"So you’re telling me I either pimp out our property or you want to sell?”
Country blinked. He didn’t know his father knew the word “pimp.” The proper use of it was possibly more disturbing. “Would selling be the worst idea? This land is valuable, Dad. Developers are looking to recreate that development on Sharp Hill.”
His dad shook his head, the lines on his face deepening. "Son, this land's been ours for generations. Selling isn't an option. You know what's happening to farmers across Alberta. Drought, trade wars, market crashes . . . We're not the only ones bleeding."
Polk blew out a breath. “Maybe it’s time we staunched it, eh?”
“And where would we go?” Their dad dropped his hands to the tabletop. “Your mother and I raised you kids here—our whole world is here. We don’t want any other life.”
Country clenched his jaw. What was he supposed to say to that? His parents had everything he’d ever wanted, and now he was trying to take it away from them? But the fact still stood that the ranch wasn’t going to be profitable much longer. Either they made changes, or it would be taken from them whether they prepared for it or not.
He hadn’t counted on receiving his parent’s approval for exploring a sale, but he’d hoped his dad wouldn’t shut it down out of hand. It looked like his two options had been whittled down to one because he’d be damned before his parent’s home got pulled out from under them on his watch.
Country pushed back from the table and stood then rounded behind Polk to put a hand on his dad’s shoulder. “I’m never going to take this place away from you, Dad. You know that, right?”
His father nodded, then put a weathered hand over his. Polk shot him an apologetic glance.
Their mother swooped into the room with two plates in her hands and a bright smile. “Who wants sandwiches?”
_____
After their meeting ended, the short drive to his own house was a blur. Country's F-150 bumped down the gravel road, and he skidded into the driveway. It was already five o’clock, which meant he’d be cutting it close for practice. He snagged his hockey bag from the covered porch and threw it into the backseat. At least his skates never talked back.
He cruised to the highway on the frontage road and chewed over the meeting with Polk and his dad. Talk of the ranch's legacy felt like a compression sock around his middle. It had been in the Maddox family for three generations—the doors on the barn were hewn by his great-grandfather’s hands.
He swiped to his favourite acoustic playlist and lost himself in strums and rhythms until he rolled into the paved lot of the Springbank Ice Arena. The lights from the brand-new facility shone like a lighthouse in the middle of high-end acreage properties. It was no wonder players from out here were entitled.
Country's boots crunched on the gravel as he hauled his hockey bag from the bed of the truck and strode to the entrance. He adjusted the strap of his bag before pushing through the double doors. Even though he was an hour early, the arena was alive with energy. Echoes of pucks against boards, referees' whistles, and the distant roar of Zambonis grooming the ice filled the cavernous space. How many rinks did they have running? He navigated the labyrinth of stairs and corridors until he finally found the visiting locker room.
"You found it. We were worried there for a sec.” Tyler nodded from across the room, already half-dressed in his gear. The rest of the Snowballs were scattered around, some taping sticks, others pulling on jerseys.
"Wasn’t hard. They can spot this behemoth from the space station." Country took in the pristine lockers and unmarred rubber floor as the sharp tang of cleaning products and skate spray hit his nostrils. He wasn’t used to being the last one to show up, but in this facility, it didn’t matter. There was still plenty of space along the back wall to change. He wove through his teammates in various states of undress and claimed a spot next to Jack.
"The amount they spend on the power bill could fund ice time for our peewee teams for the year," Sean quipped without looking up from lacing his skates.
André held up a hand. “Now, now. I’m sure these spoiled bastards are using their piles of money for good.”
Curtis held up a hand. “Hey, at least we have another local team.”
Jack shook his head. "I remember playing Springbank for basketball in high school. We had shit jerseys with duct-taped letters, and they were wearing sponsored Nikes.”
“How long did you play?” Tyler asked.
“Basketball? As long as it took my hockey coach to figure out why I was skipping Wednesday practices.” Jack grinned and leaned over to pull on his socks.
Jack had opened up a bit the night of his Snowball initiation, but Country hadn’t been in the head space to be present. All this time with Jenna made it painfully easy to slip back into his mindset before and after missing the draft. If Jack was anything like him, he had a love-hate relationship with his skates right now.
“Jack, you feeling settled?” Country asked as he stripped off his flannel.
Jack nodded. “As settled as I can be. I’m talking with the staff at Mt. Royal. They might need an assistant coach here in January.”
“That team isn’t bad,” Curtis said.
“Not good, though,” Boyd added.
Jack stood and flexed. “That’s obviously why they need me.”
“You could sleep with college girls, right? You wouldn’t be coaching them.” André winked. Brett and Ryan groaned, and Sean checked him into the lockers as he passed.
