The Ghost in the Heater's Hum - Script

INT. NORTHWOOD MUNICIPAL RINK - NIGHT

The groaning METAL DOOR of a fifty-year-old hockey rink is shoved open.

ROGER (17), captain's 'C' stitched on his worn team jacket, steps inside. He stops dead. The air is thick, heavy with an oppressive heat.

His gear bag is slung over one shoulder, skates over the other. He’s the only one here. His truck sits alone in the frosted parking lot outside.

He looks up. An ancient, finned heater unit bolted to the wall RATTLES like a box of bolts. A shimmering wave of heat distorts the air around it.

INT. LOCKER ROOM - CONTINUOUS

Roger walks into the locker room, letting the door swing shut. The heater's ROAR is even louder in here. The only light comes from the dim safety lamps in the hallway.

He drops his heavy bag onto a splintered wooden bench. The THUD echoes in the concrete room.

He walks the length of the room, past rows of dented metal lockers covered in peeling wolf-head decals. He runs a hand along them.

He stops at the far end, in a pocket of shadow. He sees it.

A pile of faded, ripped practice jerseys arranged into a makeshift mattress. On top, a dark blue parka is rolled into a pillow.

A pathetic, desperate nest.

Roger kneels. He reaches out, hesitates, then touches the cheap nylon of the parka. It's cold.

He stands. His jaw is tight. He walks to the heater and flips a heavy-duty switch. The ROARING STOPS with a loud CLANK.

The sudden silence is broken only by the low HUM of the ice plant.

He returns to the corner, grabs the parka and jerseys with rough movements, and shoves them deep into the bottom of a large lost-and-found bin.

INT. LOCKER ROOM - LATER

The room is full now. Laughter and loud voices. GUYS complain about the cold, rubbing their hands together.

Man, it's an icebox in here.

Heater's busted again.

MARC (17), quiet and intense, with dark eyes that miss nothing, slips in last. He's already half-dressed in his gear.

He moves to his stall at the far end of the room—the one closest to the now-empty corner. He says nothing, just starts lacing his skates, head down.

COACH TANNER (50s), a man whose face is a roadmap of past losses, stands by a whiteboard.

Alright, Wolves, listen up! On the ice in two! We’re starting with passing. Crisp. Tape to tape. Let’s go, let’s go!

The team CLATTERS out towards the ice. Roger takes one last look at the empty, shadowy corner before following.

INT. RINK - CONTINUOUS

The air is sharp, pure. The ice is a clean white sheet under flat, industrial lights. Roger takes a few laps, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

Coach Tanner blows a SHRILL WHISTLE.

Line ‘em up! Two lines!

Roger ends up in a line directly opposite Marc. They stand across the blue line from each other. Marc's expression is unreadable behind his helmet's cage.

Roger snaps a hard, clean pass. It lands perfectly on the tape of Marc's stick.

Marc returns it without looking. A rocket. The puck HITS Roger's stick with a loud CRACK that vibrates up his arms. He fights to control it.

Roger's jaw tightens. He fires his next pass back just as hard, aimed low at Marc’s skates.

Marc cushions the puck effortlessly, killing its momentum. He sends another bullet back.

CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. The sound of the puck is like gunfire. Other players slow down, watching the silent war.

Roger! Marc! It’s a passing drill, not a skills competition! Soften it up!

Roger’s neck flushes with embarrassment. He looks at Marc. Nothing. No reaction.

INT. RINK - LATER (SCRIMMAGE)

Roger gets the puck behind his own net. He sees Marc breaking through the neutral zone. He fires a breakout pass up the boards.

It's just a little too far ahead. The puck glances off the tip of Marc's outstretched stick. A turnover.

Marc shoots Roger a look over his shoulder. Pure disgust.

MOMENTS LATER

Marc has the puck in the offensive zone. He weaves through defenders, a shark. The puck is glued to his stick.

Roger gets open in the slot. He TAPS his stick on the ice. He is wide open. Their eyes meet for a split second.

Marc holds the puck. Tries to deke one last defender. The defender pokes the puck away. The opportunity is gone.

INT. RINK (BENCH) - CONTINUOUS

Roger skates past Marc on his way to the bench.

(low, tight)

I was open, man.

Marc takes a gulp of water, not looking at him.

I had a lane.

You had a guy on you. I had an empty net.

Marc gives a barely perceptible shrug.

