Vox Inaudica

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L i t e r a r y
M a g a z i n e
Issue 9
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Rind Literary Magazine
Issue 9
November 2016
rindliterarymagazine.com
All Works © Respective Authors, 2016
Cover Art and in-magazine graphics By:
Collette curran
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Editor in Chief:
Dylan gascon
Fiction Editors:
Johnathan Etchart
Jenny Lin
Melinda Smith
Stephen williams
Shaymaa Mahmoud
Nonfiction Edit ors:
Collette Curran
Owen Torres
William Ellars
Anastasia Zamora
Poetr y Editor s:
Shaymaa Mahmoud
Sean hisaka
Webmaster:
Omar Masri
Blog Manager:
Dylan Gascon
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Contents
Acknowledgements 5
Contributors 29
Fiction:
Diamond Back Byway/Andrew James Woodyard 6
Game Misconduct/Jess Simms, Ken W. Simpsons 15
Non-Fiction:
The Orange/Ella Remmings 8
Poetry:
A Might y Oak/Milt Montague 12
Monuments to Mediocrity/Ken w. Simspon 14
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Acknowledgements
Thank you to all of our contributors, past and present, for
helping us get this thing moving. Thank you to the creative writing
faculty of the University of California-Riverside, Mount San
Antonio College, Rio Hondo College and Riverside Community
College for your continued support of this magazine.
Rind is on the look out for original artwork and photography
for our upcoming issues. If you or someone you know might be
interested in contributing, send us an inquiry for more details.
Please support the San Gabriel Valley Literary Festival; find
them at http://www.sgvlitfest.com. We’ll be there, and so should you.
Check out our listing on Duotrope. We’re also on Facebook
and Twitter. Regular updates on RLM and other fun and interesting
things can be found at our affiliated blog site:
http://www.thegrovebyrind.wordpress.com. If you would like to
contribute to Rind, send your manuscript to
rindliterarymagazine@gmail.com.
Cheers!
–The Rind Staff
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Diamond back Byway
Andrew James Woodyard
A rattlesnake slithered across sizzling desert pavement. Sand dunes, sagebrush,
tumbleweeds and Joshua Trees were scattered from one mesa to another, and the Santa
Anna’s wailed across the West. Around the bend a growling black beast charged toward it.
The beast’s eyeless grill glinted and grinned in the sunlight. Smoke billowed from its tailpipe
and sparks trailed in its wake. The rattlesnake rattled.
Thump thump thump.
…
Betty the Bitch wet her whistle to the taste of Jack Daniels, then tossed the bottle out
the window. An angry metalcore breakdown made of deep, double bass drumming screamed
in a rage from the stereo. The windshield was cracked asymmetrically, and a pair of cheap
fuzzy dice dangled down from the rear view mirror. The steering wheel was a hot mess of
chains and black leather. The floor was littered with half smoked cigarette butts. The shifter
head was a snarling silver skull – and the clutch ground in pain when she shifted. All Hell had
come loose; bad mojo.
Thump thump thump.
A cell phone buzzed on the passenger seat.
“What?” Betty bitched.
Terrible noises screeched from the earpiece.
“Life’s a bitch, honey,” Betty replied, “you want him back so bad, try and find him.”
Thump thump thump.
Stop signs, speed limits, and sudden dip signs zipped by outside. The beast raced
through the stop and straight into the dip. It bounced up and down, something heavy and
muffled slammed about in the trunk, and then the car leaped off the pavement. The springs
sprang, and the shocks were shaken when it landed. The tires squealed and struggled to grip
the asphalt as it zigged and zagged from on from switchback to another.
Thump thump…
The rattlesnake rattled and struck at the wheels as they ran straight over it. A thud and
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one last thump followed. The screaming breakdown faded. The tailpipe ground against the
roadway and sparked as the beast swerved on down the diamond back byway.
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The Orange
Ella Remmings
Poland used to be a gray place. Perhaps it was due to the climate, with its wet autumns and
winters so cold that it hurt to breathe? Or was it the darkness that enveloped us on the way
back from school for several months of the year? The lack of billboards or colorful street
signs? Or the people who always looked gray, whether they wore a gray outfit or a red one?
There was something about the country and its communist atmosphere that made everything
blend into a dull, smoky monotone.
