Off the Crossbar (13 page)

A large, round-faced man wearing a crisp, short white coat and a happy grin on his face greeted Charlie as he filed off the bus. Charlie guessed he was Bruno Moretti, the owner and main attraction of Bruno’s Bistro, one of Terrence Falls’ most popular restaurants, and also Pudge’s father. Bruno had generously invited the entire team for lunch after the game, an offer gratefully accepted by both coaches who thought it would be good for the players to stay together.

“I’ve made spaghetti with lots of tomato sauce,” Pudge’s father said, “but not too heavy. No meat. And I also made nice salad. And for dessert, fruit.”

“That’s terrific,” Hilton said, as they walked together into the bistro.

Bruno nodded graciously. “Ricardo, Tony, they’re here. Let’s bring out the food.”

A long table had been set up for them in the middle of the mainly empty restaurant. The players took their seats, talking about the Flemington game and the approaching
showdown against Chelsea. Pudge’s foot was of great concern to everyone. It was beginning to swell up. He was limping noticeably, and had trouble putting any weight on it.

When Bruno saw Pudge, he clutched his hair and moaned and made a terrible fuss. “Oh my goodness, look at that foot. It’s the size of a watermelon. This is terrible, terrible. And just before the final. I saw you get hit, but never thought it would be this bad. Let me get some ice. That’s what we need. Lots and lots of ice. Tony, get me a bucket of ice and a towel.”

“Dad, it’s not that serious. Besides, I already put some ice on it after the game.”

“It’s probably a good idea,” Hilton said. “Let’s keep icing it, and see how it goes.”

“We’ll get you fixed up for the final,” Bruno said. “The Morettis are tough.”

Tony brought the bucket. Pudge was embarrassed by his father’s attention, but he dutifully let him wrap the ice around his foot. While that was going on, Scott asked the coaches how they were planning to shut down Chelsea’s high-powered offence.

“We have some ideas about that,” Hilton said. “Let’s have lunch and relax first.” He pointed at the kitchen as Ricardo and Tony came out carrying two large trays with steaming hot plates of spaghetti.

“Help yourselves to the parmigiano,” Bruno told them. “And we’ll bring out a few pitchers of pop and some water.”

He hit his forehead with his hand. “What was I
thinking? Two trays are not enough for hungry hockey players. Ricardo, get two more, and lots of sauce. Coach, we got lots of fruit, too. I’ll get that now. Good for energy. They’ll need it against Chelsea. I saw them play before you. Good team. Very fast — very skilled. But we’ll win. We play more together.”

“I think you’re right, Bruno. And some fruit would be great. You’re being too good to us. Thanks again.”

“Nothing’s too good for the gold-medal team,” he said.

Hilton just smiled.

“Now what’s taking so long with that pasta? Ricardo, what you doing in there?” Bruno yelled. He went off to the kitchen to see for himself.

There was a lull in the conversation, as the players settled down to eat their lunch. Charlie was sitting across from Hilton, and he decided to take advantage of the quiet to ask a question — one he’d been dying to ask since he heard Liam say that Hilton once had a tryout with the Boston Bruins.

“Excuse me, Coach,” Charlie began. “Can I ask you a question?”

Hilton held up a hand. “We’ll get to our strategy against Chelsea in due course — don’t worry. Let’s enjoy this wonderful food, and then we’ll get down to business.

“It’s not about the game,” Charlie said hesitantly.

“Then ask away,” he said, taking a sip of water.

“I was wondering, and I think a bunch of us were wondering, what happened to your hockey career after Terrence Falls? I know you played junior, and did really
well, but I don’t know much after that.”

Hilton pursed his lips, took another sip of water, and looked straight at him. Charlie instantly regretted asking the question. The coach clearly didn’t want to talk about it.

But then, suddenly, Hilton’s features softened, and he nodded slightly. “What, specifically, did you want to know?”

Charlie’s question had caught everyone’s attention, and all the players were waiting for their coach to answer. Speculating on his hockey past was a favourite pastime. His scoring records with the Watford Park Rangers had stood for over twenty years, until Karl Schneider broke them only the year before. Little was known about Hilton’s playing days apart from that. He was an intensely private man and he rarely spoke about himself.

