“Back home. Wait, aren’t you . . ..”
“Erik. Erik De Ruiter.”
Normally, I would’ve stuck my hand out to offer a proper greeting but didn’t this time. I knew exactly what guys like him would think of my handshake and refused to take the bait. Besides, you never know where his hands have been.
“Oh yeah, I know who you are now,” he said. “You’re the Canadian guy.”
“How do you know?”
“Your voice. You talk a little differently than the other guys. Like ‘oot and aboot.’”
I waited for him to crack up laughing like every other moron who attempts a bad (and I meanbad) Canadian accent. Those same types loved adding comments about maple syrup, socialism, and Alex Trebek. Give me a break. He had enough pride not to say those things—I guess.
Instead of answering him, I glanced around the room, searching for a quick out, but wouldn’t worry if one didn’t come. Again, no sweat.
“And you’re the farmer too?” he asked.
“Yeah. Have you heard of me?”
“Maybe. Isn’t that a life for bumpkins?”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He shrugged as if to say he wouldn’t call it good or bad. It’s true, though. I grew up in the farming town of Stevensville, Ontario. That’s part of greater Fort Erie, right across the Canada-United States border from Buffalo. Like I said, I hadn’t traveled far to live in another country. The farm was home. It stood for principles and hard work. On the De Ruiter farm, you keep plugging away until the job is done. If he’d wanted me to feel ashamed of my background, he would have to try a whole hell of a lot harder.
“And who are you?” I asked.
“Kayden Preston. Hold the applause. I don’t need an introduction.”
“No, you definitely don’t.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re Kayden Preston, the Buffalo hockey player who was thrown in jail because he used his fists off the ice one time too many.”
He froze, looking stunned as if I’d slapped him across the face. Once you’ve heard all I can tell you about Kayden, you’ll wish I’d done it for real.
“It was only one time.” He paused once the words left his mouth, like he hadn’t meant to dignify my comment with a response. “Wait a second, what am I tellingyouthat for? You’re nobody. And who told you about that anyway?”
“It’s no secret, Kayden. You’ve got a reputation.”
“Yeah, well, the charges got dropped, I have no record, I kept my scholarship, and—” He choked back any further words, grunted, and threw his hands into the air because I’d screwed him up again. Pro tip: You do that by staying cool while the other guy loses his head.
My comments had stunned him enough to create an opening for me to breeze past him and out the locker room door.
Of course, he followed me. No surprise there either. He wouldn’t have been Kayden Preston if he’d just stood there with his thumb up his ass, accepting his obvious defeat.
In a weird way, I found the whole thing sort of entertaining.
“Just because you were team captain back home doesn’t mean you’ll automatically be team captain here,” he said.
“I know, but I’m confident.”
“Yeah, but?—”
“But what? Hell, why don’t you tell me whyyoushould automatically be the captain?”
“Because I’ve always been the captain of every team I’ve ever been on.”