With grayness as a backdrop, any product in an attractive, multi-colored package—you
knew immediately it was imported from the West, outside of the Iron Curtain—stood out like
a bride in a fuchsia gown. At Christmas, the only time of the year when it was possible to buy
oranges, I loved looking at their bright, happy-looking rinds and biting into the fragrant flesh.
What was it like where they came from, I wondered. Was it colorful, warm and sunny? Did it
smell different? What were the people like? Could the children there eat oranges all year
long?
One time when I was nine, my family went on vacation to the Tatra Mountains in
southern Poland. We boarded the train in Warsaw and chug-a-chugged for an interminably
long time, stopping at every station along the way. A screechy loudspeaker voice of a bored,
groggy woman—perhaps just awakened from shallow sleep—announced the long string of
names: Opoczno, Kraków, Chabówka, Nowy Targ, Zakopane.
At one of the stations, our stop was long enough to get out of the train and go to the
buffet. My mom wanted some hot tea, and we the kids were hoping for a piece of candy. The
assortment at these buffets was usually limited: sometimes you could get bread by the slice;
there was tea, and occasionally vodka or beer.
We walked into a gray room with peeling paint, cloudy windows and stain-covered tables.
Several customers were drinking their tea from tall, thick, same-as-everywhere glasses.
Cigarette smoke filled the room, floating in the air like a shapeless genie. A few flies danced
around the bowls of clumpy sugar.
We got in line and waited our turn. When we approached the counter, I took a closer look
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at the items behind the glass and… I almost screamed. Among a few dusty bags of candy,
there was a single, colorful, perfectly round orange. It wasn’t Christmas, and it certainly
wasn’t a place of any importance, yet here it was, this wonderful gift of nature, looking at me,
ready to be bought.
“Can I have the orange, mom?”
“I’m sorry, honey, but I can’t afford it,” she said.
I knew it was true, for the orange cost 40 złoty—an astronomical sum that could buy you
more than twenty pounds of potatoes. I swallowed hard and we went back to the train.
There were eight people in our compartment. One of them was a middle-aged woman
seated next to the window. I also had a window seat directly across from her. She asked me a
few typical questions: “What grade are you in?” “Do you like school?” Then she proceeded
to eat lunch. First, a sandwich wrapped in rough, brown paper. Some tea from a thermos, the
steam made her face shiny. Finally, she dipped her hand into the travel bag, and pulled out a
paper-wrapped object. She crinkled it open. It was the orange.
She didn’t try to hide it; instead, she held it in her hands for everyone to see, played with
it as if it were a precious toy. Very slowly, she peeled the rind, one piece at a time, placing
each in the brown paper on her lap. When she separated the first section of the orange, a wave
of tiny droplets splashed out against the window, and a delicious, citrus fragrance filled the
compartment. She placed the piece in her mouth and began to chew it slowly, obviously
enjoying the flavor. My stomach churned as I watched her break off every wedge, globules of
juice bursting in the sun.
I hope she offers me some, I thought.
I swallowed my saliva as each morsel went into her mouth. She took her time with it,
looking at the snowy landscape outside.
Just one piece, I silently implored as I watched the orange get smaller with every bite. She
wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, rolled up the brown paper that held all the rind,
and placed it in her travel bag. The orange was gone.
To this day, I love oranges. There is something about them that makes me smile, whether
I look at them, put them on the table, or cut them into pieces to eat. One of the most beautiful
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sights I’ve seen were orange trees in Florida, spread across hundreds of acres of land.
Although today I can have as many oranges as I want, each time I’m about to have one, I
pause so I can fully enjoy their sunny flavor, as if I still were a nine-year-old girl in a remote
station in Poland.
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A Mighty Oak
Milt Montague
A mighty oak has fallen
An ancient survivor
Of countless storms
Has succumbed to his eventual.
Gone as it never existed,
Leaving but a small hole,
In which it once stood
Securely rooted to the ground.
Massive and proud
For generations,
With crown majestically
Grasping at the heavens.
Now just a pile of
“Free firewood”.
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Yosemite
Image by Max Kenshalo
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Monuments to the Mediocrity
Ken W. Simpson
Threats from flying insects
The blush of dawn
Frowns from furrows in the ground
Gaping with angry eyes
At legacies of promiscuity
Preposterous as peacocks
That disappear
Until resurrected.
As floating thoughts,
Ill-conceived attempts
To comprehend.
