Power Play (10 page)

O
kay, everybody, bring it in!” Coach yelled.

The drill stopped and all of the players started to glide toward centre ice, where he was standing. I didn’t glide; I skated, so I’d be in the first row.

Coach was flanked by his assistant coaches and by Terry. Terry was a hands-on owner—well, part owner—and he’d been around, on and off, for the whole second week of training camp. I wanted to show him that I understood what Coach was drilling into us about practising the way you expect to play, so I was working hard.

I knew that a bunch of the other players had already noticed how I was doing things. Some of them weren’t that impressed. They saw me as showing them up. I
was
trying to show them up. That was the way it had to be. I
could be friendly enough with them, but that didn’t make them my friends. Teammates were just
temporary
, pretend friends who you shared time and space with—as long as you were on the same team. If any of them got traded to another team, I’d hate them with the same intensity I hated everybody else on every other team. Besides, they were also my competition—for time on the power play, ice time, and ultimately to make it to the next level.

For a whole bunch of them practice was just work and they weren’t prepared to put in the time. I was. Practice was where you put “money in the bank” to draw on when you needed it during a game. Then again, some of them were just playing out the string. They weren’t going anywhere after Junior. But I was … if I worked hard enough and listened to what I was supposed to do.

What was also becoming obvious—I’d heard a couple of the veterans grumbling—was that Coach was treating me well, saying nice things about my play. I just wanted them to see the connection—that he was treating me well because of what I was doing on the ice … and not anything else. I lived in fear of somebody finding out what was still happening.

I’d come to dread his apartment. The smells in the hallway, the curtains taped down, the feeling of the bed sagging, the sound of the springs, the—I pushed it all out of my mind.

“This has been a good end to a good week,” Coach said. “I’m impressed with the efforts of everybody here. We all
know that leadership is important. We have it, beginning with our owners.” He nodded in Terry’s direction.

“Just doing my job,” Terry said and gave a slight bow.

“And I’m going to give that from the bench,” Coach added. “But we are so lucky that we are also going to get that effort on the ice. You have a veteran—a fourth-year returning player—as your captain. Let’s hear it for Steve.”

We cheered, hit our sticks against the ice and boards, and the closest couple of players gave him a slap on the back. I didn’t know him well, but he seemed like a good enough guy. I guess once the season started I’d see if he was a good captain.

“Our two assistant captains from last year are both gone—one ran out of Junior eligibility and the other, as you all know, was selected by the Islanders and is playing for their farm team in Portland.”

There was another chorus of cheers.

“And so we have to name two new assistants. One of them is an obvious choice.” He paused. “Let’s have a round of applause for Owen!”

Owen was a third-year player—a good team player—and he was popular with everybody.

Coach tossed a sweater to Owen. He held it up. On the back was his name, and when he turned it around, there was a big “A” stitched onto the front. Owen dropped his gloves to the ice and pulled the sweater on. He was practically beaming.

“And the second assistant might be a surprise to some of you,” Terry said. “But it’s part of our goal to build a winning team, not just for a year, but year after year.” He held up a second sweater, with a big “A” on the left. He turned it around and my name was on the back!

“Cody, this is for you … congratulations.”

There was a slight pause, and then the players cheered—although it wasn’t nearly as loud as the other cheers, and I noticed the looks I got from some of the older players. As I skated forward to get the sweater, I couldn’t help but notice that some of them were clapping with their hands but hating with their eyes. Josh and Jake were different—they weren’t just clapping, they were screaming and hooting. Jake slapped me on the back. He seemed genuinely happy for me. I’d learned to like him. He was an idiot but he was no threat. I was glad I hadn’t gotten him traded … or destroyed.

I pulled on the sweater. It felt good. I was used to being either the captain or the assistant on every team I’d ever been on, and Coach had promised that I’d eventually be the captain, but this was a real surprise … or payoff … part of the deal.

“Okay, everybody, hit the showers,” Coach said. “Except our captain and two assistants.”

We stood there and waited until the ice had cleared. This meant there wasn’t going to be any hot water by the time we got there. That was fine. It would give me an excuse not to have a shower until I got home. I’d become
increasingly anxious sharing a shower with everybody. I really liked my privacy at home.

“Men,” Terry said, “I need you to know that we are proud of what you three will bring to the team. Steve, you know how much I think of you as a player and a person.”

“It’s mutual, sir.”

“And Owen, this is something that you’ve earned through your play over the last two years. Well-deserved.”

“Thanks,” he said. He was actually blushing.