“I heard that you were drafted by an NHL team.”

“I was,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s not much of a story. I was drafted by the Boston Bruins.”

“What round?” Charlie interrupted.

Hilton smiled. “The first round.”

Charlie was surprised to hear that. Liam had said Hilton hadn’t done anything. The first round was incredible — how many players could say that?

“So the Bruins drafted me, which was pretty cool because they were a very good team back then. It was after the glory days of Bobby Orr and Phil Esposito, but still they could play. I was only eighteen, and was still eligible for another year of junior, but the team invited me to training camp.”

“What was that like?” Charlie asked.

“It was quite the experience. The Bruins used to play in the Boston Gardens, a classic old arena. It had an amazing atmosphere — it was a thrill just skating in that building. And like I said, the Bruins were a solid team. They had guys like Rick Middleton, Raymond Bourque, Keith Crowder, Charlie Simmer, Kenny Linseman, Cam Neely.” He laughed. “You may not have heard of them, since none of you were born back then, but they were stars at the time.”

“I’ve heard of Bourque,” Scott said.

“Me too,” Charlie chimed.

“He played a long time,” Hilton acknowledged. “Anyway, given the talent on the ice, and the fact that I was so young, I never expected to make the team. But I lasted the entire training camp, and played in several exhibition games. We had a few injuries going into the regular season, and management decided to keep me up until the regulars returned.”

“So you got to play in the NHL.”

“I did. Not for too long, unfortunately. In my third game, I got hurt, and was never able to play again.”

He paused and took another sip of water. “Sorry that it’s such a dull story,” he joked, “but that’s what happened. Unlike some guys, I always took school seriously, and only had one year to get my high school diploma. I came back to Terrence Falls, finished high school, and then went on to university, where I studied to be a teacher — and the rest, as they say, is history.”

“How’d you get hurt?” Charlie asked.

“We were in Chicago. It was in the first period, early in the game. There was a scramble in front of the net. I was in the slot, waiting for the puck to come free. Someone shot the puck, I think it was Middleton, and it bounced over to me. I had to stretch to get it, putting all my weight on my left leg. I was way off balance, but still got the shot off. The second I let it go, however, I was submarined by a defenceman. He hit that left leg, tearing the ACL completely, and even breaking the kneecap. I had surgery the next day, but they couldn’t fix all the damage. Despite all the rehab — and I really went at it — I never got all my strength or flexibility back. The knee just couldn’t take the punishment of professional hockey.”

Charlie interrupted the silence that followed Hilton’s story. “Did you score on that last shot?” he asked.

“Actually, I did,” Hilton replied, with a hint of pride.

Charlie looked at him with a new sense of admiration. It was one thing to be an excellent English teacher and a superb coach. Getting drafted in the first round was also impressive. Scoring in an NHL game was another matter entirely.

“I read once that in the history of hockey only six thousand men have ever played in an NHL game. At least you’re one of those guys,” Charlie said.

“I’ve never heard that,” Hilton said. “I like the sound of it, though.”

Bruno came storming out of the kitchen holding yet another large tray of pasta. “Who needs more? Come on. I know some of you are still hungry. Put up your hand if you want a little extra.”

A few players held up empty plates and Bruno scurried to fill them.

“Eat up, boys. I’ve got lots and lots. Don’t be shy with Bruno. You need your energy.”

Bruno buzzed around the table, fussing over the players, encouraging them to eat, filling their glasses, and taking away the dirty dishes. He made a special effort to meet Charlie, asking about his mother’s café, and promising to try it out as soon as it opened. Charlie liked him. He seemed genuine and sincere, just like his son.

“Say, does anyone know how the other Terrence Falls teams did?” Pudge asked.

“I think our senior boys’ team got through to the finals,” Nick offered. “They play tonight after our game.”

“What about the girls’ teams?” Charlie asked.

Nick winked. “Any team in particular you wanna know about?”

“How about both of them?”

“Senior team lost in the quarterfinals. The junior team is playing before us for the gold medal.”

“Terrence Falls could win three golds,” Charlie said. “It’s not four, but enough to make Karl Schneider happy, I’m sure.”

