Free The Last Season by Roy Macgregor Page A

then proceeded to drive off in the opposite direction from Riley’s. I said nothing. We went out the snow-covered road toward the river locks, toward where I knew Sugar lived, the shockless car waving over the road like a speedboat.
    â€œWhat the hell is wrong with your buddy, Batterinski?” Sugar said, finally.
    I figured Danny had been caught shoplifting and was in custody somewhere.
    â€œDanny?”
    â€œYes, of course Danny. Who else? You know him best—what’s wrong?”
    â€œIn what way?” I asked, unsure what Sugar was getting at.
    â€œIn all ways! Damn it! He’s got as much God-given talent as Powers you know. But Powers is first-line centre and I’m one game away from benching Shannon. I swear.”
    â€œBenching him?”
    Sugar nodded. Air sucked defiantly up his nose.
    â€œHe’s had some trouble in school,” I offered.
    Sugar wasn’t biting. “Shit, he already quit school.”
    â€œWell, he wasn’t very happy with it.”
    Sugar pulled the car out of a drift, spinning the wheel like a ship captain as the Studebaker floated down along the river run.
    â€œIs he homesick?” Sugar asked.
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œWhat’s his family like?” he asked, tilting his head to focus on me with the black eye.
    â€œGreat.”
    â€œHis dad, does he booze?”
    â€œMr. Shannon? Yah, he drinks a bit.”
    â€œHeavy?”
    â€œWell, I wouldn’t like to say, but sometimes yes.”
    Sugar dipped in and circled in the locks parking lot, rising back onto the road and into the blindness of his own exhaust.
    â€œHow’s Shannon thought of back there?”
    â€œHe’s popular,” I said. “Just like here.”
    â€œHe was star of the team, though, back there.”
    â€œYah. When we played bantam he was.”
    â€œIn your opinion, Batterinski,” Sugar said, “did he play better back there than here?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI’m thinking of sending him back there,” Sugar said.
    For a while we drove in silence, but I had to know. “When?”
    â€œAt the end of the season,” Sugar said. I breathed with relief.
    â€œNo use humiliating him. You don’t mention this, I won’t. Understood?”
    â€œUnderstood,” I said.
    Beyond the cemetery he pulled off and down the road leading toward the Rock Hill and the summer lookout. Then he turned down across the swamp road and up toward the arena, still not going anywhere near the direction of my ride home.
    â€œHow about you, Batterinski, you like it here?”
    â€œSure,” I said.
    â€œHomesick?”
    I shook my head. “Not a bit.”
    Sugar smiled at this. “Good. Good. Tell me, how do you think you’re doing?”
    â€œNot as good as I’d like to.”
    Sugar nodded in approval. “Good. Good. How do you see yourself as a player?”
    I shifted, uncomfortable with the questions and miserable with the rubber tubing across my legs. They were asleep, singing with blood.
    I cleared my throat and sneaked a look at Sugar. I knew he was waiting. So was I.
    â€œI don’t know.” I said. “Good puck sense, I guess. Never caught out of position.”
    Sugar grinned. “Never?”
    â€œWell, not since Parry Sound much, anyway.”
    Sugar stopped the Studebaker outside the arena and leaned his shoulder heavily into his door; it opened with a loud crack. “I’d like to show you something personal, son,” he said.
    I crawled out after him, my legs collapsing and now stinging. Son? Sugar never called anyone anything but their last name. He led me around to the side entrance and pulled his key from the sliding holder clipped to his belt. It hissed out and easily into the lock, turned and then snapped back with a metallic ring. The door opened on my favourite smell: the arena, empty and waiting. Only the night lights on, making the lobby shadowy