“And finally, Cody, let me offer my congratulations on being the only first-year player who has
ever
been asked to wear an “A” on his uniform. This is a real testament to who we think you are and who you will become.”

“I won’t let you down, sir.”

“Okay, boys, you can all hit the showers,” Coach said.

I started to skate away.

“Cody, could you wait a second?” Terry asked.

The other two guys gave me a sideways glance and then skated away.

“And Coach, you go too,” Terry said.

Coach looked hesitant for a moment before his usual confident expression returned. He gave me a solemn look and then nodded before skating away. I read into that brief exchange a message:
Remember
,
not a word
.

“Cody, I want you to know that I fully supported Coach when he suggested you become an assistant. He’s not just a good friend, I also trust his judgment. I just had to be honest with you and say I’m a little worried,” he said.

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“I know you will. I’m just concerned about the extra pressure this will put on you. It’s hard enough to break into the league without having expectations of leadership. Can you handle that?”

“I’ll try, sir.”

“I want you to rely on Steve as a role model, because you know that you’ve been earmarked to carry the “C” on your sweater someday.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll learn from him.”

“And if the pressure gets to be too much, I want you to remember that alcohol is a problem and not a solution.”

“I know, sir.” I also knew that if he’d had his way, I wouldn’t have been there at all, because I would have been drafted by another team.

“Do you still have my card?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.” I knew exactly where it was. Not that I’d ever call him.

“Good. Twenty-four seven, just remember I’m there.”

He put a hand on my shoulder and I felt a rush of fear. Could I trust him? If Coach was his good friend, was he also …? How could I trust anybody? That made it even worse. There was nobody to trust and nobody to tell.

Besides, what was the point? Instead, right there in my hands was the sweater with the big “A” on the front. That was how I’d ultimately get away and into the Show.

R
eally, I’m getting enough to eat,” I said to my mother over the phone. We talked a couple of times a week.

“I just worry about you.”

“I know you worry.”

“And I just wish I could meet the people you’re staying with,” she said.

“I’m sure they’d like to meet you too.”

“It’s just so far away. I guess talking on the phone is all we can do for now. They sound so friendly and nice. It makes me happy to know that you have a family there.”

“Yeah, a family,” I repeated.

They
were
a family. They just weren’t
my
family. They were good, and the boys weren’t bratty or anything, and the baby didn’t cry too much. Of course, the boys both
wanted to be in the NHL when they grew up, so we always gave them our old sticks, and the Olsens were at practically every home game.

What I had to remember, though, was that, in the end, this was just business. They were being paid to provide me with a place to live and meals to eat. It was a business deal. Sure, they were nice, but they were just employees of the team—a team that was run by Coach. He talked to them all the time. They all seemed to get along well. No surprise there. Everybody liked Coach. Everybody trusted him.

That just made me feel even more trapped. I
hated
that feeling … trapped like an animal. I kept trying to look for an escape, an out, a way to end it, and there was none. Well, there was one way out, but I had to force that thought away—it was too terrible, too
final
. Besides, there was no way I’d ever do that. It wasn’t me. I knew I could hurt somebody else, but I couldn’t believe that I could ever, for even a second, have thoughts of harming myself … it was just not possible … there was no way I’d ever do that to myself.

What if I just told him it
had
to stop? If I just said no? I’d promise not to tell anybody. I could keep it secret. Maybe that would be enough to stop it from happening anymore. What could he do if I told him to …? Slowly I shook my head. I knew there were lots of things he could do. I’d seen him lose his temper. I knew what he could do to anybody on the team if he wanted.

“Cody, are you still there?”

“What?”

“I was talking and you weren’t answering. I thought the line went dead.”

“I guess I was just thinking.”

“I was saying how much I’m looking forward to seeing you next month when Watertown plays against Toronto.”

“It’ll be great to see you too.”

“Your dad is here now and he wants to speak to you.”

“I’ve really got to—”

“I’ll pass the phone to him,” she said.

Great. I couldn’t think of one thing he’d have to say that I wanted to hear.

“Cody, this is your dad.”

Yeah, I sort of recognized the voice. “Hey.”

“I’ve been following your team. Not the best year so far.”

“We’re in third place,” I said defensively.

“And do you think that’s good enough?” he asked.

“No, sir,” I answered, although I wanted to say it was a hell of a lot better than eighth place, which was where the team had finished last year without me.

“And you could be doing a lot better yourself. You’re not even in the top twenty in scoring.”

“I’m third in rookie scoring for the whole league.”

