Bender (Vegas Venom Book 4)

The rink is mostly dark, except for the lights above the ice. There are no screaming fans, no announcer, and no video replay overhead. I blow out a breath that sounds louder than it is. As I continue to skate, my blades carve the frosty surface until my thighs burn with the effort. The rest of my team have all gone home to their wives and girlfriends and families. A few still live with their mothers and fathers. Sireno Lisi, our goaltender, cares for his grandfather and two younger sisters, but at least he has loved ones who worry about him.

As for me? I have no one. I have not even a dog. One time, I considered getting a pet so that I could be greeted with enthusiasm at the end of a day filled with the hard labor of athletic pursuit, but then I think, Non, what happens to the dog if something happens to me? He will be all alone.

So no dog. Not even a fish. For me? Only ice.

When it is just me out here practicing, a thousand different thoughts echo through my mind. Around the world, many people are saying that the Italian Hockey League is not known for having any good players. It is not like America or Canada, where hockey is treated like a big deal. Other sports? Yes. Italia has won the FIFA cup four times, and we have a successful football league. We are serious about our basketball, but even then, the players who are best, they go to America for the most success. We are skilled with water polo. Our rugby is elite as well.

But our hockey? Eh. It is okay.

So to be one of the best Italian players, it is not that great a thing. Even so, there are bills to pay, and hockey helps to pay them. And if Italia is not so highly ranked, still, it means something to be good at skating. To achieve. To feel like there is a purpose for waking up each morning, for eating each meal, for living.

For me, that purpose is hockey.

I love it.

Most days, it is the only thing that I love.

Three days ago, I watched YouTube and saw an American defenseman make a play that left me breathless. I have spent three days trying to practice it. To perfect it. I do not have to. Nobody has demanded such a thing. Here is my thinking: when I am outside, breathing the summer air and walking in sunshine, I see happy people in love or walking with friends, and I am lonely. When I am in my apartment sitting at the table, with only my one spoon and one plate and one cup—one of everything, because only one is needed—I am lonely. On the ice, I am alone.

Alone is not the same as lonely. There is a difference.

I realize how much I have missed. How many memories I could have created with a special someone and now those moments are lost to me.

One more time. I circle the rink again, building speed. Then I try to do it like the player in the video. The steps are in my memory now. Bend knee, lean forward, twist left, bank hard. This time, I do it almost without a flaw.

Almost.

Next time, I will do it right. I will be proud of myself, even if I am the only one who ever will be. I am one of those men who will do the right thing even when no one is watching him.

When claps ring out from the edge of the rink, I jump. As I look up with surprise, I see Coach Iva Mazza clapping many times for me.

“Buonissimo!” he exclaims. “So smooth.” He kisses his fingers, praising what is not perfect as if I have done it the same as in the video. Iva, he is a good coach, but he could ask for more. And if he did, I would give even more effort, for what makes a man great is not only his ultimate success but the strength in his pursuit of his goal.

I believe in digging deep since most athletes only scratch the surface of what is possible.

“Grazie.” I skate over to the edge of the rink and rest my elbows on the lip of the boards.

Iva scratches his chin. “What are you still doing here?” he asks in Italian. “Everyone else left hours ago.”

I shrug one shoulder. “I have time.”

“I know you have time.” His smile droops and becomes sad. “You need friends, Marco. You need a girl. You need a hobby. You need a life.”

“I will have time for that later,” I tell him. “For now, hockey is my life.”

This is a lie. I am not planning for later. I am planning for hockey, and only hockey, day after day after day. Hockey is a choice. I can choose to play. Leaving? That is not a thing people choose. My parents did not choose leaving. It was only what happened to them. To make friends, to make lovers, what is the point? People come and go. Mostly, they go.

I must depend only on myself for everything. I must always be prepared for the worst.

“And when hockey is done?” Coach Iva watches my face, very serious wrinkles lining his. This is what people do when they see me now. They worry. They will not stop, even when I tell them, Stop, there is no reason. I am alright. I convince them that there is no invisible pain that invites such worry.

Sometimes, they believe me. Most times, they do not really want to know just how deep my pain goes. Coach Iva does not truly understand. He is a smart man and has seen many players on the team in the years and years of working here. He is smart enough to know that not all agony can be seen.

Especially the agony of the heart.

I do not answer, because there is no answer. Without hockey, I have nothing. Why discuss a future with a man who has nothing to live for other than his own moral compass?

The rink is silent, so silent I can hear the ice. There is nothing to say because that is the answer.

“Rossi, I am glad you are here,” Coach Iva says at last. He shows me his phone. “We have a call to make. Is now okay?” On his face, a smile breaks out, like he knows secret things. Exciting things.

I nod, and he dials a number. The sound comes through his speakers, and the ice reflects it back. Echoes. The ice is always full of echoes. Like it is listening. I only wish I had something more important to say.

