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  HOCKEY FEVER

  GLENN PARKER

  Copyright © 2014 by Glenn Parker.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  BookWhirl Publishing

  PO Box 9031, Green Bay

  WI 54308-9031, USA

  www.bookwhirl.com

  Ordering Information:

  Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address above.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014939706

  ISBN-13:

  Softcover 978-1-61856-560-0

  Pdf 978-1-61856-561-7

  ePub 978-1-61856-562-4

  Kindle 978-1-61856-563-1

  Rev. date: 06/12/2014

  Disclaimer

  This publication is designed to provide accurate and personal experience information in regard to the subject matter covered. It is sold with the understanding that the author, contributors, publisher are not engaged in rendering counseling or other professional services. If counseling advice or other expert assistance is required, the services of a competent professional person should be sought out.

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  TITLE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS BY THE AUTHOR

  Other books by Glenn Parker:

  * * *

  The Shutout Girl

  The Littlest Hockey Player

  DEDICATION AND IN MEMORY OF

  * * *

  Trevor Pyle of Rockglen Saskatchewan who died too soon.

  A good friend

  A lover of sports

  Provider of wonderful movies from his perch

  In the Dreamland Theatre.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Don Jordan’s skates dug into the ice as he broke away from his check and streaked down the right wing. At the blue line, he cut to his left giving the back skating defenseman a feint with his shoulder. Suddenly, he was hooked from behind and thrown off stride. Don swung his stick around and caught the offender across the shin guards with a resounding smack. They hit the boards behind the net and Don threw off his gloves and came up swinging. He was furious that he had been denied a scoring opportunity and the referee hadn’t even blown his whistle.

  He glared at Steve Holden. They had squared off a few times before. As they faced each other and after some maneuvering, several blows were thrown on both sides until Don landed one on Holden’s jaw. His helmet flew off and he fell heavily to the ice. Don was about to launch himself on top of the prone player, his rage having reached a fever pitch. Holden had been a thorn in his side on more than one occasion and Don was ready for an all-out battle with the agitator. Before he could do anything, however, a referee stepped in between him and Holden, preventing Don from continuing the skirmish. It was only then that Don noticed that Holden was lying on the ice and not moving.

  “What’s the matter with him? I didn’t hit him that hard,” Don protested as the linesmen moved in and started maneuvering him toward the penalty box.

  The trainer for the other team scuttled across the ice toward the fallen player and after several seconds signaled for a stretcher. Don looked on with horror, unable to believe what had just transpired.

  The referee was consulting with the penalty keeper and assessed Don a five minute fighting major and a game misconduct. He was out of the game. As he skated toward his dressing room, he could hear the crowd yelling at him.

  “The guy’s an animal,” one of the crowd screamed. “He should be locked up.”

  “There’s no place in hockey for guys like that,” another yelled. “Kick him out permanently. He could kill somebody.”

  Don was desperate to find out if he had injured Holden, but the linesmen prevented him from approaching the fallen player who was now being loaded onto a stretcher.

  “Hit the showers kid,” one of the linesmen said. “You’ve done enough damage for one evening. Don’t make it worse.”

  As the two men carrying the stretcher passed Don on the way to an awaiting ambulance, Don yelled at them. “Is he going to be okay?”

  “You better hope he hasn’t got a concussion.”

  “Where are you taking him?” Don asked.

  “To the hospital. Where do you think?” was the reply.

  Don kicked the dressing room door open and sat down on the bench. The roar of the crowd drifted through the door as the game resumed. He sat with his head in his hands as his rage slowly ebbed away. Why had he gotten so mad? It was a penalty and he might have scored if Holden hadn’t been such a jerk, but that was hockey. Things like that happened all the time. When you were the leading scorer in the league, you were a mark for every goon like Holden. It was something he should have come to terms with long ago. But he hadn’t. He just kept letting his temper get the better of him

  He undressed slowly and walked into the shower room, his head in a whirl. What had he done? What if Holden had a concussion or worse, ended up in a coma or with brain damage? How could he ever live with that? After dressing, Don sat thinking about his next move. He had to know how badly the player was injured. Nothing else mattered. He had to get to the hospital.

  Outside the arena, Don approached a taxi. “How far is the hospital?” he asked the driver, who had rolled down his window as Don approached.

  “About ten minutes,” the cabbie said.

  “I’ve got to get to the hospital but I’ve only got a couple of dollars,” Don told him.

  The cab driver smiled. “Aren’t you Don Jordan?” When Don nodded, he gestured for Don to get in. “When I tell my kid I gave Don Jordan a ride to the hospital, it’ll make his day even though you do play for our arch enemy.”

  Once they had arrived at the hospital, Don tried to give the driver his two dollars but he shook his head. “Keep it,” he said. “The pleasure was all mine.”