“I guess that’s something. Are you being respectful to Coach? Are you doing what he’s telling you to do?”

“Of course.” Thank God my father, and everybody else, didn’t know all of what he
was
telling me to do—
making
me do.

“You gotta treat your Coach with more respect even than you treat your old man,” he said.

That was easy enough to do since I had absolutely
no
respect for my father. Maybe I didn’t understand why Coach was doing it, but at least I was getting something back. There was at least going to be a payoff at the end.

“I’m going to pass the phone back to your mother,” he said. “She wants to keep talking to you.”

“Sure, okay … bye.”

He didn’t ask about school or how I was doing or anything except hockey. At least there was no temptation to try to tell him anything. What a laugh, even thinking about that. He wouldn’t have believed me any more than anybody else would.

“Hello again,” my mother said. “It’s just so good to talk to you, to hear your voice.”

“It’s good to talk to you too.”

“I know it’s silly, but I’m a mother so I worry all the time about how you’re doing.”

“It’s not silly.” There was a knock on the door. “Hang on, Mom. Come in.”

Mrs. Olsen poked her head in. “You have to leave for your tutoring session or you’ll be late.”

“I’m on the phone with my mother so I guess I’m going to—”

“I’ll let you go, because it’s important you don’t miss that,” my mother said—clearly she’d overheard.

“No, really, it’s okay,” I said to her. “I can miss a session or two.”

Mrs. Olsen frowned.

“No, you shouldn’t do that,” my mother said. “Coach is going out of his way to help, and you should be so grateful. We all are. You say hello to him from us. He’s such a wonderful man! I’ll talk to you later. Love you.”

“Yeah, you too,” I said, and she was gone.

I slipped the phone into my pocket. “We’re going to talk later,” I explained.

“It is important to go,” Mrs. Olsen said. That look of concern crossed her face again. “You really don’t like to go for tutoring, do you?”

I shook my head. If only she knew how much, and why.

“You probably figure you spend enough time in school as it is. I guess you’d rather be hanging out with your buddies or playing video games or watching TV or whatever.”

Whatever
would be better. Anything would be better.

“But if you think about it, you boys all miss so much school because of travel and games that you’re still not spending as much time in school as regular students do.”

“I guess you’re right,” I mumbled.

“And it is obvious the tutoring is working. Your marks have all been good, and I’ve noticed you studying around the house.”

“I’ve been trying hard.” Part of trying hard was getting my marks up enough that nobody would think I needed
to be tutored. It wasn’t like he was really helping me with my schoolwork when I went over to his apartment.

“Then just think of this as an extension of trying hard,” she said. “It’s like they say: ‘No pain, no gain’.”

I knew about the pain. I could only hope for the gain.

She gave me a hug. “You’re a very good boy. Your parents must be proud of you. I know your coach must think well of you … giving up his time to tutor you is such a big commitment.”

I didn’t know what to say. I just knew what I couldn’t say. “I’d better get going.” I grabbed my coat and started to leave.

“What subject are you being tutored in tonight?” Mrs. Olsen asked.

“Um … math, I think.”

“Then you might want to take that along,” she said, pointing at my math textbook sitting on the dresser.

“Yeah, thanks … would have been stupid to forget that.”

I grabbed the book. It was like adding insult to injury—lugging a book that would never be opened.

“And, Cody … straight home afterwards … no stopping … and nothing to drink.”

I nodded. I’d overheard her and Mr. Olsen making quiet comments about me smelling of alcohol. Little did she know that I
was
coming straight home from his apartment, and the only drinking I ever did was there at Coach’s. I guess I could not drink … no … I
needed
to drink.

I walked slowly. I felt as if everybody was watching me as I passed. It wasn’t that I was being paranoid. Some of them
were
watching me. The Junior A players were as close as they got to celebrities in Watertown, so we were pretty well-known by everybody. Hardly a day went by that somebody didn’t mention something about the last game or ask for an autograph. That made it even worse. I lived in constant fear that somehow they’d find out. And the longer it went on, the better the chance that somebody would. I had to stop it. This time I would say something. I just had to stand firm.

I felt such a deep sense of doom, and the paranoid thoughts got stronger. I stopped in front of the building and took a long look around. So what if somebody saw me going into the building? I had a legitimate reason to be there. But I took one more glance over my shoulder as I pulled open the front door.

As I climbed the stairs, my legs felt weak and tired and shaky. Not just from giving everything I had at the practice and at school. Not just because my sleep was so screwed up. It was so much more than that.

