The Wrong King

Tuscadero

Chapter One

Tuscadero

Everyone always knew where Derek King was. He drove a pick-up truck that had once been red but was so sun-faded from time that it looked pink. The truck's name was Tuscadero. But honestly, even without the recognizable truck, there was a high probability he was at the hockey rink. More often than not, Tuscadero was parked outside of the arena in the shaded spot under the trees by the skate park.

Derek loved that truck. It didn't matter that the speakers crackled or that the windows were operated by hand-cranks that never quite closed all the way on the passenger side. He didn't mind there was only a tape deck, or that the engine rumbled so loud you could barely hear the music anyway. The steering column vibrated so that the key chain was always swinging around.

"Are you sure you don't want a new car?" Charlie King had asked, standing beside his son at the used car lot. It was the sort of place with signs that said Buy Here Pay Here and had old junk cars piled in the back they used for spare parts.

Derek nodded, "I'm sure, Dad." If he got a new car, Derek would have to get a job after school to make payments and he'd rather play hockey. So the money his parents gave him for a down payment on a new car he used to buy Tuscadero outright instead. Besides, the oldest Hendricks boy, Matty, worked in the mechanic shop there on the weekends and Matty had promised Derek that the truck was solid.

So when he drove, the windows were usually down. Hockey equipment and empty Gatorade bottles clunked around the bed, and Derek's arm was always slung up across the back of the bench seat's headrests. He always sang along with a mix tape he'd made, enjoying the rhythm of the rumbling engine like an added bass line. His old hockey puck key ring swung against his knee like it was dancing along.

Honestly there was no place else in the world that Derek would rather be than right there in that old truck.

Except in a hockey rink, that is.

James King, Derek's little brother, sat in the penalty box, leaning against the boards, watching as Tim Hendricks practiced his stick handling at center. Across the ice, Derek was stretching in the net, his goal tender padding making him look monolithic as he shifted his weight skate to skate. Tim kept cutting glances at his friend.

Suddenly, he tore down the rink, the blades of his skate slicing over the ice. He leaned down, speeding up. Derek saw him and was ready - hunkering down in the net, muscles tensed, ready to pounce... Tim was about to shoot but then, at the last possible moment, he turned and sent a slap-shot soaring at a different angle than Derek had been prepared for. The puck cracked off the stick and James leaned forward, eyes wide, as it flew toward the net. Derek threw himself, arms outstretched and with a grunt he knocked the puck askew. The puck rebounded, ricocheting off the board and spun off back toward the line as Derek landed on his chest on the ice, blocking the net. Tim swore as curved 'round the back of the net and James let out a yell, punching the air with his fist triumphantly.

"That was a helluva save, King," Tim said, tearing off his helmet and sliding to a stop in front of the net as Derek hopped to his feet, rubbing his sternum with his gloved fist.

James was shouting in admiration from the box.

Derek reached up and tore his helmet off. He was grinning, eyes bright, even as he caught his breath and grabbed for the bottle of red Gatorade he'd tossed on top of the net.

"Well it was a helluva shot, man, it needed a helluva save to top it... I really thought you had me on that one." He took a long drink from the bottle, his face flushed. When he'd finished drinking, he recapped the bottle and glanced toward the penalty box and waved at James.