  Don raced for the entrance and approached the woman at the desk. She smiled up at him and asked, “What can I do for you, young man?”

  “A hockey player was just brought in here,” he told the receptionist. “Can you tell me where they would take him?”

  “What’s his name?” she asked.

  When Don told her his name, the receptionist picked up a phone, spoke briefly and then hung up. “He’s in emergency. It’s right down there,” she added, pointing to her right. “Follow the yellow line. It’s just around the corner.”

  Don ran down the hallway and turned right. Sitting on a bench were the two men who had taken the player off the ice on a stretcher. Don approached them.

  “Is he going to be all right?” Don asked, sitting down beside them.

  “Well, he hasn’t got a concussion,” one of them said. “Lucky for you. But he’s go
ing to have some kind of headache.”

  “Is he in there?” Don asked.

  “Yeah, but you can’t go in there,” the man said.

  “I gotta see him,” Don said, ignoring the man and entering the room.

  Steve sat on a bed with his legs dangling over the side. When he saw Don, he shook his head. “What are you doing here, Jordan?”

  “What do you think? I wanted to see how you were. Are you going to live?”

  “Probably, no thanks to you.” He grinned. “That’s quite a haymaker you got there.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” Don apologized. “I let my temper get the best of me again.”

  “Actually, you didn’t hit me that hard,” Steve said. “I kind of lost my balance and hit my head on the ice. So you’re probably not as tough as you thought you were.”

  “I’m relieved you didn’t get a concussion.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve got one heck of a headache.”

  “Sorry about that,” Don said. “I lost it there for awhile. I feel awful about it.”

  Steve offered his hand. “No hard feelings. It’s just part of the game. Next time though, watch out for my left hook. But before you go, let me give you a piece of advice. That’s a nasty temper you got. It’s going to get you into a heap of trouble. You‘ve got to cool it, man.” He grinned. “That’s my advice for the day free of charge. Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll take it,” Don said, shaking his head that he was actually taking advice from Steve Holden one of the dirtiest players he had ever played against.

  Don shook his hand noticing how big and powerful Holden was. Maybe it had been a lucky punch he had thrown after all. “Well, take it easy. See you on the ice.”

  Outside the hospital Don took out his cell phone and dialed his coach. When Brush answered, Don told him where he was.

  “The guy’s going to be okay. He doesn’t have a concussion or anything just a bad headache. Can you pick me up at the hospital?”

  * * *

  The bus ride back to Saskatoon seemed like it would never end. Don sat by himself at the rear of the bus and looked out the window. He was having doubts about his future in hockey. These rages he was getting into — where did they come from? Why was he having so much difficulty controlling them? He couldn’t remember ever getting this angry in minor hockey. Maybe he just wasn’t cut out to be a pro hockey player despite all the accolades and expectations that he would be a shoo-in to make the NHL.

  “See you tomorrow,” Brush said as Don stepped off the bus in front of his house. “And don’t worry about it too much. We all have our bad nights. Just make sure you learn from your mistakes.”

  “Sure,” Don said.

  His mother’s light was still on. She seldom went to bed before he got in at night.

  She came to her bedroom door holding a book. She was a tall, dark-haired woman in her late forties. The resemblance between mother and son was striking.

  “How did it go?” she asked.

  “Terrible,” Don said. He sat down on a chair and stared at the floor. “Really terrible.”

  “I’ll make some coffee,” she said, going into the kitchen. She returned with two cups of instant.

  “Feel like talking about it?” she asked, putting the coffee in front of him.

  “I made an idiot of myself tonight. I don’t know what came over me. I can’t seem to control my temper on the ice. I got into a fight and the guy had to be taken off the ice on a stretcher. They took him to the hospital thinking he might have had a concussion. I could have killed the guy.”

  “Oh Don, you must feel awful. What made you get into a fight?”

  “It doesn’t matter. The fact is that I let my temper get the better of me again. It was inexcusable. I could have really hurt him.” He sighed. “I made a decision tonight coming home on the bus, Mom. I’m quitting. It’s just not worth it. I don’t think I’ve got the temperament to be a hockey player. It’s as simple as that. And I don’t want to spend the next ten or fifteen years wondering who my next victim might be. Or that I might end up really hurting somebody just because I’ve got an uncontrollable temper. I thought about it all the way home.”

  His mother frowned. “Don, aren’t you being a little rash?”

  “No. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. All summer in fact. When I was suspended last year, I almost quit. But now I’m sure.”

  She reached out to him. “What will you do? Hockey has been such a big part of your life. You’ve put so much into it. It would be a shame to throw all that away.”