“Guess what else?” Nick said. “Schneider is the leading scorer in the senior tournament. And our friend here, Mr. Charlie Joyce, is in third place for the junior division, behind J.C. Savard and Burnett. We just need to pump the rubber past that chump of a Chelsea goalie and we’ll have three gold medals and two leading scorers.”

“Let’s not count our chickens before they hatch,”
Hilton interrupted. “Terrence Falls has some serious teams to beat before claiming all that gold.”

He rapped a spoon on the table. “Everyone listen up, please. It looks like you pigs have finally finished stuffing yourselves. And for those of you still eating, that’s enough. You’re playing in three hours, so give your stomachs a chance to digest. Coach Tremblay and I would appreciate it greatly if you would make your way over to the private dining room in the back. We would like to go over a few things before the game, and Bruno needs to clear this table.”

Charlie got up with the others, but Hilton motioned for him to stay behind.

“I just need a quick word with Charlie,” he said, as the players left.

“I’m sorry about asking you about your hockey career. I was just wondering — that’s all.”

Hilton waved it off. “You don’t have to apologize. To be honest, I hadn’t thought about it in a long time — it brought back some great memories. But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you. I need you to do something for me, and it relates to what Nick was saying about the scoring lead,” Hilton said. “First off, you’re ten points behind Savard, so catching him will be somewhat difficult. In any event, the team needs you to do something, which will make it impossible for you to catch either Savard or Burnett.”

Charlie couldn’t imagine what it was.

“I believe the key to beating Chelsea is to keep those two from scoring. We shut those two down, and we have
a good shot. I think we can handle Burnett with the right forechecking strategy, which is what Coach Tremblay is going over right now. We’ll send two men on him whenever he touches the puck and force him to pass. In our end, the winger on his side will stay up high and keep the puck off his stick.”

He placed his clipboard on the table, looking at Charlie intently.

“That doesn’t really concern you, though.” He held up his hand in response to Charlie’s quizzical look. “Savard is much tougher to shut down,” he continued. “He’s too fast to control by forechecking. He roams all over, is very unpredictable and, to top it off, very smart with and without the puck. That’s why I don’t think the team approach will work. The trap, the left-wing lock, it doesn’t matter. We don’t do those things well enough anyway. And without Jake and Liam, we also don’t have two powerful forward lines to put out against him.”

He stopped and placed his hand on the back of Charlie’s chair. “The only way we can stop Savard is to put someone on him, a shadow, a player who will follow him all over the ice, never let him free for a moment, not even in Chelsea’s end. This player has to forget about scoring, about doing anything other than keeping the puck off Savard’s stick. And that player is you, Charlie,” he stated bluntly. “You’re the only one with the skills to match him. But it also means you won’t be scoring many goals.”

“I don’t care about that, Coach,” he said. “I’d be happy to do it, if you think that’s the best way to win.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that.” Hilton paused for a
moment. “Before we join the others, I wanted to tell you that I think you’ve done a terrific job as captain. I really mean that. I know it hasn’t been easy. In fact, it’s been the opposite of easy. So I’m very proud of how you’ve handled yourself. You’ve earned the title.”

“Thanks, Coach,” Charlie said, uncomfortable with the praise.

“One more thing,” Hilton said, rising from the table. “Since Jake and Thomas quit the team, I don’t feel an obligation to keep this from you. Jake got only three first place votes for captain. Thomas didn’t get any. I thought you’d like to know how solidly the guys are behind you.”

He left Charlie at the table and hurried to the back of the restaurant to join the strategy session. Charlie got up slowly, digesting what his coach had told him about the voting. Charlie had voted for Ethan. Presumably Liam and Thomas had voted for Jake. That accounted for three of the four votes. He’d always assumed Matt voted for Jake, which would make that three. But then there was Jake’s vote to consider. Jake didn’t vote for Thomas, because he hadn’t gotten any votes, and he certainly didn’t vote for Charlie Joyce! He must have voted for himself, which meant that Matt didn’t vote for Jake. He must have voted for Charlie, along with every player still on the team.

He walked over to join his teammates. Matt was sitting at the back, off to the side. Charlie sat down quietly next to him. Tremblay was explaining the forechecking strategy. Charlie looked over at Matt. Obviously the rift between Jake and him was deeper, and had existed a lot
longer, than he’d previously suspected.