The ringing ends, and a sharp voice answers. “Mr. Mazza.” He is speaking in English. For me? He should not bother because my English is not so good. I can hear the man’s words, but speaking is hard, and he is talking so fast. The less time to think, the worse my English gets. This voice is busy. Impatient. The man on the line is not interested in waiting for the think-time to happen.

“Mr. Giovanetti,” Coach Iva replies. He tips his chin to me, even though the man cannot see. “I have Marco Rossi here with me. Is now a good time for talking?” Coach’s English is not perfect, but not so bad as mine.

“Now would be excellent,” the voice says. “Hello, Mr. Rossi.”

“C-ciao,” I say back. I do not know this name, Giovanetti, but it is an old Italian name. Since I have never heard of this man before, I am not sure how else to greet him or what to say.

“I know that it’s late where you are, so I’ll keep this brief. I am calling to make you an offer, Mr. Rossi. You have a reputation as being the best defenseman in Italy, and that’s exactly what I need. I want more players like you. Full-blooded Italian players. Players who want to make a name for themselves in this sport all while they pay homage to my homeland. Players who will make both me and Italia proud.”

My mouth drops open as I am staring at Coach Iva. This Giovanetti, he is a very fast talker. His accent is Italian, and yet still he is speaking English. This is making him very hard for me to understand.

“Am sorry.” I blunder through my English. “I am hearing, but can… we will speak… Italian?”

Mr. Giovanetti’s reply is cold. Colder than the ice I skate upon, even. “I am in America, Mr. Rossi. If we’re going to make a deal, the contract will be in English, so you’d better learn fast.”

Coach Iva wrinkles his nose like there is a bad smell, but is not interrupting. I understand enough, though. Mr. Giovanetti wants to make a deal. An American deal. And I am wanting to make a deal with America, too. In America, they have the NHL. Even though he cannot be talking about that, I know if I work hard, as hard as I have been here in Italia, I can move up to the NHL. I work hard—harder than anyone else in Italy—I know I can make this Mr. Giovanetti proud of me.

“I am hearing this,” I tell him.

“Good.” There is approval now in Mr. Giovanetti’s voice. This man likes power. Likes to be the boss. Okay, that is not a problem. I will defer to him on every level if it means I am playing hockey in America. I will say in English, Si, si, si. You want me to do jumping? How high, Mr. Giovanetti? If it means I have a chance to make the NHL and fight for Lord Stanley. I will go now. I will go yesterday.

This moment, for the first time in a long time, I am happy.

“I’m based in Las Vegas, Nevada,” he says. “My team is called the Vegas Venom. Have you heard of it?”

I look to Iva, who nods many times very fast. I do not know this team, but I think it is important, or he would not have called back. Aloud, I say, “Oh, si, Mr. Giovanetti. Such a good team. The best.”

I hope I am not wrong.

He laughs. He likes me. My chest blossoms with something unfamiliar, but only because I have not felt it in such a long time.

It is hope.

“Would you like to play for my team?” he asks.

This time, there is no lying. “Si, sir.” As I am speaking, Iva is nodding again and again.

A pause. “How soon can you be packed?”

My small apartment has almost nothing I would take. I will not need my old life in America. “One hour. Half an hour.”

Mr. Giovanetti laughs again. “And you have a passport?”

“Si, si.”

There is another small pause. He is thinking. “Then I’ll see you in a month, Mr. Rossi. In the meantime, work on your English. If you don’t, your teammates will roast you alive.”

I frown at the phone. “Oh, but… the visa? Will it take such small time?”

Mr. Giovanetti chuckles. “For most people, it would take longer, but I’m an expert at pulling strings. Don’t worry about me, Mr. Rossi. Just make sure you’re ready, and I’ll send for you soon. In the meantime, we’ll get started on the paperwork. What do you say?”

I am nodding as my pulse picks up. Not many scouts from America ever visit us here. “Si, signore.” My heart is full of one hundred yesses. One thousand yesses. I will start playing in the NHL? This is more than a man like me could ever hope to achieve. I wish I was flying across the ocean right now.

The call ends, and Coach Iva throws his arms around me. His palm thumps my back. This is a thing a proud father would do. A thing my father did do before he died. “Ah, Marco, this is the best news ever. No one deserves it more than you do. You are a hard worker. If you keep at it, that alone will serve you well in America. No matter what happens, do not ever give up.”

“I am going to America.” I am not yet believing it. “I am going to play hockey in America.” I could dance. I could sing. I am leaving to start a fresh life in a new place, one where hockey is treated like it is important.

“And this will give us time to prepare a proper sendoff.” Coach Iva’s eyes overflow with tears. Happy tears. He is proud of me which makes me proud of myself. “Who else should we invite?”

I think of stones and the people who are now resting under them. “No one. Only the team.” I have no one else to ask.

“Come, then, let us quit for the night.” Coach Iva holds up his keys to jingle them.

“Wait,” I tell him. “One more thing.” I push away from the wall and skate around the rink one last time.

Bend knee, lean forward, twist left, bank hard. For a life in America, Marco. For your future.

This time, I do it all exactly right.