But instead of leaving, I wander into the barn.
Marcy’s nowhere in sight. I’m just being helpful. Staying productive. Volunteering. I’m not specifically looking for her at all.
She disappears like it’s a sport. One minute she’s wrangling bales like a woman possessed, the next she’s gone in a flurry of clipboards.
Scotty’s leaning against one of the wooden beams inside, trying and failing to look relaxed. His jaw’s tight, shoulders braced stiffly.
“Hey,” I say. “You alive?”
“Somewhat.” He doesn’t look at me. “Don’t get old, Frenchie. It’s annoying.”
I grin and step into the shadows of the barn, brushing hay from my shirt. “You’re what, forty?”
“Forty-two,” he grunts. “But my spine thinks it’s eighty-seven.”
I nod, settling in beside him, leaning just enough to keep my legs from locking up. “You threw out your back?”
“Moving a hay bale. My final act of heroism.”
I whistle. “Dramatic.”
“Fitting,” he mutters.
There’s a pause.
“You played, didn’t you?” I ask. “Pro?”
He nods slowly. “Sure did. And then I didn’t. But the sport came back for me and that’s how I ended up in Maple Falls. I’m both glad I retired and glad that I came back for that little spell, or else none of this ever would have happened.” His smile is wholesome and I know exactly what he means.
I glance at my watch again. Eighty-two minutes.
“You miss it?” I ask.
“Sure. I miss parts of it. The games. The locker room. Road trips. The way your whole world fits inside one arena.” He shifts his weight and winces. “But I don’t miss the ruckus. Or the hit that knocked my shoulder out of socket. Or losing two teeth on a ricochet and still playing the third period.”
I wince for him. “We all have our injuries.”
Scotty looks at me sideways. “And yours?”
“It’s nothing,” I say too quickly. “A small one.”
He lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t press for more information.
I don’t tell him about the headaches. Or how my vision went blurry for two whole minutes this past spring. Or how Inow flinch a little every time a slapshot comes high to the glove side.
Instead, I say, “It’s manageable.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I still want it,” I say. “The dream. The playoffs. The show. The roar of the crowd when you make the save that changes the game.”
“Of course you do.”
“It’s still everything to me,” I add, and I mean it. I really do. But my voice sounds a little thinner than I expect. I’m starting to realize that there are other things that mean everything as well… and I’m not sure how that’s possible.
Scotty is quiet for a minute and then says, “That’s how it should be. Until it isn’t.”
I let the words sit.
