I Burned The Hockey Star Down novel · Chapter 3 of 32

Chapter 3: Lents Ice

At her grandmother's rink Greer watches Dane's charity get a new sponsor, and his agent walks in with lawyers to take her kids' program.

I played it again.

Grady paid me ten grand to take Callister's knee.

On the tape, I could hear myself breathing.

I'd been half asleep on the other side of Peg's office desk, and I hadn't heard a word of it.

Dane kept going.

"Best money I ever made. Grady's other guy needed him out of the second round. Pop, done. Everybody said accident."

He laughed again.

Then he started snoring.

I took the earbuds out and sat very still on my kitchen floor.

Seven years ago, Beau Callister had been the best young defenseman in the league.

One hit in the playoffs, and he never played again.

He'd spent five years coaching the man who did it.

He'd just driven me home in the rain.

I copied the file to my laptop, to a thumb drive and to an email draft I never sent.

Then I locked the recorder in the bread box, because it was the only thing in my apartment with a latch.

I didn't call Beau.

I didn't know how you tell a man that.

For four days, I didn't answer my phone at all.

Saturday morning, I drove to Lents Ice Arena at six, because on Saturdays that's what I do.

The rink sits behind a tire shop on 92nd Avenue.

It was built in 1971, and it looks it.

The sign out front still has a skater in a beehive hairdo.

My grandmother was on the loading dock in her red cardigan with a cigarette.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Peg said. "You look like a wet sock, sugar."

"Good morning to you too."

"I watched the game." She blew smoke away from me. "I saw that girl jump the boards."

"Everybody saw."

"I mean I saw his face when he caught her. He wasn't surprised." She tapped ash off the dock. "You done with him?"

"I'm done with him."

"Good." Peg stubbed out the cigarette on her shoe. "Then come inside. The Zamboni's making that noise again, and I want you to tell me it's fine."

It wasn't fine.

It was never fine.

The compressor wheezed under the floor. The lobby smelled like popcorn oil and rubber mats.

I loved every inch of it.

By eight, the lobby was full of kids pulling on rental skates.

Ninety-four of them were enrolled in First Ice, the free Saturday program I'd started three years ago.

Most Saturdays, about seventy showed up.

A seven-year-old in a pink helmet threw herself at my legs.

"Miss Greer! I can do a stop now. A real one."

"Show me on the ice, not on my shins."

"Is Dane coming today? My brother wants a picture."

My smile stayed exactly where it was.

"Not today, bug."

I'd written the grant for First Ice at Peg's kitchen table.

I'd registered the nonprofit, bought used skates from every garage sale in Multnomah County, and begged the tire shop for a donation.

Dane had shown up twice a season for photos.

The press called it Dane Hollings' First Ice.

I'd let them, because I thought someday it wouldn't matter whose name was on it.

I ran warmups.

Peg ran the music from the booth, which meant Patsy Cline at full volume.

The little ones fell down, got up and fell down again, shrieking with joy every single time.

For two hours, I forgot about the tape.

At ten-thirty, I came into the lobby for more tape for the kids' sticks.

The old TV above the snack bar was tuned to a sports channel.

Dane's face filled the screen.

He was standing outside the Moda Center in a crisp white polo, with Skye on his arm.

The banner behind them said Dane Hollings' First Ice, Presented by Penhaligon Brewing.

"Kids are the future of this game," Dane said. "Skye and I are going to make sure every kid in Portland gets on the ice."

Skye leaned into the microphone.

"We're taking it national," she said. "It's always been Dane's baby."

The parents in the lobby turned and looked at me.

One dad near the vending machine said, "Huh. I thought this was your thing."

"It is my thing," I said.

My voice came out higher than I wanted.

Peg came out of the booth, wiping her glasses on her cardigan.

"Turn that garbage off, Greer."

I reached for the remote.

The front doors opened.

Rain blew in across the mats.

Grady Sloat walked into my grandmother's rink in his navy blazer and his pinky ring.

Two lawyers in gray suits followed him with matching briefcases.

He smiled at the kids lined up at the snack bar.

Then he smiled at me.

"Morning, kid," he said. "Good news. Dane's foundation is taking over First Ice, effective today."

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