Free The Last Season by Roy Macgregor Page B

and cold and the ice beyond dark and rippling red where the distant exit lights bounced along the surface. Sugar reached without looking, tripped a switch and the lobby lights went on. I could see the dried swirls where the mop had gone over the cement floor, could smell the Dustbane. For me, coming into the arena was like crawling back in under the bed covers.
    Sugar walked through the lobby up toward the turnstiles at the entrance, stopping under a long row of old pictures. He tapped the third one from the end.
    â€œYou see this here?”
    I walked over. I saw the usual two rows of players, coach seated between the goaltenders, trophy complemented by crossed sticks out front, a few leeches in business suits and hockey jackets diving in from the sidelines. And old picture, by the haircuts.
    â€œThis here,” Sugar said, continuing to tap the glass with a thick knuckle. “That’s me. Same age as you. See.”
    I looked but could not see Sugar. The man he was tapping was smiling and sharp-eyed, the face thin and full of cockiness, the hair split dead centre and slicked down tight to the skull. He wore the team captain’s “C” and sat to the right of the goalie.
    â€œThe year after this was taken,” Sugar said, “I played at St. Mike’s. Straight into junior ‘A’, you understand. No midget, no junior ‘B’, nothing, straight into the second-best hockey league in the world. You understand?”
    I nodded.
    â€œSixteen years old I made second-team all-star. That’s up against Fern Flaman, Doug Harvey, Alan Stanley, a half-dozen others who went on, right?”
    â€œYah.”
    â€œI lost my eye in the all-star game.”
    Sugar turned to face me, almost as if he thought I might not have noticed before. I glanced quickly through him and then back at the picture. It was impossible. They couldn’t even have been distant cousins. I read some of the names underneath. Carrington, C., Wilson, R., Cox, W., LaCroix, J., Bowles, E. (capt.).
    â€œYou think that’s a sad story, I guess,” Sugar said.
    I was getting afraid he was going to start crying.
    â€œWell…”
    â€œBullshit it is!” Sugar shouted. He rapped the picture again, this time the knuckle slamming into the face of a good-looking guy on the back row, left side, “This here’s the real tragedy.”
    I had no idea what to say. I said nothing and soon sensed that Sugar was staring at me, waiting.
    â€œYou know who this is?” he asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œArchie Cargill, that’s who.”
    I had no idea who he meant. It must have shown.
    â€œYou know him,” Sugar said impatiently. “If this was a side view you’d recognize his nose.”
    I looked again. Archie Cargill … Archie — Archie ! From the hotel desk. The leech. No way. Impossible.
    â€œArchie Cargill was the finest prospect ever came out of this one-horse town. Could shoot both ways, just like Howe. Could make the puck dance like he had a string on it. Beautiful skater. Archie went off with me to St. Mike’s and three weeks later I put him on a bus home crying his eyes out.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œHomesick. Scared. Gutless. Same as your pal, Danny. No heart. Archie Cargill had no heart. I’m going to tell you one thing, Batterinski, and I want you to remember it: talent is what begins hockey games, heart is what wins them.”
    I looked at him, not sure whether to cheer or be hurt.
    Sugar smiled. “Don’t worry son. You’ve got talent. You’ve got to have that to start with or there’s no use even talking about it. But Powers has probably got as much talent as you, and maybe even your buddy Shannon has too. But they won’t make it. You will because you want it, you understand.”
    â€œI guess.”
    Sugar laughed this time, once and loud. “Maybe you won’t ever have the kids dreaming about you, Batterinski, but you