Lorra Laven

While Lisa sipped champagne and nibbled on a decadent chocolate torte, Danny endured another harrowing confrontation with Coach Kevin Burke. Per tradition, the coach had called the team together to give players an opportunity to skate together a final time before turning in their equipment and cleaning out their lockers. Since the captains had coached the scrimmage, allotting equal ice time to every player, bench‑warmers like Danny were exhilarated by the time they hobbled on their skates to the locker room.

Burke wandered among the players, patting sweaty heads, shaking seniors’ hands. "You guys did a great job this season. I don’t want you to be discouraged. I’m just sorry the seniors had to end their high school careers during a rebuilding year." 

"As for the rest of you, I want you to focus on your skating and on getting in shape during the off‑season. Now get this place cleaned up and get your asses out of here. Mackenzie, you’re on cleanup," he said, an offhand comment tossed over his shoulder before gliding out of the locker room.

Many of the boys, especially the seniors, hung around joking and throwing tape balls at one another, not quite ready to say good-bye to their high school hockey careers, the likelihood they wouldn't play again until they were old enough to skate in a late‑night men's league. Since the boys were cleaning out a six‑month’s accumulation of trash, the locker room resembled the aftermath of a gypsy encampment by the time the last straggler left Danny to his clean‑up duty.

When the locker room door closed behind the last boy, Danny was initially spooked in the echoing, dismal space with security lights and exit signs as his only means of illumination. Maintenance, believing the locker room to be empty, had turned off the lights at an electrical panel that was kept locked to thwart pranksters. Danny hustled to gather up the mess, pitching it, Michael Jordan style, into the trash before hustling toward the rear of the locker room to make sure the showers were all turned off.

Danny almost passed out when Burke stepped out of the shadows directly into his path.

Struggling to conceal his fear, Danny prattled nervously.  "So Coach, you think we’ll have a good season next year? I mean we probably should, since we’ll have twelve seniors and both goalies are comin’ back." His heart was pounding, he was breathing hard, as he kept pace with Burke, backing up as the man steadily advanced on him. "I think most of the guys are playing a lot of hockey this summer and lifting weights . . . "

Burke’s snarl cut short the babble. "Shut your mouth you little fucker. You don’t know anything about my team and you’re lying your ass off pretending you care." He backed Danny against a locker and placed his hands on either side of Danny's head, leaning menacingly into his face.

Danny’s eyes were enormous as he looked into Burke’s eyes. Angry slashes of violet colored the coach's cheeks.

Burke's lips were curled into a snarl. "I’ve heard what you’ve been saying about me behind my back. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?"

Despite his terror, Danny mentally combed the roster for the name of Burke’s current spy. Everyone knew he recruited kids to eavesdrop on conversations and report on what players had done over the weekend. Danny believed he was up to date on the latest informant, but apparently a new weasel had been embedded without his knowledge.

"Yeah, Trip says you’ve been telling everyone I don’t know how to coach and that I’m a faggot. Is that what you’ve been saying behind my back?" Burke said.

Burke clutched a handful of Danny's T-shirt, jerking upward, choking him. His eyes narrowing, he leaned in so close Danny could feel the caress of his breath on his cheek. But despite his terror, Danny met Burke's gaze with open defiance, never flinching.

Now angrier than ever, Burke's hand slid to the top of Danny's head. He grabbed a handful of Danny’s hair, twisting it, yanking his head back painfully. "I asked you a question, asswipe, and I expect an answer."

 "Take your filthy hands off me, faggot!" Danny bellowed, gripping Burke’s wrist and wrenching his hair free. He ducked under Burke’s arm and dropped into a defensive crouch a few feet away.

Danny raised his fists and shrieked, "I'm warning you. Don’t come near me!"

Burke froze.

"We can’t fix it, because you’re not my friend and I’m not going to hang out with you ever again. IT’S OVER . . . PERIOD!!" Spittle flew from Danny’s lips when he stepped toward Burked and screamed the last three words into his face.

Burke wiped the saliva from his cheek. "Suit yourself you little shit. But when it comes to ice time next year, don’t expect any favors from me." Burke fixed Danny with a hateful glare before rounding on his heel and slamming out of the locker room.

Danny maintained his defensive stance for a full minute after Burke departed before flying into a rage, kicking in lockers and smashing his hockey stick against a bench, reducing it to a splintered stub. He screamed himself hoarse, hollering again and again, "I’m going to kill you mother fucker; I’m going to kill you!"

Finally, exhausted, he staggered to the sink to splash cool water on his face and drink from his cupped hands. When his breathing slowed, he snagged a towel from near the showers and soaked it under the hot water tap. A cocoon of tranquility, like a milk‑warm vapor, enfolded him when he buried his face in its nubby warmth. Sighing, he lowered the towel and stretched toward the mirror. The eyes looking back were filled with mind‑numbing pain. Leaning closer, Danny struggled to make order out of his jumbled thoughts.

Then he stepped away and squared his shoulders, nodding with satisfaction at his reflection. His pained expression had morphed into one of grim determination.

"Plan B," he whispered. "It’s time."