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Game Misconduct
Jess Simms, Ken W. Simpsons
Jason Heater turned his cap backwards and braced his elbows on his leg pads. Down the
ice Alex Boulanger hunched in the Washington net, glove up as play shifted into his end.
Heater tensed watching Pittsburgh’s top line break into the zone, the puck deftly handled by
their star center, Devon Young, who juked around his defender and snapped off a quick shot.
Boulanger buried the puck under his glove. The whistle blew. Boulanger stood up, handing
the puck off to the ref. As Boulanger relaxed, Heater relaxed. He reached under the bench for
his water bottle.
Puck drop. Washington had their own star center, Russian sharpshooter Lukas Zolkin,
who won the faceoff clean back to winger Glenn Thomas, stretch pass to Anton Carter who
entered Pittsburgh’s zone at the point. Back to Zolkin. Wrist shot. Blocker save, the rebound
skittering out toward center where Young picked it up, streaking over the red line. Thomas
scrambled after him but couldn’t quite catch up. He thrust his stick between Young’s skates,
last ditch try to stop the breakaway. Young tripped over the stick blade and careened into
Alex Boulanger. The two fell in a tangle. The ref blew his whistle, signaling for a penalty
shot.
Young regained his skates with a few dazed shakes of his head. When a few seconds
passed and Boulanger still hadn’t gotten up, Washington’s trainers swarmed the ice around
him. Heater watched the replay in slow motion on the jumbotron over their heads, saw the
awkward way Boulanger’s knee bent back against the net when Young made contact and
looked away with a wince. Zolkin’s line coasted over to take their places on the bench. The
center shook his head, muttered, “Fucking Pittsburgh.”
Heater grunted agreement. At the net, the trainers were helping Boulanger onto a
stretcher. The starter’s night was over. It wasn’t joy Heater felt, exactly; it was never good to
watch a teammate go down, but bad things were the only way Heater saw action against
heated rivals like Pittsburgh. Heater could know his role and still be excited when he got to
play.
He waited for Coach Deguire’s cue to strap his mask on, waited for the trainers to wheel
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Boulanger down the runway—players from both teams smacking their sticks on the short
wall in solidarity—before he skated out to the net. A penalty shot for his first look. Fucking
Pittsburgh was right. Heater took his time clearing the snow out of his crease, got in a few
stretches, drew a deep breath through his nose. The air was different here. Cooler. He nodded
and crouched down in his crease. The ref dropped the puck at center. The crowd hushed.
Young came at the puck fast and gained speed over the blue line. He carved a path left
then back right, forehand, backhand. Young’s eyes twitched high-glove. His stick angled five
hole. Fake, shot—Heater snapped his mitt up and felt the thwump of rubber on leather, its
sound lost in the crowd’s sudden roar.
The final horn sounded on a 4-1 Washington win. Boulanger’s empty cubby wasn’t too
conspicuous in the post-game locker room chaos. Coach Deguire was smiling as he gave his
victory pep talk.
“Another good game, boys,” Deguire said. “Good speed out there and we’re making
smart plays in the neutral zone, smart passes. That rough patch in the second—that was
discipline. A couple stupid penalties. But when we played our game tonight we dominated the
play.”
Coach Deguire gave praise with the bug-eyed energy of a professional wrestler. When
he’d wrapped up his notes he clapped for punctuation and said, “Who’s got the fucking
helmet? Luke? Let’s pass it on.”
It was a hardhat, actually, painted with the team’s eagle logo, stickered and signed by
past recipients. It was a tradition that predated Heater’s time on the team, something the
passed around the locker room after victories as a peer-to-peer affirmation. Zolkin stood up,
hefted the helmet, and scanned the room. His eyes settled on Heater. He grinned around the
trademark gap between his front teeth and tossed it underhand, an easy catch for a goalie’s
reflexes. Heater donned the helmet to the locker room’s scattered claps and whistles of
approval, the game’s lingering adrenaline still twitching in his fingertips.
The win against Pittsburgh was well timed. The Capitals were embarking on a six-game
road trip; beating a rival sent them off with swagger. Sports Center last night told him Alex
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Boulanger had been moved to the injured reserve with a torn MCL. Heater came to Kettler
Iceplex for practice ready for anything.
