots into the net tonight, it’s him. Nothing makes me feel better than shooting pucks until my arms ache.

He sets his bag down and steps out onto the ice in his sneakers. Without all the padding of his uniform, he looks almost too skinny, but his chest is broad like someday he’s going to fill out into a big guy.

“This is my buddy, Danny,” I say, introducing him as we approach D-Low.

“Number eleven?” D-Low asks, holding out a hand to the kid.

“Yeah.” Landon dips his chin slightly.

“You’re fast. I haven’t seen anyone skate like that since I met Shep.”

The compliment hits him unexpectedly, and Landon cracks a smile before he seems to catch himself and remembers he’s pissed. “Thanks. Doesn’t really matter if I can’t get the puck in the net.”

D-Low hands him his stick. “Let’s see what you got.”

He accepts it, then holds it out in front of him, rotating and testing it. “This yours?”

“Yep.” He nods. “I never go anywhere without it.”

“It’s nice. What’s the flex on it?”

“Eighty. I like a whippier stick.”

“Me too.” Landon wraps his other hand around it. “And the curve?”

“Custom.”

“That must be cool,” he says. “To have your pick of equipment.”

Landon is busy admiring D-Low’s stick and misses the look we share. It’s been so long since either of us thought about things like the free, customized gear that it’s easy to forget a time when we had to use whatever was available.

I pull the pucks we’ve already fired out of the net and bring them back to the center line.

“Should we see who can get three pucks in the net first?” I ask.

“You want to do a shoot-out with me?” he asks, disbelief making his voice lift higher. “Why? You saw the game. We’re crap. You’ll easily win.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain.” I take my position and shoot. The puck sails over the top of the net.

“Ooh, so close,” D-Low says with a laugh. He looks at Landon. “Let’s see you hit that crossbar and show him how it’s done.”

When Landon realizes we’re shooting to hit the top of the goal, he lights up. He gives his head a shake. “I’m never going to hit that from this distance.”

“You might be surprised,” I say, and skate back to give him room.

He takes a few seconds to set up, glances from D-Low to me, then mutters, “Here goes nothing,” before he sends a puck sailing down the ice. It goes high and right, but isn’t much farther off the mark than mine.