Just Passing Through

Fargo, North Dakota

Thursday, February 9, 1978

The diner sat just off the highway south of Fargo, its neon "Open 24 Hours" sign buzzing and swaying against the stiff cold breeze. Wind howled through the parking lot, sweeping drifts of snow across the icy asphalt. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of coffee, bacon grease, and the lingering fry oil that never quite left the walls or the staff who toiled here. A heater rattled near the door, struggling to push warmth into the empty space.

Mark McCormick sat at the counter, hands wrapped around a ceramic mug of black coffee. His battered duffel bag rested on the stool beside him, his coat opened to show the team t-shirt underneath. Telling the world and reminding himself he was still "Property of the Tri-City Bears."

Even after his prolonged hiatus from the game, a two-week suspension for his part in that bench-clearing brawl in Fort Wayne, his body was still hurting in places he didn't want to think about, his knuckles scabbed from the pitched battle against that bruiser 10 years younger and 30 pounds heavier than him. The fact his opponent was only just getting out of the hospital while he was risking his life on a slick Interstate highway in North Dakota put a smile on his face.

After nearly 12 hours of white-knuckle driving through a wicked winter storm in an underpowered car with bald tires, it was long past time for a break. That 360 he turned on I-29 south of Hillsboro persuaded him his push to South Dakota tonight might not be a good idea after all. He'd grab a bite to eat, find a cheap motel and wait for the salt trucks to catch up.

He had struck up a friendship of sorts with Kate, a thirty-something waitress with tired but kind eyes and a warm smile. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, and her uniform -- a mustard-colored button-up with a plastic name tag -- had a stain from yesterday's special on the sleeve.

"You look like you've had a long day," she said, pouring him a fresh cup.

"Kate, I make my living on the ice but that's some kind of crazy out there." McCormick lifted the cup, letting the heat settle into his fingers. "Appreciate the coffee."

She set a laminated menu in front of him. "Kitchen's still open if you're hungry. House special's meatloaf. Not bad if you drown it in gravy."

Mark chuckled. "You really know how to sell it."

Kate grinned. "Just lookin' out for you. What's your pick?"

He glanced over the menu, not really reading it, then set it down before making the call. "I'm a Prairie boy so you'd better bring me a steak. With fries. Whatever beer you got that's cold."

Kate nodded. "Good choice. You a trucker?"

Mark shook his head. "Nothing as honest as that. Hockey player."

"That why you look like you've been run over?"

"Part of the job."

She raised an eyebrow, giving him a once-over. "You look a little... seasoned for the NHL."

He huffed a laugh. "I had a couple cups of coffee in the bigs. Black Hawks, Blues. Nowadays it's the boonies." He pointed to the t-shirt. "Iowa."

Her turn to laugh. "They got hockey down there, Mark?"

"What passes for it, anyway. They don't know the difference yet."

Kate was about to say something else when the diner door swung open, letting in a blast of cold air and two men who stomped the snow from their boots. Truckers. Big guys, loud voices, the kind of presence that filled a room before they even picked a seat. One had a beer gut stretching against a stained flannel; the other, a thick beard and a mean look about him.

Kate grabbed her notepad and moved toward them, her shoulders squaring up like she knew the drill.

"Coffee for both?" she asked, her tone still friendly.

"Yeah, and get us a couple of burgers, sweetheart," the bearded one said, flashing yellowed teeth.

Kate wrote it down. "You got it."

She turned to go, but Flannel reached out and grabbed her wrist.

"Hold up, darlin'. Ain't you gonna smile for us?"

Mark's grip tightened around his coffee cup.

Kate tugged her arm back, forcing a polite laugh. "C'mon, boys. Let me do my job."

Flannel didn't let go. "Aw, don't be like that."

Mark sighed and pushed back his stool, got to his feet. He wasn't the biggest guy in the room, but size wasn't the issue. It was the way he moved--slow, steady, deliberate. The truckers noticed him now.

"Let her go," Mark said, his voice quiet but firm.

Beard glanced at him, then smirked. "And who the hell are you, grandpa?"

McCormick didn't answer right away. A demonstration was in order. He shrugged out of his jacket, revealing thick forearms and a few fading bruises. He made sure they drank in the meaty, scabbed paws and left them the distinct impression he knew how to use them. They couldn't miss the stiches on his face, even in the poor lighting. Then, with practiced ease, he reached into his mouth, pulled out his upper teeth, and set them down on the counter with a soft clack.

"I'm a Canadian hockey player," he said, flexing his knuckles. "And I spend most of my time in the penalty box."

Silence.

The truckers exchanged a look. Beard swallowed. Flannel let go of Kate's arm.