The Iceplex lacked the grandeur of the Verizon Center. The entrance had unpainted
cement walls and floors that always somehow seemed damp. Maybe it would echo less with
more people in the passage but Heater was always the first one to the rink. It was a ritual he
had, like how Luke re-laced his skates three times, or how Thomas always ate PB&Js on
game day. Heater would arrive first, put down his gear, and sit beside the empty ice. On game
days he’d have company in the locker room when he returned from his contemplation, but
practice days he usually had time to lace his skates before his teammates arrived.
Today, Heater paused at the locker room entrance. Coach Deguire stood inside,
contemplating the team photographs on the back wall.
“Figured you’d get here about now,” Deguire said without turning around.
“Guess I’m pretty predictable.”
“We’ve all got our things. You’re normal. For a goalie.” Deguire smirked. It gave his
thick cheeks dimples. “You got a minute?”
Heater nodded. He sat on the edge of his cubby’s bench and Deguire settled himself a
couple seats down. Heater wished he had his pads on. His mask, at least. He felt naked in
these street clothes.
“I’m assuming you’ve heard about Alex?” Deguire asked.
Heater nodded, said, “He’ll be out for a while.”
“Most optimistic timeline puts him on the ice in six weeks, but I’ve seen these kinds of
injuries before. Realistically we’re talking two months, three at the outside.”
Heater shifted on the hard wood. “Tough break.”
“For Alex.” Deguire’s smile tilted, dimpling only his left cheek. “We’ll have Alex back
in time for the playoffs, at least. What I need you to do is get us there.”
Heater’s hands flexed around an imaginary stick. He’d started more games than not back
when he’d played in Columbus. His stats hadn’t been bad there; light in the wins column but
good enough he’d been an attractive bargaining chip in a trade to Washington. In exchange,
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Columbus got a fourth round draft pick and a 19-year-old forward from Washington’s farm
team up in Hershey. A barely ready and a maybe, that’s what he went for. The transaction left
Heater feeling like a share of hockey stock, but that was the sport, and he liked it well enough
here.
Heater asked Deguire, “Who’s my back-up?”
“Kid by the name of Grigory Volkov. He came over from the KHL in the off-season and
we’ve had him starting down in Hershey. Doesn’t speak a lot of English but he’ll pick it up.
He’s a quick study. I’ll introduce him at practice.”
Deguire stood, apparently feeling that his message had been properly conveyed. Heater
carried on with his routine.
It was maybe an hour later, out on the ice that Glen Thomas skated up to Heater as he
was stretching. Thomas gestured toward the bench, said, “Who’s the kid?”
“Grigory Volkov. Russian, up from Hershey.”
“How long’s Boulanger out?”
“What makes you so sure I’d know?” Heater snapped back.
“But you’ve got the starter gig.”
“Seems that way.”
Volkov’s face fit a type Heater associated with East Europe, heavy high cheekbones and
a mouth that gaped when he was at rest, revealing perfect white teeth that defied the hockey
stereotype. He pulled out a mask, apparently brought with him from Hershey because it bore
that team’s logo, a snarling bear with its paw swiping down the left cheek. Heater admired the
work. Goalies were the only players given liberty to customize their masks and pads and most
took a certain pride in it. Heater’s own mask was a mural tribute to Led Zeppelin. More to do
with him than any team; he’d never played in one place long enough to make a team logo
seem worth it.
“Good luck with the starts,” Thomas said as he drifted away for his own warm-ups.
“Don’t fuck it up.”
Heater flipped the bird at his retreating back.
October 25th, Montreal hotel room, the night’s game lingering in Heater’s limbs.
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Washington had won 2-1, but Montreal hadn’t made it easy. Tomorrow they’d fly to Ottawa
and prepare for their next opponent. Heater showered, donned his sweats, and tuned the TV to
Sports Center.
“I don’t see how you watch this shit,” Thomas grumbled from the other bed, battling an
ice pack that refused to stay perched on his knee. Thomas scored too often to call him a true
enforcer, but his hit count was usually double his shot count. They’d been road trip
roommates since Heater came to Washington, and the forward spent most nights icing some
joint or another.
Heater said, “You study up on other teams.”
“On the internet. Not from talking heads.”
“They’re never talking about me.”
“Must be fucking nice.”
