Rocket paused at the arena door and waved to Kimberly in her car. Strohler had left early, so she’d been nice enough to drive Rocket over. She drove off and he went in.
Gold was set up behind a table. Rocket rolled his hockey bag over. He felt his sticks slipping from his arm. His right hand still ached, and he had no idea how he was going to play. He just knew he had to.
“Can I help you?” Gold said, staring at Rocket.
“I’m Bryan Rockwood …”
Gold smirked and flashed a finger gun at him. “I got ya. No prob. We’re cool. How are things with the …” he looked down at his iPad, “… with the Strohlers?”
“Great, thanks. Carl says hi.”
Gold gave him an odd look. “Okay … Well, here’s a binder with the schedule. Don’t lose it. This is your hockey bible. It’s got all the drills, plays, schedules — everything you’ll need. You lose that, you’re toast. Okay?”
Rocket nodded.
“First thing, go down that hall to the second door for your physical. Some guys are there already. After, head to room two and suit up for a scrimmage. Okay?”
“I guess.”
Gold looked up at him. “Let me give you your first hockey lesson — from a guy who played in the NHL. This is Axmen hockey, and we run an NHL-style camp. There’s no ‘I guess’ here. There’s ‘yes, sir’ and that’s it.”
“Yes, sir,” Rocket said.
Gold sat back in his chair. “I remember you now. I’ve been told you can put the puck in the net. Is that right?”
“I gue—” Rocket caught himself. “Yes, sir. I hope so.”
“Hmm. Time will tell, I suppose. Toss your bag against that wall and get your butt to the exam room.” Gold looked over Rocket’s shoulder. “Bossy, what’s up, bro? Loving the hipster beard on ya.”
A large, older boy was strolling toward them. Rocket noticed the size of his hands — the two sticks he carried looked like toothpicks. He was easily over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and thick legs.
“Are you ready to rumble?” Gold said.
Rocket headed to the exam room. Bossy … that had to be Michael Boss. He was an overage junior, which meant he was twenty. He was also the team’s tough guy — over two hundred penalty minutes last year.
Rocket went to the exam room. Two boys rode stationary bikes. They had masks over their mouths and tubes running from the masks to a machine. A young woman in an Axmen hoodie pressed keys on a computer. Her name tag read Stacy Chen. A man in a white coat, a stethoscope around his neck, was taking a blood pressure cuff off a guy seated on a metal stool.
Rocket recognized him instantly — Aaron Cashman. He was taller than he looked on the ice and slim, with very fair skin and light hair. Rocket slipped in, self-conscious, even though no one paid him the slightest attention.
“Will I live, Doc?” Cashman said.
“At least for today,” the doctor said drily. “Can you give me ten deep squats?”
“I’ll give ya the squats, but I can’t be responsible for any sounds that come out,” Cashman said.
The boys on the bikes snickered. The doctor took a deep breath.
The door behind Rocket opened and two guys walked in.
“How’s it going?” the first guy said to Rocket.
He was big but not as thickset as Bossy, and he looked younger.
“This your first camp?” he asked.
Rocket nodded.
“I’m Kyle, and this is Nathan.”
Nathan was shorter than Kyle, and stockier. He held out his hand. Rocket really didn’t want to take it — Nathan looked like he’d have a strong grip. But Rocket introduced himself, then clenched his teeth and shook Nathan’s hand.
“Get much skating in this summer?” Kyle asked.
He seemed like a friendly guy.
“Not as much as I’d like,” Rocket said. “There’s a rink around the corner from me; sometimes the manager would let me get on the ice before the hockey camps started in the morning.”
Kyle elbowed Nathan. “I like this cat,” he said. “Early morning skates show dedication. We put in a couple hours a day, plus gym time. We decided to go for it. We’ve been in Junior A for two years. If we’re going to make it to the O, it’s got to be this year.”
“Were you drafted last year?” Rocket said.
Nathan let out a snort. “We weren’t drafted any year.”
Kyle answered the obvious question. “We’re free agents. We live here and Nathan’s dad knows Coach Alvo. He invited us.” He held his arms out. “So here we are.”
“You’re done, Hoffer,” the girl said to one of the guys on the bike.
The guy took his mask off. “Chenny, am I an awesome physical specimen, or what?”
