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"Shore," Wayne calls out. The knucklehead had had his last and was finally headed off ice.
It'd been weeks now of this. Covering Tanis' shift because she wouldn't do her job. Waiting for this mutant to stop throwing up. A scrap in the middle of it all, a nice big one where Wayne and Shore were a bit outnumbered and came through anyhow. There can be something satisfying about that, sometimes.
Wayne'd seen Shore head to his car every time, and no matter how long he waited, that car never pulled out the lot.
It wasn't hard to keep putting the pieces together. Tanis'd have to know already.
The thing was, winter was coming up. And for all Shore's dishonesty getting on the natives' team turned Wayne's stomach, he understood, in a sense.
Hockey was this idiot's life. And now he had nothing left. Pert near banned himself from every team in the league, between the slash and the cheat. And for what.
So he helped when that quebecker came back. So he offered him a room. When a man needs help, you help him.
Shore may as well've spit in his face in response, but Wayne's had his own hard times accepting things.
Shore turns back his way, wobbling a little on his skates. Has to be six toes in the grave by now.
"Thought I told you I don't swing f'r hay. Whatcha want?" he says, almost amicably.
"Y're gonna le—"
"Huh?"
Wayne stands unruffled. "Y're gonna learn to drive zambo."
"No way!" Shore says, high pitched and eyes wide. Mocking.
"Get your shit off and come round to the side. 'S'like driving truck."
Wayne turns and goes to open the bay doors. Shore shouts behind him, but he figures fifteen, twenty minutes'll show if he's too scared to show.
Knowing how to drive zamboni would be another moneymaker for Shore. It'd let him stay on ice longer. And fuck is Wayne tired of doing Tanis' job.
And if Shore realizes that Wayne genuinely just wants to give him a hand, then that's great. It's ridiculous, really. Like coaxing barn kittens out from the side shed.
"Fuck, d'y'ever get bored just staring at nothing there, bud?"
Wayne reorients. Shore's in sweats and a hoodie now, and it makes him look half the size. He's got dip in his lip and a spit cup that Wayne chooses to ignore.
"Stand up straight 'fore you get stuck that way," Wayne says. He points at the zamboni. "There's no power steering. Use your arms. Wash sprays in front of the blade. The blade collects snow. Dump hot water out the back with the towel. Don't run into the boards." He points out the tanks to check and fill, what hoses they use.
Then they're on the ice.
There's something a bit shocked to Shore, like he didn't think they'd actually get this far. Wayne's driving for the outside half of the rink, so Shore can get a feel of being up top. He looks a bit like it's Christmas day, up until Wayne stops the machine and shifts so Shore can take his seat.
His head puffs down into his neck, and he looks like he's about to cry, and Shore says, "s'yeah so. Pretty sure Tanis doesn't want me touching this. Every GM I've ever talked to's threatened my dink if I ever got near one'these. So."
It's almost the sort of thing to be respectable. Wayne figures it has to be half not wanting to get booted off all the free ice he's getting, but self-preservation can be respectable too, he supposes.
"Tanis gave me the responsibility of doing her job while she's gone," Wayne says.
"Banging that BROdude chick."
"So's I think I've got the right to choose whether y're responsible enough to get trained. If you screw it that's on me. So don't." Wayne squints. "We'll do half and half for a few days, then you'll do it all. You'll be supervised, she can't complain."
Shore taps his fingers on his spitter.
"And y're gonna have t'spit that out, 'cause I ain't holding it f'r you," Wayne says.
"Why are you doing this?"
Wayne thinks.
"Huh?"
"It's the right thing to do."
Shore grimaces. "What, are y'running a one-leg race for whaleshit washups? Huh? S'this your Marathon of Hope? Huh?" It's reflexive. Shore looks honestly distressed. "First the bed offer, now this? What d'y'really want from me bud? Huh?"
Wayne looks away.
"It's the right thing to do."
"Yeah so, I don't get why Mr. 'it's the right thing to do' wants t'help me. You help with JJ fucking, fatass gooning JJ, okay. You like a scrap. But y'don't like hockey players, and y'don't like cheaters."
"Different type'a cheating, bud."
"Like, what, you want me to warm your bed all winter? Huh? Been there before, not with a billet bull, though. Probably not whatch'you want, big guy."
This is not his wheelhouse. Not his pigs, not his farm. Wayne's redder than anything. "Hard no."
Shore stares at him.
"Fine. Fine, 's a waste of gas money since I'll be here all day anyway but fine. Okay."
"Gonna let me teach you to drive zambo?"
"It's a goddamn zamboni, and yeah. And I'll move in t'yer house."
Well.
Wayne turns and extends his hand.
Shore's got a surprisingly good grip.
"If we're living together," he says, "y'gotta call me Shoresy. Everyone does."
"Pass."
"Nope. It's non-optional. It's on my government ID," he says.
"The one y'got when yous were eighteen and sneaking into bars, sure."
"Shoresy W. Shore, it'd only be polite!"
Wayne frowns. "What's the W stand for?"
Shore looks at him and grins.
"Waffle."