Power Play (12 page)

“That’s not his decision to—”

The door burst open and loud music and Kevin spilled out. He didn’t look happy. He stomped toward me. “Who do you think you are to order me around?” he screamed.

“I was—”

“You think because you’re Coach’s little pet you can tell me what to do, you stupid puke?” he screamed.

“I wasn’t trying to—”

He pushed me hard, propelling me backwards, almost knocking me off my feet. He came forward, fists raised. This was going to end in a fight whether I wanted it or not.

Steve stepped in between us.

“
I
asked him to help me get everybody so nobody would get in trouble. You got a problem with
me
telling you what to do?” Steve demanded.

Kevin looked like he wanted a scrap. Was he really stupid enough to pick a fight with our captain?

He lowered his fists. He relaxed and turned toward Steve and away from me. This was over.

“Okay … fine … as long as it isn’t
him
telling me what to do,” Kevin said, pointing at me. “I’m not going to take any guff from that little suck-up. He’s practically the coach’s girlfriend.”

I charged him, bowling him over! When we hit the ground, I drove my head right into his face and I heard something snap!

All of a sudden there were hands all over me, pulling me off. As they lifted me by my arms, my legs were still free and I kicked Kevin right in the face! He screamed out in pain. As they hauled me away, I was still trying to get a final kick in.

“Let me go!” I yelled.

They all held me firm.

“Okay, okay …” I stopped struggling.

“Let him go,” Steve ordered, and they released me.

Kevin had been hauled to his feet by a couple of the guys. He was still being steadied by one of them. Blood was pouring from his face and he was in obvious pain.

“This isn’t over,” he snarled.

“Why, are
you
going to rat me out to Coach that I kicked
your
butt?” I demanded.

“You little—”

“I’m big enough to take care of you!” I snapped, cutting him off.

“You just wait until—”

“Why do I have to wait? Am I waiting for you to grow some balls?” I yelled. “I’m here right now. Come on!”

I took a step toward him and I saw it—he cringed slightly. He was afraid. I had to put him down right now while he was—

“That’s it!” Steve yelled as he stepped between us again. “This is over. Unless you want to take a run at me too.”

He looked directly at me. He had seen the same thing in Kevin that I’d seen.

I held up my hands. “I didn’t start it.” But I had finished it.

He turned to Kevin. “Do you want to fight me?”

Kevin didn’t answer right away. He tried to glare at Steve, but it didn’t come off through the blood and pain. He lowered his eyes and nodded. “I’m okay … it’s over.”

“Good. Now both of you, shake hands.”

Slowly, reluctantly, we stepped forward. I extended my hand but had the other one balled up, ready to swing at him if he tried to hit me.

He gave me a crooked smile. “That was a pretty nice shot, kid.”

“Sorry about the girl. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Her? Nothing special there. Just a puck-bunny,” he said. “You better remember, kid, I’m expecting you to have my back the next time I’m in a brawl on the ice.”

“You can count on it.”

We shook hands and he threw an arm around my shoulders and practically pulled me off my feet as he gave me a big hug.

“That’s more like it,” Steve said. “Now we better get back to the hotel before curfew.” He looked at me. “Wait, you’re not staying with us tonight, are you?”

I shook my head. “I’m home for the night, but Coach made it clear that I have the same curfew, only at my house.”

“Just be back at the hotel in time for the bus. We leave at eleven.”

“I’ll be there at ten-thirty.”

“We’ll see you then.”

Steve shook my hand and then Kevin gave me another big hug. To anybody who wasn’t a hockey player, that might have been shocking, but that was the way it was. One minute trying to take off somebody’s head, and the next all forgotten and forgiven. Other players slapped me
on the back and basically everybody yelled out a good night. They started off, one big, loud, intoxicated parade, walking toward the hotel.

I stood there watching, feeling sad that I wasn’t going with them, but realizing that even if I was, I still wouldn’t be part of them. I turned and walked away. Their shouting and laughter echoed off the building, fading as we moved in different directions, until finally I couldn’t hear anything. It was quiet, and I was alone.

