Page 104 of The Grumpy Defenseman
“My dad says you block shots like you’re mad at the puck.”
That got me.
Not a laugh. Close enough.
“Your dad sounds observant.”
The kid looked down at Ranger. “Is that your dog?”
“This is Ranger.”
Ranger accepted the introduction by sitting on my boot.
The kid grinned. “He looks like he knows stuff.”
“He thinks he does.”
His mother laughed softly then, the tension leaving her.
The kid dug in his backpack and came out with a folded program, bent at the corners and soft from being handled too much. My face was on the cover of some community-night giveaway two seasons ago.
“Could you sign it?”
I took the pen from his mother and signed my name across the white space by my shoulder.
“What’s yourname?”
“Mateo.”
I added it above the signature.
For Mateo. Keep your head up.
He read it like I had handed him something breakable.
“Thanks,” he said.
“You play?”
“Defense.”
“Good,” I said. “The world needs more responsible people.”
His mother gave me another smile, warmer this time, and steered him toward their car. Mateo looked back once and waved.
Ranger watched them go, then looked up at me like the stop had served its purpose.
Maybe it had.
I stood there for another second with the leash in my hand and the highway moving behind me. A kid at a rest stop. A bent program. Ranger’s weight against my leg. None of it was worth $89,000,000.
Still, somehow, not nothing.
I got Ranger back into the truck, set my phone facedown, and pulled onto the highway.
A few miles later, he sighed and went to sleep.
The Clearfield Municipal Rink had been painted twice since I had last seen it.