The hockey media had nicknamed Thomas The Curse, not just for the number thirteen on
his sweater but because he had a way of haunting the opposition. Three times in the past two
seasons he’d hit a player straight onto the injured reserve. The press he earned was invariably
negative.
Thomas said, “Wait, never? You were on it once, right?”
“Daily top ten, I think.”
“No shit, for a save?”
“Wicked shot by Jerome Carter. I was the one he scored on.”
Thomas laughed. The ice pack slid off his leg into his lap. He pushed it back, muttering.
This was all part of his routine. The show and then the conversation that was as old as their
friendship. Sports Center’s topic bar shifted to hockey. Washington-Montreal was the top
story and Heater tuned in to hear, “…Capitals’ continued domination of the Eastern
Conference. Most people thought the team would struggle without starting netminder Alex
Boulanger but back-up Jason Heater tonight earned his third win in four games.”
“Well, John, it’s hard to win a hockey game without good goaltending, and Heater’s
making things easy for Washington.”
Thomas mumbled, “Thought you said they didn’t talk about you.”
“Strange times.”
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“You keep up like this coach’ll never let Volkov start.”
The game footage shifted from saves to hits. Number 13 bashing some Canadian into the
boards behind the net. Thomas busied himself adjusting his ice pack and the TV said, “Let’s
talk about this blindside hit by Glenn Thomas on Alain Carbonneau. You look at the footage,
it’s hard to imagine even he thinks this was a good hockey play.”
“It looks a lot like the hit he took on Philadelphia forward Marc LaRoche in the pre-
season. Carbonneau—look right there, how he’s shaking his head when he gets up. Lucky for
Montreal he was able to stay in the game but I think the refs missed this hit.”
“The 20,000 refs in the seats thought this should’ve been a penalty—”
“The fans called for blood the whole third period.”
“—and I’m expecting the Department of Player Safety to make a statement in the next few
days dealing a fine, or even a suspension, to Thomas.”
Thomas let the ice pack slide to the mattress, as if in protest. “The guy knew I was
coming. It’s not my fault he showed me his numbers.”
“So don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not worried.” Thomas rolled off the bed, a stiff-kneed limp toward the bathroom.
Over the rush of the faucet, he shouted, “It’s just these douchebags think there’s a clear line,
but on the ice—I mean, whatever. Fucking fine me. I’m not changing my game.”
Heater stared at the TV until it went to commercial then turned it off and turned his face
into the comforter. His mind went smooth, empty, a fresh sheet of ice where he was the lone
skater, backed into the net, defending his crease.
The road trip wrapped up in Buffalo, first week of November. In six games they’d gone
4-1-1, but even when they won long road trips were demanding. Unusual facilities,
interrupted routines, and unrelenting fans in hot markets like Montreal and Buffalo, where the
crowd sing-song chanted Heater’s name and booed every time Zolkin got the puck. Fatigue
read clear in the team’s body language as they boarded the plane back to Washington.
Heater maneuvered between the cabin seats and slid into an empty row across from
Grigory Volkov. He was sitting with Lukas Zolkin. The two Russians had become fast
friends, the only speakers of their native tongue on the predominately North American roster.
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Zolkin had taken on the role of translator for the young goalie; Deguire hadn’t been kidding
about the kid’s English.
“Last night,” Volkov said in greeting. “You good play.”
Heater nodded thanks, said, “You’ve been making real nice saves in practice.”
Volkov turned to Zolkin for the translation, turned back beaming. “Thank you. Team
good for—I mean say, to play…” Volkov trailed off. Awkward dead air, engines humming
white noise, broken by the passage of a body between them and when it had gone Volkov
reached over the aisle, tentative hand on Heater’s armrest. “I like how look….”
His eyebrows scrunched in consternation. He begged Heater’s patience with an upheld
finger and conferred with Zolkin. Heater heard his name, a blur of syllables, then Zolkin
leaned across Volkov, shouted over the roar of the engines, “He say soft goals last night.
Your glove is too slow.”
The smile on Heater’s face froze into place.
Zolkin’s blue eyes twinkled mischief, lips pulling back to reveal the gap between his
front teeth. “Joke, just joke. Grigory say to tell you he like your mask.”
“Oh.” Heater glanced at Volkov, whose head bobbed like some dashboard figurine.
“Thanks.”
Lukas shook his head. “You should have seen your face.”
Static crackled through the intercom. The pilot announced takeoff.