I stopped in front of his apartment door. If I just stood there, maybe time would freeze. Maybe the floor would swallow me and—the door swung open.

“You’re late.”

“Just a couple of minutes,” I said apologetically.

“Would you say that to me if this was a practice? Would you say that to a ref at the start of a game?”

“No, sir.”

He turned around and I followed him in. “Grab a beer.”

I went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle. I wouldn’t have more than a couple—I didn’t want Mrs. Olsen to get any more suspicious, but I needed to drink something.

“Come and have a seat,” he said as he patted the couch beside him.

Usually he waited until I’d had a few beers. Waiting for it was almost as bad as having it happen. What if it didn’t have to happen at all?

“I’m really having trouble with my math,” I said. I held the book up in front of me, using it as both proof and a shield.

“Maybe afterwards I can help you a little.”

“How about now … instead of?”

His eyes hardened and I felt a sense of dread course through my body. What was he going to say or do now? Then his expression softened and a small smile appeared, and I felt a chill go up my spine. He had different types of smiles. I’d learned to tell them apart. This one was smug, like something was going on that he was proud of, something that gave him an advantage.

“What do you think about Taylor?” he asked. His voice was calm and casual.

“What?”

“Taylor, your teammate, what do you think of him?”

What did he mean? Was he doing this with Taylor as well, and he wanted to let me know that there was somebody else and he was going to leave me alone?

“Do you think he’s a good player?” Coach asked.

“He’s … he’s okay,” I stammered.

“That’s your opinion, he’s
okay
. What do you think of him as a player?”

“Um … he’s got skills. He scored some goals for us.”

“Seventeen goals. Third on the team.”

“But most of those are on the power play,” I noted.

“Eleven of them have come with the man advantage. And his defence?” Coach asked.

“What defence? He’s a minus-nine. He seems to skate a lot faster when he’s trying to score than when he’s trying to defend. He doesn’t even try to win the battles in the corners.”

“That’s almost identical to what I’ve written in his file,” Coach said. He reached down and took a manila file folder from a few that were piled on the coffee table.

“Why are you asking me about Taylor?”

“I’m thinking about trading him,” Coach said.

“Who are you trading him for?”

“They’re offering me a choice of two players.” He handed me two files.

I opened up one and then the other. There were notes in Coach’s handwriting and a picture of each player. I recognized them both.

“They’re pretty good.”

“And they’re both two years younger than Taylor. This other team thinks Taylor would be the missing piece to push them over the top this year, so they’re willing to trade away part of their future. Which of the two would you trade for?”

I studied his notes and thought about the three games we’d played against the team.

“He’s got better straight skills,” I said, pointing to one. “But him,” I said, tapping the second picture. “I just
hate
playing against him.”

“That’s a big compliment … it’s something people say about you. So, which one would you take?” Coach asked.

“If he was on my team, I wouldn’t have to play against him, and the other team would hate playing against him.”

“Then it’s decided. I’ll pull the trigger on the trade tomorrow.”

“Really? Just like that?”

“Just like that. I trust your instincts. Taylor is gone, and that means you’re going to be starting first unit on the power play.”

“Amazing!”

“I want you to be showcased, to offer you more opportunity to impress the people you need to impress to move to the next level.”

“Thank you … thank you so much,” I said, and then I had another thought. “I was wondering … these files, do you have one on everybody in the league?”

“Not everybody in the whole league.”

“But you do have a file for everybody on our team, right?” I asked.

“Everybody except you,” he said.

“You don’t have a file on me?”

“No, for you I have
two
files.”

“Why do you have two?”

He gave that same dangerous smile. I felt my throat close up and sweat start to run down my side.

He got up and went over to his filing cabinet. He fingered through the files and pulled out two, holding one above his head.

“This is the one that I hope someday to show to the scouts who might draft you into the NHL.” He held up the second. “And this is the one I hope nobody will
ever
have to see.”

“I don’t understand.”

Again with that smile. “Right here I’ve made extensive notes about how you make the other boys uncomfortable because you stare at them in the showers.”

“What?” I gasped. “Who said that?”

“And how you made sexual advances to another boy during a road trip.”

“That never happened!” I exclaimed.

“And how on September 21 you came to talk to me about your sexual orientation and how I counselled you, wanted you to go and see a therapist.” He ran his finger down the page. “Or here, on October 15, you threatened that you’d tell everybody that I made advances on
you unless I gave you more ice time and put you on the power play on a regular shift. And, of course, that was just before I started you on the second unit of the power play. People could check the game stats and see that that really happened.”