Next time.

Roger clenches his jaw, skates to the bench, and slams down onto it. Coach Tanner leans over the boards in front of him.

(low)

What’s going on with you two?

(mumbling)

Nothing, Coach.

I see it. You're playing angry. He's the most talent we've had in a decade. You're the captain. If you two can't get on the same page, we are done. Find a way. That's what leaders do.

Coach Tanner taps the boards and moves on. Roger watches Marc on the ice. He scores. A blistering snapshot. No celebration.

INT. LOCKER ROOM - LATER

The final whistle has blown. The room is quiet, tense.

Marc is the first one showered and dressed. Jeans, a threadbare hoodie, and the same thin parka from the corner.

He's out the door before most guys have their skates off. Roger watches him go. He pulls on his own clothes, not bothering to shower, and grabs his keys.

EXT. RINK PARKING LOT - NIGHT

The sun has set, painting the dirty snow orange and purple. Roger sees Marc walking away from the rink, shoulders hunched against the wind, heading towards the main road.

Roger gets in his old truck. The engine GROANS to life. He waits a moment, then pulls out of the lot, headlights off.

EXT. NORTHWOOD STREETS - NIGHT

Roger's truck crawls along, keeping a safe distance.

Marc walks with his head down, past darkened residential streets, past the closed shops on Main Street.

He heads towards the industrial outskirts of town.

EXT. DEFUNCT VALUEMART PARKING LOT - CONTINUOUS

Marc turns into the vast, crumbling parking lot of a massive, windowless, abandoned big-box store.

Roger pulls his truck in behind a snowbank, killing the engine. He watches.

Marc walks around the side of the building and disappears.

MOMENTS LATER

Marc reappears. He's not alone.

MARC'S MOM (40s), bundled in a coat too big for her thin frame, walks with him. Behind them, MARC'S SISTER (10), small for her age, drags her feet.

Marc carries two heavy-looking plastic grocery bags. They walk towards the far corner of the lot.

To a single car parked under a flickering yellow security light.

An old, rust-eaten sedan. Its windows are completely fogged over with condensation from the inside.

Piles of blankets and clothes are stacked on the back dash.

Roger’s breath catches in his throat. His eyes are wide.

Marc opens the back door. His mom and sister climb in. He puts the groceries in the front, then gets in the driver's seat. The interior light comes on, then flickers off.

A tiny, faint plume of exhaust starts puffing from the tailpipe.

In his truck, Roger slumps forward, his forehead resting against the cold steering wheel. He closes his eyes.

INT. ROGER'S HOUSE (KITCHEN) - LATER

The house is warm, bright. It smells of beef stew. ROGER'S MOM (40s), warm and humming, is at the stove.

Hey, sweetie. Tough practice? You’re late.

Roger stands in the doorway, looking dazed.

(voice thick)

Yeah. Tough practice.

INT. ROGER'S HOUSE (KITCHEN) - LATER

Roger sits at the table, pushing stew around in his bowl.

He goes back downstairs. The stew is still warm on the stove.

He finds an old steel thermos. He rinses it, then fills it to the brim with the hot stew.

He grabs two pairs of thick, new wool socks from a drawer.

He heads for the door, keys in hand.

Where are you going? It’s almost ten.

Forgot some of my gear at the rink.

INT. LOCKER ROOM - NIGHT

The rink is dead quiet. The air is frigid. Roger's footsteps ECHO on the concrete.

He walks to Marc's empty stall.

He gently places the thermos on the wooden bench.

Next to it, he lays the folded wool socks.

No note.

He turns to leave. The heavy front door of the rink lets out a loud GROAN.

Footsteps. Slow, tired, coming down the hall.

Roger's eyes dart around. He ducks into the equipment manager's closet, pulling the heavy door almost shut, leaving it open just a crack.

His heart POUNDS against his ribs.

He watches through the sliver of open space.

Marc walks into the locker room. A shadow in the dim moonlight filtering through high, grimy windows.

He walks to the back corner. He stops, seeing the empty space where his bed was. His shoulders slump in defeat.

He stands there for a long moment, then turns and walks slowly towards his locker.

He stops. He sees the items on the bench.

He freezes. Perfectly still. His back is to the closet.

He stares at the thermos and the socks for an eternity.

Slowly, he reaches out a hand. Not to pick them up.

Just to touch the side of the thermos, as if to see if it's real.