Frank Zafiro - No Good Deed

There are few smells better than the ice at a hockey rink.

I sat in the empty stands and watched the last River City Flyers practice before opening night. The team jerseys were orange, just like the NHL Philadelphia Flyers, with a stylized ‘R’ in place of Philly’s ‘P.’ I’d read somewhere that there was affiliation between the two teams, but if that were true, River City’s Flyers would be like a Single A baseball team to Philadelphia’s Major League.

Even so, the skill of the players was amazing. They flew up and down the ice like bullets, turning and cutting back at unbelievably sharp angles. Passes zipped from stick to stick. When a shooter teed up a shot, the crack of the stick on the ice was like a gunshot. More amazing yet, two of the players were padded up a little heavier than the rest and actually stood in front of those shots, protecting the net.

The old injuries in my shoulder and knee ached just watching.

“Enjoying the show?”

Matt Sinderling made his way down the steps and into my row. He dropped down into a seat two spaces over from me. His ball cap and sewn name tag identified him as arena security, not a role you would figure him for, given his slight frame. He ran the office and coordinated efforts during events. They had sides of beef to do the heavy work.

Earlier in the year, I’d done some work for him, helping find his teenage daughter. The cost had been high, for her and for me, and since then, he’d stayed in touch. We had coffee together once or twice a month. He’d tell me how she was doing, then ask how I was. I usually lied about that part.

I nodded toward the ice. “They’re good,” I said, telling the truth.

He smiled. “Better than last season. They’ll probably finish first in the division.”

“Good.”

“They traded Beaves away to some team in Ontario and brought up this new kid just out of Junior. He’s a hell of a goaltender.”

“Good.”

“Got a couple of goalscorers this year, too.”

“Good.”

“And a scrapper.”

“Good.”

“That all you can say, Stef? Good?”

I shrugged. “None of it matters until the games get played.”

“True.”

“But I appreciate you getting me in to watch the practice.”

“No problem,” he said, rubbing his chin and looking out onto the ice. Then he shook his head. “It’s too bad.”

“What?”

He pointed. “Number Twenty-Three, see him? That’s Phillipe Richard.”

He said it with a French accent, Fill-eep Ree-shard. I followed his finger to Number Twenty-Three. He was a lumbering skater at least half a head taller than most of the other players and built like a bulldozer.

“They say he’s a grandnephew to Maurice Richard,” Matt said. “But he plays the game like Dave Shultz.”

A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. Shultz was a fighter that played for Philadelphia during the 1970s. They called him ‘The Hammer.’ It’d be nice to see a little of that toughness here at the hometown arena.

“What’s the problem? He can’t keep up with the rest of the players?”

“No,” Matt said. “I mean, he’s not the fastest guy on the team, but he’s got some skill. I guess.”

“Then what?”

Matt shrugged. “I don’t know if I should say. It’s personal.”

It was then that I realized Matt was playing me. It ticked me off. I thought about getting up and leaving. Then I thought about just ignoring it. Finally, I said, “Don’t try to run a game on me, Matt.”

He affected a shocked look. “What do you-”

“You want to ask something, ask.”

His face turned bright red and he looked away, watching the players skate. When he finally looked back at me, he said, “Sorry. I just didn’t know how.”

“Ask.”

“Okay,” he said, and looked back out to the ice.

He was quiet again for a while. The sounds of skate blades cutting into the ice and wooden sticks slapping into frozen rubber filled the silence. I was beginning to think he was going to drop it altogether when he turned back to me.

“The thing is, he trusts me. That’s why he told me about it.”

“Richard?”

“Yeah. He told me one night after a practice. He was sitting in the stands, staring off into space while I was making my lock-up rounds. I could just tell something was wrong and when I asked him about it, he trusted me enough to confide in me.”

“About what?”

Matt clenched and unclenched his jaw. “His problem.”

I sighed. “I gathered that. What problem?”

“It’s about a woman.”

That didn’t surprise me. Back when I was a police officer, the maxim had been that there were two things that would cause a cop more trouble than anything else. A wine glass and a woman’s ass. I thought cops were something special when I was one of them. Now I realized that they were just people, too, and that particular maxim applied to most of the men of the world.

“Would you talk to him, Stef?” Matt asked me. “Maybe there’s something you can do to help him.”

I looked out onto the ice and watched Phillipe Richard take a pass from the corner and launch it toward the net. It went wide and clacked hard into the glass behind.

“I don’t know what I could do,” I said.

“Please? I’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll talk with him,” I said. “That’s all I’m promising.”

Matt smiled, and I knew why. That’s what I told him when he said he wanted my help with his teenage daughter.

You’d think I’d learn.

A long shrill blast from the assistant coach’s whistle signaled the end of practice and the players left the ice. Matt told me it would be about thirty minutes before Richard would be changed and suggested I wait in the sandwich shop directly across from the arena.

I walked slowly across the street, my knee stiff and forcing a painful limp. There was an empty table near the window and I took it. I wanted to see Richard approach.

Thirty minutes later, he sauntered across the street to the cafe. His thick, black hair was gelled back casually and he wore an expensive tan shirt to go with his pleated slacks. I knew that there were team dress codes, but I was pretty sure that was only on game days. The few players that had wandered out of the arena ahead of him were in jeans.

Richard entered the diner and looked around. I raised my hand and caught his attention. He gave a disarming smile and took the seat across me.

“Phillipe Richard,” he said, offering his hand.

“Stefan Kopriva,” I answered and took it. He squeezed and the iron strength in his hand was apparent. It was like shaking hands with a table vise.

“Kopriva?” He cocked his head. “That is a Czech name, no?”

I nodded, surprised. “My grandmother’s side. How’d you know? Most people guess Russian, if they guess at all.”

Richard grinned and rolled his eyes. “Yes, Russian, I imagine. Especially here. I read in the newspaper that over ten thousand Russians live in this city now. Is that true?”

“It might be more. I don’t know. But how’d you know my name was Czech?”

Richard waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, you play long enough hockey, pretty soon you learn the difference. I can tell you if a name is Norwegian, Finnish or Swedish. Much harder than the difference between Russian and Czech.”

“How long have you played?”

“Since I was three.”

The waitress approached our table and we both ordered coffee.

“I meant professionally,” I said.

“Oh, of course.” Richard thought for a moment. “Eight years getting paid. But I played Junior in Val d’Or for four years before that. That is not technically professional, but it is the very highest level of hockey for players under twenty.”