I
moved as quickly as I could. It was cold and the wind was cutting, and no matter which way I turned, it still seemed to be blowing straight into my face. I looked at my watch. It was just after twelve-thirty, so technically I was now late for curfew. Not that my parents even knew that I had a team curfew. But what if the next time they talked to Coach, they casually mentioned to him what time I got home? I knew they still talked to him on the phone sometimes. Well, there was nothing I could do about it now. And I wasn’t going to be that late. It was only a couple more streets.

I stepped onto the road and a car whooshed past, almost hitting me! I jumped backwards as my heart jumped up into my throat!

The driver blared his horn as he sped off into the night. I hadn’t seen or heard him at all. I’d been too inside my head. Another step and he would have hit me. That was too close—or maybe not close enough. If he had hit me, what would have happened? He would have killed me, or maybe just hurt me so badly that I couldn’t play hockey. Either way, that would have been okay.

That thought sent a shudder throughout my entire body. I felt scared. The fact that these thoughts were coming more regularly was even scarier. Not that I wanted to die. I didn’t. I really didn’t. I just wanted a way out. If the car had just winged me, I’d still be alive but not able to play.

Part of the reason I was fearless in the game was that I almost hoped to be hurt, injured so badly that I’d have to go home to finish out the season. I couldn’t believe how, in a few short months, hockey had gone from being my refuge from the world to just another place of pain. At least if something had happened, I’d have had an excuse to either quit hockey or quit life, and nobody would have questioned why—it would have looked like an accident. I could almost hear what people would say.

“Cody was drunk … probably tripped or fell into the car … you know he had a problem with alcohol, just like his father.”

I could picture the funeral service. It would probably take place in Watertown. The whole team would be there, all of them in their jerseys. I’d be in mine too, lying there
peacefully in my coffin. They’d probably put in my stick, maybe some trophies I’d won over the years. There would be lots of flowers, and the church would be overflowing with people from the town and from my school. Maybe that puck-bunny would even be there crying—what was her name? Leslie … Lisa? It didn’t matter. Her crying would be part of it, and anybody who had any doubts would know that I was straight.

My parents would be sitting right up front. My mother would be in tears. My father would be half in the bag, and everybody would just excuse him because of what had happened and how hard he was taking it because he loved me so much. What a joke. But at least it was something he could use for an excuse for the rest of his life to explain what a drunk he was.

Everybody would have good things to say about me. Whether they meant them or not, it didn’t matter. Who had anything bad to say about the dead? Even players from the other teams would say nice things. Each team from the league would send a representative—a coach or manager, maybe even a player or two. And then, when everybody was gathered, there’d be a eulogy. I didn’t have to guess who would give it.

Coach would go on and on about what a wonderful player I’d been and how tragic it was that my life had been cut so short. What he wouldn’t say was that he was the one who ended it. Even though he wasn’t driving the car, he’d have been the one who threw me under the wheels.
Would he feel bad about it, or would he even know that it was because of him that I was dead? Probably not, but what did it matter? It would be over for me.

I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before he found somebody new, somebody “special.” I knew I wasn’t the first, and whether I died or not, I wouldn’t be the last.

I stopped in my tracks and took a deep breath. That thought seemed to bother me more than thinking about my own death. Who was he going to do this to next? Who else was going to have to go through what I was going through? But why should I care? Nobody had cared enough to step forward and stop it from happening to me.

I heard another car coming. It was moving quickly, and standing there in the dark, I was sure that the driver hadn’t even noticed me yet. I was practically invisible. All I had to do was throw myself in front of him. It would be over in just a few seconds. He was getting closer and closer and—I took another step back and let him race by. I couldn’t let it end like that.
I couldn’t
. The only choice I had was to keep going. Put up with it. Get through it.

I was more than halfway through the first season. Then I’d be safe at home for the summer. It was the first time I’d ever thought of my home as safe. After that there’d be two more seasons, maybe a third, but it would end, and then I’d be free, in the NHL, where he couldn’t reach me, or
bother me, or touch me. The only way to beat him was to just use
him
the way he was using me. I’d take his advice as a coach, let him play me, talk to people for me, and then finally be free. There was no other choice. I wasn’t going to step in front of a car because of him.