“You’re a specimen. I’m just not sure it’s human,” Chen said.
The other boy and Cashman laughed.
“I know Gruny’s a gorilla,” Hoffer said, pointing to the other boy.
Gruny couldn’t really talk with his mask on. He rolled his eyes and kept pedalling.
Hockey nicknames were usually obvious. Hoffer? Had to be Kevin Hoffman. Gruny? David Grunfeld. They seemed to be the most likely linemates for Cashman. Both were third years and this was their draft year.
“Next,” the doctor said.
“Go for it, bro,” Kyle said to Rocket, who stepped forward.
The doctor raised an eyebrow.
“I guess players come in all shapes and sizes,” he said.
Rocket grunted and sat on the stool. The doctor began to take his blood pressure.
“Take the shirt off,” Chen said to Cashman. She held two sensors.
“Gee, Chenny, I hardly know you.” Cashman grinned.
She slapped the sensors on his chest. “Hockey players are so funny. You should show some respect for your trainer.”
“Chenny’s in love with me,” Hoffer said. “Don’t waste your time, Cash.”
“She hasn’t met me yet,” Cash said. “So what did these two losers get?”
“It’s not a contest,” Chen said. She poked some keys on the keyboard. “We’re measuring how your body reacts to stress, as a benchmark. We can track improvement over the year.”
“My coach used to say, ‘If you ain’t dying, you ain’t trying,’” Cash said.
“Gruny’s coach used to say, ‘Gruny, get off the ice, you useless waste of space,’” Hoffer said.
Cash laughed.
The doctor listened to Rocket’s heart, looked in his mouth and felt the glands around his neck.
“Give me ten squats, please.”
Rocket counted them out and then stood behind Cash at the bikes. The doctor nodded at Kyle.
Chen sighed, clicking the mouse. “It’s not working again. You can stop,” she said to Gruny. “I have to reboot the computer.”
Cash got up on a bike. Rocket figured he should strike up a conversation. Strohler would be happy.
“Did you play this summer?” Rocket said.
Cash shrugged. “I played four-on-four with some guys from my midget team, and I also had power-skating practices and strength training in the gym.” He patted his stomach and grinned at Chen. “Got to get the six-pack ready for the ladies.”
Cash was pretty well-built for sixteen. He’d obviously done a ton of training for this — professional training Rocket could never afford. Could running with André and training on his own really compare? The other guys were in serious shape, too. Had they all done power skating and strength training this summer?
“Worst part of the summer was the agents buzzing around telling me why they’re so awesome. Before that, it was the coaches and scouts. I couldn’t get a bag of chips without some reporter snapping a pic,” Cash said.
“It’ll get worse,” Gruny said. “Reporters ask the most brain-dead questions: how’d it feel to get the win; what did you think after you scored; what did your coach say when you gave up the first goal? Trust me, you’ll want to ram them through the boards to shut them up.”
“Last year, after this game against the Steelheads, a reporter asks Gruny how it felt to get a hat trick,” Hoffer said. “Gruny lets the dude hang for a good ten seconds, and then he says, ‘It felt like scoring three goals in one game.’”
“And Hoffer says, ‘It felt like watching him score three goals,’” Gruny adds.
The guys laughed. Rocket didn’t think it was that funny — more like rude — but he laughed so he wouldn’t stick out. Cash laughed the loudest, and he high-fived Hoffer and Gruny.
Kyle joined Rocket.
“This is so frustrating. It’s not working,” Chen said. “There’s a bug in the software. I can’t record anything. Let me measure you boys, and we can do this later.” She looked at her iPad. “Hoffer, you first.”
“Good call. Check out the goods, boys,” Hoffer said.
Chen measured his body fat with a skin caliper.
“Tell the fat pig to lose some weight,” Cash said.
“Yeah, right,” Hoffer said. He stepped on the scale and flexed his arms like a body builder. “This is 195 pounds of steel, baby.”
“Stand against the wall,” she ordered him.
He backed up. Rocket looked at the tape measure. Hoffer was a little over five ten.
Chen wiggled her finger at Gruny. He stepped forward and saluted.
“Grunfeld reporting for duty and ready to make Hoffer look like a little boy,” Gruny said.