November 15th, four weeks since Boulanger’s injury. A persistent ache had developed
above Heater’s right ankle, an inevitable consequence of so many straight starts. They were in
the midst of a home-and-home against the Carolina Hurricanes. It seemed as good a time as
any for Volkov to get some action.
Game time was the come-and-go of lines hopping the wall, the air horn’s wail, the
raucous cheers, shouted curses and orders and clack of stick on stick, stick on ice, stick on
puck. Heater’s seat on the end of the bench was too familiar for comfort. Washington was up
2-0 with five minutes left in the third and Heater watched the clock run down until the horn
sounded on victory. Volkov was flawless in his first game out. He looked happy as a pig in
shit, his grin infectious. Heater gave the kid a face wash with his glove and told him good
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game.
In the locker room—after Coach Deguire’s post-game notes, after the hardhat went to
Volkov—Heater leaned into Glenn Thomas’ cubby and said, “You feel like a beer?”
Thomas squinted at him, up and down, like looking for a trick. “Where at?”
“What’s that place across the street you guys like?”
“The Red Derby.” Thomas tossed his balled up game socks into his gym bag. He turned
to the cubby on his other side. “You want a drink, Goose?”
By the time they made it to the bar Thomas had half the team tagging along behind them.
Mostly forwards—Alan “Goose” Gooski and Craig Johnson and of course Lucky Luke
Zolkin, whose penchant for the DC nightlife was well-documented in the local gossip rags.
They entered to loud cheers and free shots and hockey bunnies in jerseys cut to show
cleavage. Heater broke away from the commotion and ordered a beer, the bartender taking his
sweet time, refreshingly unimpressed. A well-dressed couple to his left gossiped, star struck,
sneaking glances at Luke and his cohorts at their table. They didn’t recognize Heater. To the
fans, his face was his mask.
The couple shushed hurriedly and Heater looked back at Thomas coming toward him.
“You hangin’ out or what?”
“Just getting a beer.”
“Fuck that, man. Luke just ordered shots. Come on, have some fun. Rest day tomorrow,
remember?”
He followed Thomas to a back corner, wraparound booth, the players and bunnies all
crammed in haphazardly, one perched already on Zolkin’s lap and though they scrunched
together to make room for Heater on the end the girls flashed him only the tight smiles of the
polite.
Heater’s next two starts were shaky. The first, against New Jersey, his team eked out a
win, but they weren’t so lucky in Chicago, where Patrice Reed scored a hat trick, three goals
to earn his team the win and prompt a painful delay while fans showered the ice with ball
caps and beanies. Heater sucked coppery water from his bottle and contemplated what had
gone wrong. Volkov started the next game but didn’t fare any better. Deguire grudgingly
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gave Heater the start for their season’s second meeting with Pittsburgh.
In the pre-game locker room, Heater taped his stick while Thomas told him, “He’s a kid,
you’re a vet. You know your shit. Nothing can beat that.”
“I said don’t talk about it.”
“Confidence, Heat. Just play your game. You fucking earned your place here.” Thomas
examined the laces of his right skate, found the ends uneven and pulled them out to start over.
“It’s because of those goddamn talking heads. I knew you shouldn’t be watching Sports
Center.”
4:05 first period, Devon Young beat Heater short side. Two minutes later, the puck
skittered behind him on a backdoor play. Then a screened shot, high glove, at 7:58. Deguire
yanked Heater out with a hook of his thumb. Despite the tape, Heater’s stick broke clean in
two when he bashed it against the wall of the runway.
No good conversation started with, “I want to let you know where we stand.”
The locker room at Kettler Iceplex felt emptier with the three of them than it did when
Heat was there alone. Like the ceiling had expanded to make room for all the tension. Heater
and Volkov sat on the benches while Coach Deguire filled up a folding chair across from
them, clad in elastic-banded polyester pants, his jacket adorned with geometric shapes in
unholy neons, a transplant from the early ‘90s. It was hard to take a man seriously, dressed
like that.
Tomorrow, Washington would host the Islanders. There was only room for one man in
the cage. Deguire’s hockey sense was about three hundred times better than his fashion sense.
Heater hoped that hockey sense said to put the vet on the ice.
“We know you’ve still got it, Heat, but we wore you out on that road trip.”
“I’m not worn out.”