McCormick tilted his head slightly. "You were just leaving, right?"

A beat. Then Flannel let out a forced chuckle. "Yeah... yeah, guess we were."

They backed toward the door. The bell jingled as they pushed through, stepping into the cold.

Kate exhaled, rubbing her wrist. "Well. That was somethin'."

It occurred to Mark, and not for the first time in a bar or diner, that sometimes these days sisters prefer doin' it for themselves. Kate had probably run into dopes like those guys countless times before and knew how to handle such situations. "Hope I didn't cross any lines there."

She shrugged. "Nah. If you hadn't come along, I just would've pulled out my teeth. I got a glass eye and a wooden leg too. Always sends them screaming into the night."

McCormick laughed and took his seat. He liked her. Especially when she returned his choppers.

"You're going to need these," she said with a wink. "The steak here's a little tough. But for you, it's on the house."

It was getting late and with few customers in the joint, Mark and Kate had the chance to get to know each other better. She turned out to be a real hockey fan and got him talking about the game and life on the road, and before they knew it, her shift was up. He was too tired and shy to figure out a clever way to insinuate himself into her bedroom. The bemused woman took it upon herself to lure him the few miles out of town to her trailer.

The tiny abode was a little drafty but very neat and filled with interesting curios on table tops and bookshelves. There was an easel in the corner with a landscape in the works, a portable black and white TV, a musty prehistoric sofa covered in throw pillows and an imposing brass bed behind a bamboo room divider.

Kate fetched McCormick a beer and they sat together on the couch, making small talk about the figurines she'd sculpted. McCormick got up to admire a work in progress of a hockey player -- a gritty, snarling look on its face, hair blown back in the breeze, but from the waist down it was a solid mass of unshaped plaster.

"This is about how I feel, most nights," McCormick chuckled, and he felt a pair of arms envelop his waist and a pair of hands gently unbuckling his belt. He turned and noted his hostess was a good deal shorter with her painful white heels in a bag by the door. He pressed his lips to hers and quickly found her tongue in his dentures.

She turned out the light, and they stumbled through the dark to bed. McCormick accidentally knocked over the screen and tried to apologize as she tugged down his jeans. Their clothes fell away, and in a moment he was upon her, his head nestled between her ample breasts, his hands tracing the contours of her body. He was delighted as he completed the inventory -- a nice muscular ass with just the right about of padding on the bumper, a strong pair of legs wrapped around his waist and a genuine dislike for preliminaries.

She guided him inside and he began with slow thrusting as she purred beneath him. McCormick, normally a quiet, urgent lover, felt himself grow feverish, groaning in concert with his partner. He picked up the rhythm and held onto her body for dear life.

And then it got spiritual.

"Jeeeeeeeeeeeeezus Christ! Ow-ow-ow! Fuck!"

"What?! What is it?"

McCormick, crumpled over with pain, withdrew hurriedly and stumbled back onto a bean-bag chair in the corner. Kate sat up with a start and turned on the lamp over her bed.

"Are you okay, Mark?" she gasped, wide-eyed and clutching the sheets to her neck.

McCormick rolled side to side while clutching his nether region. "Aw hell," he moaned. "Did it again."

He was back on the couch, wrapped up in Kate's terrycloth robe, a bag of frozen peas pressed to his vitals. She sat across from him in a rocking chair, with pitying eyes and unsated lust beneath her nightgown. Still, she could see the whimsy in this most unfortunate of situations. She'd helped aggravate an old groin injury of his, and had to take a raincheck.

"Last time this happened I was jumping over the boards and ran into the guy I was replacing," he chuckled weakly. "This way is more fun."

She reached into a waste basket and threw garbage at him. "Booooooo! You're a bum, McCormick!"

"Thanks -- now it feels the same."

He invited her to join him on the couch at a safe, platonic distance. Kate talked about her life, and her thwarted ambitions on the stage. She showed him her yellowed clippings of local reviews and reminisced about her daring stab at fame in Chicago, and the disheartening realization that she had missed her chance.

"I guess I was almost pretty," she explained, neither glamorous enough to be the leading lady, or talented enough to get a meaty character role. She hung around for a few modeling gigs -- she produced a Sears catalogue as evidence -- before retreating home to marry her old standby. He was gone now, but left her the car and trailer.

She coaxed McCormick to talk about himself in turn, and he put a happy face on recent developments. Her eyes widened when he talked about his NHL exploits, the elbow he took from Gordie Howe and the puck he took in the nuts from Bobby Hull at close range.

"But it was more fun with me though, right?" she laughed.

