Page 1 of Rust
Scratched
Rust Walker
As soon as I stepped into the locker room, my teammates’ raucous banter came to an abrupt and awkward end.
“Hey, Rust,”they greeted me, their voices somber.
Why did I feel like I’d just walked into a funeral?
“Boys,” I said, though it sounded more like a question—boys, what’s wrong?My eyes swept left and right, scanning the uncomfortable faces as I crossed the eerily quiet room to my stall.
Then I saw it.
The empty coat hanger dangling over my locker stall.
“Hey, where’s my—”
I swallowed the last word,jersey,to save what was left of my dignity.
Turns out, thiswasa funeral. My own.
Filled with secondhand embarrassment, the boys stared at the floor. I knew exactly how they felt. I’d experienced it a dozen times over my career—when a respected veteran is told for the first time he doesn’t have what it takes anymore. It was always such a pitiful moment. You couldn’t help but feel sorry for the miserable bastard.
The thing I never seemed to realize was that one dayI’dbe that old vet, staring in shock at his empty stall. Until now.
“Sorry, sir,” Cale Cotton, our nineteen-year-old rookie, muttered meekly.
The rest of the room chimed in:
“Yeah, sorry, man.”
“Sorry, Rust.”
“Hey, you’ll draw in again soon.”
I didn’t want or need anyone’s sympathy. Iloathedit, in fact—because as far as I was concerned, this was a mistake.
“Fuck this,” I growled. I left the locker room, made my way down the hallway to the coach’s office, and banged my fist on the door.
“Come in,” Coach Miller responded.
I stepped into his office. His eyes showed no surprise; he’d been expecting me. I stared at him, my jaw clenched. Iwantedto scream at the guy, maybe toss a chair; but over the years, I’d learned not to challenge or second-guess my coach’s decisions. Instead, I gestured in the general direction of the locker room. “Thefuck, Killer? Why isn’t my jersey in my stall?”
“Get the door, will you?” he asked.
I quietly shut the door and took a deep breath, trying to tamp down the rage in my stomach before I said or did something stupid.
“Take a seat, Rust. Let’s talk,” Coach said.
I lowered myself into the chair opposite his desk. “You’re sitting me? Really?”
He nodded.
“Why?” Sure, I hadn’t played great, but I wasn’t a tire-fire out there, either.
“Take a look at our record, Rust.” Coach glanced at the whiteboard, where he kept track of the league standings and stats.
I didn’t need to look. We had three wins and seven losses. It certainly wasn’t a record to write home about—but it wasn’t entirely unexpected, either. We, the Vegas Sin, were a new team, an expansion team, playing in our inaugural season. Our roster was cobbled together from send-offs from the rest of the league what,fourmonths ago? We were still getting to know each other, still developing chemistry, still trying to learn how to play together. This was notmy fault.