“You’re playing like it. We can’t afford to hand a game to Pittsburgh, of all fucking
teams.”
Deguire ran a thick hand across his chin, where a smear of barbeque sauce lingered from
his lunch. Heater stared at that instead of his coach’s eyes. Deguire said, “What we’re gonna
do is alternate games.”
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0
“For how long?”
“Until one of you shows me you want the fucking start.”
Or until Boulanger came back. Six weeks now since the superstar went down, and every
game from here out was an audition for the right to warm the bench once he came back.
There was a legend about goalie numbers, that in the days before facemasks, the number
on a netminder’s sweater was the age he expected to retire. They’d rarely worn a number over
thirty. Heater had long outlived the twenty sewn on his back. A much harder task: to survive
a twenty-year-old kid.
For two weeks, they alternated games. By this arbitrary system it was Heater’s turn in the
cage December 18th in Philadelphia, and Coach Deguire’s post-practice pep talk said nothing
to the contrary. Heater’s ankle was still sore, no better and no worse, and he took his now-
routine trip down to the medical wing for a checkup and there found Alex Boulanger,
beaming smile, shaved clean except his trademark soul-patch, no trace of injury in his stride.
He clapped Heater on the back and told him, “You’re the first to hear the good news. Docs
just cleared me to skate.”
Heater gave Boulanger the usual phrases of congratulation while the doctors wrapped his
foot. The starter wished Heater good luck as he was leaving, as carefree as if he didn’t realize
how much Heater would need it.
Philadelphia was the epitome of a hostile market. Heater had played here once already
this season but it was no more comfortable the second time around. An early goal by the
home team put the crowd into a frenzy. Heater could hardly hear the whistle the entire first
period. By the end of the second, his team found themselves in a 2-0 hole and feeling lucky to
have survived with that little damage. Coach Deguire’s intermission talk focused on stealing
momentum.
“We set the pace,” he said. “We get into a rhythm and we can win this. But not if we lose
our fucking heads.”
Washington came out with fire for the start of the third. Now it was Michel Martin in net
for Philadelphia who took heavy fire, three straight shifts of Washington puck possession and
near-misses before Zolkin sniped one over Martin’s left shoulder and cut Philly’s lead in half.
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Play turned chippy. Thomas leveled Philly’s Marc LaRoche with a huge open ice check.
The refs didn’t call it but LaRoche took issue and on the next face off he asked Thomas if he
wanted to go. Thomas flicked his gloves off. The refs blew their whistle then circled, hanging
close but not breaking them up until they resorted to sweater tugging and aimless jabs. Each
took his place in the penalty box. Players skated out to fill their places. The ref dropped the
puck.
Chaos on the face off and the Flyers came up with it. Heater tensed for the oncoming
rush. The puck crossed center, hopped over the blue line. Glove save, rebound, low shot
bouncing off Heater’s pads to settle in the crease. He smacked his glove down. Sticks swiped
at his hand, jabbing to get underneath, the ref’s whistle still silent and then a falling body was
coming at Heater’s face, bowling him over with enough force his mask flew up and off his
head. He felt the jostle around him, heard his teammates saying fuck you and you wanna go?
And outside the human mass the ref blew his whistle, as if anyone was listening. Distant
clatter of the boards then the press of bodies shifted from his net and Heater regained his
skates.
By the glass, most of the players were caught up in an aimless brawl. A few had paired
off into sparring partners. Helmets and gloves lay scattered on the ice. The refs waited for
their chance to restore order. The crowd called for blood.
Down the ice, Michel Martin dropped his stick and skated out from his crease. He
stopped at the blue line, eyed up the fight, and then turned toward Heater. He nodded an
invitation. In answer, Heater dropped his gloves. The sweat on his palms instantly chilled.
Heater had thrown a punch or two though he’d never fought on the ice, never tried it in
full pads, but Martin was coming fast and Heater could only put his dukes up and hope for the
best. Martin swung his left fist into Heater’s shoulder, hard enough his vision blurred. He
groped for Martin’s jersey with his left fist. He threw his right. There was an audible crunch
when his knuckles made contact. Martin was still swinging so he hit again, and again, until
Martin crumpled to the ice and pulled Heater down with him. Heater landed two more solid
blows before the refs pulled him off. He looked down at his knuckles and saw blood. He
looked back but the ref had blocked his view. He couldn’t see if Martin got up.