I crossed and hurried down the street—down my street. I’d lived here most of my years, but somehow it all seemed strange. None of it had changed.
I
was the difference. I wasn’t the same person I’d been just a few months ago. Had it really only been a few months? It seemed like forever.

I came up to our house and stopped on the sidewalk. There were still lights on. I hadn’t expected my mother to go to bed before I got home, because she never did. I could only hope that my father was “asleep”—the word my mother always used for him passing out on the couch.

The house certainly hadn’t changed. It had the same broken-down furniture on the porch, still missing the same spindles, with the same semi-broken-down piece of crap car in the driveway. The sidewalk was shovelled. I guessed my father had made my mother get out and do it. He never shovelled it himself—you know, “bad back.”

I just stood there, staring at my house. All I’d ever wanted was to leave … and now … all I wanted to do was walk in that door and go to my room and close the door behind me. Sure, my father would give me some grief, but there was nothing he could throw at me that I couldn’t handle.

“I’m home!” I called out as I walked in.

“Yes, you are.”

It was Coach!

“And it’s fifteen minutes after curfew.”

Y
ou thought that because you’re at home you don’t have to pay attention to curfew?” Coach asked.

“I … I … no … of course … I’m just …”

Coach started laughing and my mother and father came out of the kitchen. My father was laughing like crazy and my mother had a nervous little smile.

“I’m just giving you a hard time,” Coach laughed. He came over and put his arm around me. My whole body went rigid. “We were just having a beer,” he said. He led me into the kitchen. “Sit.”

I sat down at the kitchen table, and Coach sat beside me. My father sat opposite us. I did a quick count. There was almost a case of empties on the counter.

“What are you doing here?” I asked Coach.

“Is that any way to speak to your Coach?” my father snapped. “You come in late and I can smell the alcohol from here. You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”

“
You’re
going to lecture me on having something to drink?” I demanded.

“You think you’re too big for me to give a whipping to?” my father yelled. He started to get to his feet but slumped back over, too drunk to even stand up.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Coach said, looking right at my father. “No fighting, no arguments. So he had a beer or two. Are you telling me you didn’t have more than a few when you were his age?”

“Well …”

“My guess is that by the time you were sixteen, you could drink most grown men under the table. Am I right or what?” Coach questioned.

My father smiled. “I could always hold my own.” He sounded so
proud
.

“I thought so. Then I have a suggestion.” Coach reached over and grabbed a bottle of beer from the counter. He snapped off the cap and handed it to me. “I think you two should stop fighting about beer and share a couple.” He raised his bottle. “I’d like to make a toast … to a father and son who probably have more in common than they’d like to admit.”

We tipped back our bottles. All right, I could drink without agreeing with what I was drinking to. Truth was, I didn’t have anything in common with him except a last
name, and the thought that we shared even that made me feel like I could use another drink.

“Isn’t that better?” Coach asked. “And in answer to your original question, I just came over to pay my respects to your parents and they insisted that I stay for a meal and a drink.”

“He’s a pretty good guy, this coach of yours,” my father said. “Only thing I can’t understand is what he thinks is so good about you!” My father laughed—a loud, raspy, drunken laugh.

“You saw what I like during the game. He had himself quite a game tonight,” Coach said.

“Tonight?” my father questioned. “I didn’t see him light up the net.”

“If he hadn’t drawn those penalties, we couldn’t have won,” Coach said.

“You mean when he turned turtle and let that guy pound on him?” my father said. “I never turned turtle in my whole life!”

“If I hadn’t—”

Coach reached out and grabbed my arm. “Let me,” he said. Then he turned to my father. “I can’t agree with you more. It’s important to answer the bell.”

“Damn right!” my father snapped.

“But doing what you have to do to win is more important. If he’d fought back, he would have drawn a roughing penalty as well, and we wouldn’t have had the four-minute advantage,” Coach explained. “Without that
advantage, we wouldn’t have scored and we wouldn’t have won. Sometimes you have to know when to take one for the team. He took one for the team.” He paused. “And speaking of the team, after the game, did everybody have a good time tonight?”