He had a solid frame. Rocket didn’t look forward to battling him for the puck in the corners.
Coach Sonia had spent the last couple years teaching Rocket how to play against bigger players. He could only hope the lessons paid off.
Gruny stepped off the scale. “That’s two hundred fifteen pounds, munchkins,” he said. “Go get your ballet slippers.”
“Lose ten pounds and you’ll skate faster,” Hoffer said.
“Why are you always behind me, then?” Gruny said.
Cash stepped up on the scale. “I’m pathetic,” he moaned. “Only a hundred seventy pounds. Get me a milkshake. I got to bulk up.”
“Don’t worry,” Chen said. “You’re six feet already. I bet you’ll hit six three easy and add at least thirty pounds by the time you’re twenty.”
Rocket stepped to the side. He didn’t need an audience when they measured him.
“Go ahead,” he said to Kyle.
Kyle laughed. “You’re next, bro. No worries.”
“Come on,” the trainer said to Rocket.
Rocket found it hard to swallow. She measured his body fat.
“You certainly don’t have to lose weight,” she joked.
Rocket watched the lights flicker on the scale. The number flashed — 148. Hoffer and Gruny were snickering. Cash laughed outright.
“I like this guy. Makes me feel like a heavyweight,” Cash said.
“I’m bigger than I look,” Rocket said to make a joke of it.
Not his best comeback ever. Unfortunately, he had a feeling the worst was yet to come. He leaned against the wall, ever so slightly lifted his heels off the floor and stretched his neck as high as he could.
“We’ll call it …” she pressed a ruler down on his head.
“I think it’s six foot four,” Cash said.
“More like … five foot six.” She entered it on her iPad.
“I know who to call if anyone gives me a hard time on the ice,” Cash said.
Rocket was done with the joke. He didn’t respond.
“Let’s get to the dressing room, boys,” Hoffer said. “I got to show you the sweet skates the Nike rep gave me.”
“Gold sent me two new pairs to break in over the summer,” Cash said. “It’s like you’re not wearing anything, they’re so light.”
“You should check out my new stick,” Gruny said. “Easton sent me, like, a dozen new ones to try out.”
“I signed a deal with Reebok,” Cash said. “I got to use their sticks.”
The three of them left. Rocket waited for Kyle and Nathan to be measured, and together they walked out.
Kyle grinned at Rocket. “Who’d you sign your stick deal with?”
“I’m still comparing offers,” Rocket laughed.
“Same with me,” Kyle said. “And if one more person tries to give me free skates, I’m going to scream.”
“It’s not that funny,” Nathan said. “Gold is sending Cash free skates, and he doesn’t even know my name. How many free agents make it in this league, anyway?”
Kyle put a hand on Nathan’s shoulder. “Not that many, but it’s not zero. Come on, this is training camp. The OHL — the Axmen. We’re here. Let’s enjoy it.”
“I’d enjoy it if it were a fair tryout,” Nathan fumed. “Cash is on the team automatically.”
“He was a first-round pick,” Rocket said.
Nathan made a sour face. “Why didn’t you tell me to be a first-rounder?” he said to Kyle.
Rocket liked these two. Things were tough for them, but they hadn’t lost their sense of humour.
“You guys know who the enforcer is on this team?” Rocket said, keeping the mood light. “I got to establish myself. Figure I’ll drop the gloves early.”
Kyle slapped Rocket on the back. “You got the right attitude, bro. And we don’t need free skates and sticks. We have our own.”
Nathan laughed. “And if we break our sticks we can borrow some from Gruny or Cash.”
“What room are you in?” Kyle asked Rocket.
“Number two.”
“We’re in one,” Kyle said. He held out a hand.
Rocket needed to stop shaking hands. He gave Kyle’s hand a light slap, as if he were being cool.
“Good luck, guys. Bring it,” Rocket said.
They went into their dressing room. Rocket stood in front of his door. He’d been totally stressed this morning. Now the stress was in overdrive. The coaches were probably looking to make cuts quickly if they were having a scrimmage in the first practice. It was going to be hard to play with his hand the way it was. The physical exam hadn’t helped him relax, either.
You can’t measure the size of a player’s heart. He’d heard that stupid cliché more than once. The problem was that you could measure height and weight, and for the people making the cuts, size counted for a lot.