Ben made the same face as when reporters asked him how he felt about whichever member of the team had played worst on any given night—which said some interesting things about Ben’s own relationship to his parents.Interesting, though probably not a clue about his weird coaching style.
Phil hobbled after Ben and watched as he picked up a ludicrous quantity of nylon rope, screws, and dowels.There were also white metal wall fasteners and an armful of ornamental wooden posts involved.
“You have a drill, right?”
“Somewhere, sure,” Phil said vaguely.He’d gotten one for his first apartment as a gift from his dad, which was wild because his dad had never drilled anything in his life.Home improvement and worrying had been Mom’s jobs; Dad had always been the fun parent.Phil had carted the drill from place to place every time he moved.At the time, he’d been so proud to have it.It seemed like a grown-up thing to own.Phil had used it to hang pictures twice before entering a phase of his life in which contractors and decorators took over that sort of job.
Paying for luxuries didn’t bother him.Nor did hiring cleaning and laundry staff instead of taking care of things himself.But he got the sense it bothered Ben.Why, Phil had no idea.Ben was a bachelor, same as him, and he had the same strict travel schedule.Ben didn’t earn as much as him, not as a first-time NHL coach, but he earned better than about 95 percent of the population, and if he made an impression in the NHL, his career could last for decades.The job security wasn’t necessarily great—professional sports were a fickle industry—but the wages made up for it.And more often than not, when one team dropped a coach, another picked him up.Surely Ben had his own luxuries he splurged on.
In the end, when Phil couldn’t remember where he’d put the drill or what brand it was, they walked through the whole store again to pick up a forty-dollar store-brand handheld one.By then, Phil’s armpits ached from having crutches jammed up in them, and his legs felt as though they weighed a solid ton each.Since when were hardware stores so big?
Ben insisted on paying, which Phil could live with so long as the shopping trip ended at some point.
At home, he sacked out on the couch and fell asleep to the dulcet sounds of a nature documentary and the scratch of a pencil as Ben measured something or other.Who knew DIY involved math?
Phil only woke up when Ben started using his new purchases about ten feet away.The noise was another reason Phil didn’t use drills himself.
The staircase in Phil’s house was sleek and white.The free-floating steps began on the left side of the living room and ended at a picturesque landing in front of a bay window on the second floor.It looked very modern, but using it with crutches had become the bane of Phil’s existence.Apparently, Ben planned to fix it for him.
Within two hours, he’d installed three white posts on both sides of the staircase at regular intervals.Using them, he’d constructed rope banisters on either side of the staircase, looping through the understated white fasteners at each post as well as at the top and bottom.The rope pulled taut enough that Phil could hang on to one side as a second crutch.When he phased out the crutches in a few weeks, he could use both hands on the rope to manage the staircase.
Dust covered the steps from the drilling, and Ben’s lips were red and puffy where he’d held screws and dowels between them as he worked.A line of sweat down his back stained the green of the ridiculous T-shirt he’d changed into as soon as they got home.Phil watched another bead trickle down his neck as he demonstrated that the rope could hold his entire body weight easily.
“Should work okay for now,” Ben said, demonstrating by lowering himself back down to the bottom step.“If the DIY look bothers you and you want real banisters, you’ll have to hire a carpenter, but this’ll get you through the roadie.”
Ben rolled his shoulders back, loosening them after what must have been hard work.He had really broad shoulders.Phil wondered if he’d been a defenseman previously, during his hockey career.
Phil blinked.
Ben got the vacuum out of the hallway closet and carefully cleaned up all the dust he’d left, assuring Phil all the while that when Phil no longer needed the ropes, he could take the whole thing down and close up the minute holes in the steps where he’d affixed the posts.
How had it never come up what position Ben played when he was younger?Most coaches started out coaching their own position.But Phil had no idea if Ben had even played as a forward or a D-man, let alone what hand he shot with.He might even have been a goalie.
It was one thing for a coach to be a relative unknown in the business.There were dozens of hockey coaches from peewee to university level, and they had to get promoted somehow.But down to a man, every coach Phil could name had had a hockey career of their own.It might not have been illustrious, and it might not have taken them into the major leagues, but they needed to have some sort of playing experience, right?
“Hey, Coach?”
Ben didn’t react.The sound of the vacuum must have drowned out Phil’s voice.
“Ben?”
“Hm?”
“What position did you play?”
“Huh?”
“When you played hockey.”
“Oh.”Ben turned away to put the vacuum back where he’d gotten it from.“Uh, I was a winger.”
“Huh.”
“Why?”
“I took you more for a D-man.”
A strangled sound left Ben’s mouth.