“I think so.”

“And they’re all back at the hotel?” Coach asked.

“They were heading there when I left them. I’m sure they made it on time. Steve rounded everybody up … with help from me.”

“A good assistant always helps his captain.”

“I try. Would anybody mind if I went to bed?” I asked. “I’m really tired.”

“Um … I made a bed up for you in the basement,” my mother said.

“The basement? Why can’t I sleep in my room?”

“Coach is staying in your room,” she said.

“What? You’re staying with us?”

Coach smiled that smile and I felt a chill go through my body.

“He wanted to leave but we
insisted
,” my mother said. “We couldn’t let him leave after he’d had something to drink.”

“And we sure as hell weren’t going to put
him
in the basement!” my father thundered. “After all he’s done for you, the least you can do is give up your room for a night!”

“Look, I don’t want to put Cody out. I can take a taxi back to the hotel. It’s no problem,” Coach said.

“It’s a problem for us,” my father exclaimed.

“We’ll have none of that,” my mother added. “You are our guest and you will be staying.”

“Then
I
could stay in the basement,” he offered.

“No, you won’t. You’re staying in Cody’s room,” my father said. “Kid should show a little gratitude, a little common courtesy. I thought I raised you better than that!”

“I’ll only stay if it’s okay with Cody,” Coach said.

He was asking my permission, like I could possibly say no, like I even remotely had a choice.

“Yeah, sure, of course.” I stood up. “I have to get to bed. Mom, can you wake me up by eight? Good night, everybody.”

My mother gave me a big hug and walked me out of the room, her arm still around my waist, leaving the two of them behind in the kitchen, laughing and talking.

“I’ll be waking you with pancakes,” my mother said.

“Chocolate chip?”

She smiled. “Of course.” She gave me another big hug. “I missed you.”

“Me too, Mom. Sleep well.”

This certainly wasn’t the first time I’d slept down in the basement. In the summer, when it got hot upstairs, it was always cool down there. But year round it was the best
place in the house to get away from my father yelling and my mother crying.

I shifted around on the little cot. I was so looking forward to spending just one night in my own bed. And instead of me,
he
was in it. It seemed so
wrong
. Would it ever feel the same again to be in my room, in my bed?

Down deep I knew why he was at the house. No matter what he said about trusting me, he really didn’t. He was making sure that I didn’t talk to my parents. But he needn’t have worried. I wasn’t going to tell them. There was no point. I knew who they trusted more, who they would believe, and even who they liked more. I was second in every category.

I heard a sound and turned over. I caught a glimpse of movement. Was it my mother, or—

“Cody?” It was Coach. “Where are you?” he called out.

What was he doing down here? Oh no … it couldn’t be that … it couldn’t. I sat up.

“Cody, don’t make me yell. You wouldn’t want me to wake up your parents. Where are you?”

“I’m over here,” I said quietly.

He turned toward me and slowly moved in my direction. He sat down on the edge of the cot and it sagged under his weight.

“Your parents are both asleep. Or more like passed out, in your father’s case. I could hear him snoring. Do you know why I’m down here?”

I knew. I just couldn’t believe it.

I sat at the table watching my mother and Coach talking and laughing while they made breakfast together—bacon and eggs, French toast, coffee, and, of course, chocolate chip pancakes. This was all so unreal. I couldn’t believe any of it. As much as I wanted to eat, I wasn’t so certain that I’d be able to keep it down. I felt sick to my stomach.

My father was still asleep. I hadn’t been able to sleep for more than a few minutes all night.

“So, are you hungry?” Coach asked.

For a second I didn’t realize that he was talking to me.

“Sure, yeah … it all smells really good.”

“It’s almost ready. You’d better wake up your husband,” Coach said to my mother.

“I’ll be right back,” she said.

He used a flipper to lift the pancakes off the grill and onto a plate. He put it on the table right in front of me. “Do you know why I came here last night?”

I nodded. “I wasn’t going to tell them.” There was no point. Not even my parents could stop him. Nobody could.

“Good boy. You are a good boy.”