She told him she wanted to be a painter and in turn he mumbled something about coaching, still believing if he kept repeating the conceit one day it might be so.

"You should do it," she urged him. "It's time, right? You've seen a lot of hockey, the best and worst of it. Nobody can tell you anything about how it all works. I mean you're, what, 40?"

McCormick choked on his beer. "Thanks -- I'm 34!"

"No way!"

"I can furnish ID."

She leaned over and gently swished his hair back, exposing more partially healed stitches on his scalp. "Coaching, huh? I can just see you in a plaid jacket, tie askew, pacing back and forth, barking at the refs. Coach Mark McCormick."

McCormick turned to her with a start as no one had ever strung those three words together before. It didn't sound right and with Kate being such a sweetheart, and to be honest with himself for once, he had to finally had to say it out loud.

"I'm not even remotely interested in coaching," he admitted.

Kate frowned. "But you just said --"

"Don't get me wrong, most great coaches were mediocre players in their day and I more than qualify on that count but I just..."

He started peeling the edges of the beer label, a nervous habit since forever. He looked at Kate and she was all in, brows knitted, head cocked. "There's this guy, Mack Starr, you ever hear of him?"

Being a true daughter of the north, of course she had.

"I have a poster of him on my bedroom wall at home in Saskatchewan. I just saw it, it's still there. I idolized the guy when I was a kid. A couple years ago, I finally got to meet him when they made him coach of the Black Hawks. I couldn't believe my luck. I was going to play for Mackenzie Fucking Starr."

It still gave him chills, even though he knew where the recitation was going.

"And I did. For a month. Then he asked to see me in his office and he gave me the news he was sending me down. And even though it was absolutely the right thing to do -- I was stinkin' out the joint and he had to get me the hell out of the way -- I could see this was killing him. He's just a piece of a machine being operated by some asshole who doesn't know what the hell he's doing. By the time we shook hands and I went to clean out my locker, I felt sorrier for him than I did for me."

He took a swig and then shrugged.

"Of course, I'm back to feeling sorrier for me. But I don't want the plaid jacket. Not any more," he sighed before noticing the checkered pattern of his borrowed robe.

"You could scout."

McCormick wrinkled his nose. "I could drive the Zamboni, for that matter."

"I went out with a Zamboni driver for a while," she said.

"Really?"

She nodded. "Yeah. He was a real smoothie. Well groomed. Didn't seem to be getting anywhere though."

McCormick rolled his eyes. "The relationship kept going in circles?"

"Yeah."

"You've been waiting for a date with a hockey player?"

Kate leaned in a little closer. "Just the ones in existential crisis."

McCormick didn't even pretend to understand what she was talking about.

"So what do you want to do now?" she asked.

He lifted the now flaccid bag of peas from his crotch and shot her a pained expression.

"I mean about you, dummy, your life, hockey."

"I have absolutely no idea," he confessed, "and I don't know where to start. Or how this ends."

"Well, how about starting with where you're at right now?" she suggested, warming to the project. "I mean, not in my trailer and leaving me high and dry, but as captain of a hockey team. Is there any room for improvement there?"

He gagged and injected a mouthful of beer into his sinuses. "Plenty!"

"So be a better captain, then. I've had a lot of crappy jobs but my experience is if you give that extra effort and make up your mind to be the best at what you do, even if it's waiting on tables or... leading a bunch of minor league stiffs... sometimes things get better. You see things differently. And opportunities present."

McCormick thought on that a bit and appreciated the woman at the other end of the couch. Smart lady. She'd be kissing that stained uniform and plastic nametag goodbye soon enough.

"You're right. There's a lot I could do better for my guys. If I could get my head out of my ass for a minute, I'd see that."

They shared a smile and she took his hand. Eyebrows were raised. "Now," she purred, "about putting your head in dark places..." She leaned forward and gently pulled his face to hers. He understood the assignment and slowly hitched up her nightie and kissed his way down to the jungle. It was 1978, kids, and clear-cutting the rainforest was at least a decade away.

McCormick never knew what to say on morning-afters. Women often attached more meaning to sweaty sheets, but Kate made it easy. She fixed him a hearty breakfast and ironed his shirt to send him on his way warmed inside and out.

"I don't suppose you'll be passing this way for awhile?" she asked casually as he tugged on his boots.

"You never know," McCormick replied diplomatically. "The league is expanding all the time. They have to find room for us retreads somewhere."

Before he left, she passed him a shoebox. He opened it and found the little hockey statuette. He insisted that he couldn't possibly take it from her, but she sealed his protestations with a kiss, and sent him on his way.

He checked the number on the mailbox before he hit the road again.

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