  “My mind’s made up,” he said. “I’m going to tell Brush tomorrow. He’s going to hate me for it, but it’s something I’ve got to do for my own peace of mind. Otherwise, I think I’ll go crazy worrying about it.”

  Practice was scheduled for the next afternoon. It was only going to be a light skate and some shooting practice. Don walked past the dressing room and opened a door marked MANAGEMENT ONLY.

  Brush was sitting at his computer, looking at something that he found amusing. His eyebrows went up when Don appeared. His room was off limits to the players unless they were specifically invited.

  “Well, what have you got to say for yourself?” he asked.

  Don sat down across from him and looked at the ceiling. He didn’t speak.

  “What’s on your mind? You need some money? Girlfriend left you? Hey you really did a job on that guy last night. You gotta start reining in that temper of yours, you hear?”

  “I’m quitting,” Don said. “Last night was the end.”

  Brush came forward in his chair. “Last night happens to everybody. We all lose our cool at times — even me. But that’s no reason to throw away a career.”

  Don was adamant. “I’m quitting, Brush. I mean it.”

  Brush regarded him saying nothing. Finally, he stood up and went to the window. “Why don’t you take a few days off, think it over and then we’ll talk some more later.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, Brush. This isn’t a snap decision and it isn’t just because of what happened last night, although that helped. It proved to me that I don’t belong in the game.”

  “That was only our second game of the season for heaven’s sake. You’ve got all year to prove that to yourself. Your suspension will only be for one game and then you can start anew, reassess things, get on with the job.”

  “I can’t do it anymore,” Don said. “It’s driving me nuts.”

  Brush looked annoyed, shook his head. “Well, it’s your choice, it’s your life. I can’t make you stay. But I think you’re making a big mistake. You’ve got a future in hockey. Most guys your age would give anything to be in your position.”

  Don rose to leave. At the door he turned back. “Thanks for everything, Brush. I’m really sorry.”

  “You let me down, kid. I thought you were made of sterner stuff. Guess I was wrong. I was counting on you this year. So were all the other guys.”

  He felt like a traitor as he walked out of the arena. That crack about “sterner stuff” had hurt. Surely Brush realized that it hadn’t been an easy decision. He could have shown a little more understanding.

  But that wasn’t like Brush. He was the hard-headed, practical type who liked to see results. He had no time for whiners and complainers. In a way, Don couldn’t blame him for the attitude he had taken. After all, it was his job to ice the best team he could and achieve the best results. If he fell short of that, there was always somebody else eager to take his place.

  * * *

  In the next few days there was nothing in the newspaper about his quitting. Brush no doubt still figured on Don returning, his tail between his legs.

  They were restless days. He had practically worn out a pair of shoes looking for a job. But for a nineteen-year-old, despite the fact that he was a strapping six footer, the employment situation was anything but bright. There were lots of part time jobs but Don needed something more permanent, more substantial. He
couldn’t go on living at home and depending on his mother. He wanted to be independent, to do his own thing and with the sudden gap in his day without hockey, time seemed to drag.

  The hardest part was watching the team’s progress in the papers. He longed to be playing again. This would be the first hockey season he would be sitting out since he had started playing thirteen years ago.

  After two weeks, Brush released the news to the papers. It probably took him so long because Brush was hoping Don would relent and come limping back. Don read the news item feeling strangely as though he were reading about somebody else.

  Brush Harvey, coach and general manager of the Saskatoon Huskies, revealed today that Don Jordan, his speedy right winger, has left the club. Jordan, a three-year man and considered by many as the most promising young prospect in years, left for personal reasons according to Harvey. Speculation, however, is that Jordan and Harvey had a rift over Jordan's inability to control his temper on the ice.

  Jordan's departure will be a blow to the club and the loss of a colorful player. For the past two seasons, Jordan has been the key figure in the club’s lineup and has been the runner-up for the scoring title two years in succession.

  Let’s hope that Jordan's departure is merely the temporary whim of a temperamental hockey player.

  There it was. He was no longer a player for the Saskatoon Huskies; there was no turning back now even if he wanted to. His future seemed a little foggy now that hockey was no longer dominating his life.

  His mother came into the room. “Read all about it,” he said, passing her the paper.

  She read the article and looked over at him. “Don, are you feeling all right about it? It’s still not too late to change your mind.”

  Don picked up his jacket. “I’ll be home for lunch. I’ve got a lead on a job.”

  A sudden gloom overcame him as he walked down the street. There was no lead on any job, but he had to get out of the house and think things over. He couldn’t go on forever living at home. The best he had done was to pick up a few days work here and there, but nothing permanent. There were lots of promises for the future, but he needed a job now, not three months from now or next spring. He could always go back to school, maybe get his degree, but that meant more dependence on his mother and he didn’t want that.