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It was Sports Center that told him, “Philadelphia Flyers goaltender Michel Martin is out
four to six weeks with a shattered cheekbone after last night’s game against Washington.”
It was coach Deguire who told him, “Four game suspension.”
They were in Deguire’s office, and Heater had known as soon as he’d been summoned
that the ruling was serious. Deguire used the locker room for everything except trades and
heavy reprimands. He glowered from across his desk, face blotchy, nearly as red as his desk.
“Fighting’s not your fucking job,” Deguire said, shaking his jowls. “Goalies fighting—
it’s a fucking spectacle, is what that is. We’ve got it bad enough with people calling Thomas
dirty. You crossed the fucking line.”
Heater watched the next four games from the treadmill in the training room, running
while his teammates—and Volkov—won four straight. The first three, some kid from
Hershey sat on the bench in a backwards hat, looking terrified and out of his league. Just a
body to fill the roster. Volkov would have to lose a limb before they put that kid in net. The
fourth game, Alex Boulanger sat on the home bleacher. Heater had been traded enough times
in his career that he knew what came next. At this point, it was a question of when.
The call came the next day: Heater would finish out his season playing for the Hershey
Bears. “It’ll be good for them to have you around,” Coach Deguire told him, “They’re in
good position for the playoffs but they don’t have a lot of experience. With a veteran like you
in net they could get all the way to the championship.”
Heater gathered this was meant as some kind of consolation. At least they weren’t giving
him too much time to dwell on it. The travel plans Deguire laid out for him gave him time to
pack but not much else. He thought about texting Thomas but wasn’t sure just what he’d say.
Heater packed much as he would have for a road trip. There was no point moving all of his
stuff yet. Either Washington would trade him or he’d move on when his contract ended in the
summer. Hershey wouldn’t be the end of the line.
Once Heater was packed he went downtown. He was early; the trainer who’d be taking
him to Hershey hadn’t made it yet. He figured he’d get a drink to kill some time and saw that
same bar, the Red Derby, the one Thomas and Zolkin seemed to like so much. It seemed as
good a place as any.
The attitude was different in the mid-afternoon. Without the forwards in tow, no one
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cheered when he entered. There were no free shots, no cute girls in jerseys waiting wide-eyed
to hear his tales from the ice. The TV behind the bar was on sports highlights—Redskins,
Wizards, finally circling toward hockey. Heater wondered for a second if his move to
Hershey would be a headline—but no, he realized, it would be all about Boulanger’s return,
the starter taking up his rightful place. Heater was just the backup. Only the most dedicated of
Washington’s fan base would even realize he was gone. It was as it should be, he supposed,
as he watched highlights of Alex’s most glorious saves and waited for the bartender to realize
his glass was empty.
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Contributors:
Andrew James Woodyard a writer from Southern California submitting a short work of
fiction and three poems for your consideration. He’s recently been published in Perihelion Science
Fiction, The Realms Beyond and was just accepted in Carnival Literary Magazine.
Jessica simms is a freelance ghostwriter living in Pittsburgh, PA. I hold an MFA in creative
writing from Chatham University and was the 2015 winner of the Cardinal Sins fiction contest. My
short fiction has also been published in Weave Magazine, Transient, and Ampersand Review.
Ella Remmings grew up in Poland, surrounded by communist propaganda and military tanks.
She yearned for oranges, which were available only at Christmas time. Ella moved to America with
one backpack and a few dollars to her name, eventually making her way to the fast lane in
pharmaceuticals. After advising CEOs, COOs and other ‘Os’ on anything from business strategy to
new products to global marketing, Ella reclaimed her life and devoted herself to writing. She enjoys
composing stories about people and places, from sleepy Polish villages to executive boardrooms of
corporate America. Ella is an award-winning author of medical, healthcare policy and human-interest
stories and is currently working on a book, The 50th Deed, prompted by a promise made to her oldest
son.
Milton Montague was raised in New York City, survived The Great Depression, the school
system, and World War ll. After 20 years back at college he discovered poetry at 85. Now at 90 plus
he has 84 poems published in 25 different magazines.
Ken W. Simpson is an Australian poet whose latest collection, Patterns of Perception, was
published in January 2015 by Augur Press (UK). He lives with his family at Lysterfield, a Melbourne
suburb, in the state of Victoria.
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