Adam exhaled slow, shoved thoughts of candles and miracles and Ben aside, and tried to concentrate on the game.
It was fairly easy to see that Farida wasn’t far off her assessment. The boys weren’t their typical loose game-play on the ice; they looked at each other too often, as if they were a brand-new team still trying to assess each other’s styles. Their reactions were slower than normal, and they kept scrambling on the ice as if they’d been distracted from the game.
Adam wasn’t sure if they were picking up on his own tension, or if they were just tense from the increased scrutiny. There were more people in the stands than had been there for the entire tournament – but that was to be expected. It was a Saturday, school was out and more people were off work. Plus it was nearing the end of the tournament, only the better teams were playing, ensuring a more interesting game.
It shouldn’t have shaken his team. They shouldn’t have even been aware of it.
They’d be used to it in the junior league, thought Adam.
No – they’re just kids, though. They don’t have to be used to it. Not unless they move on. And they won’t all keep playing hockey past this level.
The crowd let out another roar as Tom intercepted the puck again – this time, however, the goalie was quicker, and the puck quickly went sailing toward the other end of the rink.
It was the last goal attempt of the game. Richard managed to keep the other team from scoring, which at least kept the carnage to a minimum. When the final buzzer sounded, sending the other team into a frenzy of excitement, all Adam could see was the sudden slump of shoulders from every single one of his kids.
Even Farida seemed down. “That’s it, then.”
Single elimination at this point in the tourney, realized Adam.
“One loss is still only one loss,” said Adam. “They don’t have anything to be sorry about.”
“Yeah, they probably won’t believe that until next year,” said Farida grimly, reaching for the first boy to come off the ice, already heaving with sobs. “Hey there, buddy. You did awesome.”
“We lost,” sniffed Pierre, his voice cracking.
“Once,” said Adam. “You still played great.”
“Once is still too much when it’s enough to count,” said Andreas bitterly.
Tom put it more succinctly in a stream of words as he skated off the ice.
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—”
Farida glanced at Adam worriedly. “Okay, locker room, now.”
It didn’t take long for the boys to gather their things and head down into the locker room. None of them wanted to stick around while the other team continued their celebrations on the ice. Most of the boys seemed to be in the same mindset as Pierre, who was content to quietly mourn without saying very much.
The moment the locker room door slammed shut, however, Tom ripped off his helmet and threw it hard against the lockers, which clanged so loudly a few of the closer boys screamed in surprise.
“Tom!” said Farida, shocked.
“It fucking sucks!” yelled Tom, turning toward her. His face was red with anger, and there were tears squeezing out of his eyes. “We should have won that game, this was supposed to be our year!”
“That’s not how it works, Tom,” began Adam, but Tom rounded on him.
“I watched that team play yesterday, Coach! None of them have our speed, Pierre could skate circles around them blindfolded. Why the fuck did they—?”
“Language,” snapped Farida.
“They shouldn’t have gotten one goal, let alone three!” continued Tom.
Richard stood up. “Fuck you!” he shouted at Tom. “Don’t blame this on me. I blocked way more shots than I should have. Where the hell were you?”
“Language!” shouted Farida again.
“I was trying to save the game, or didn’t you notice someone had to make a few goals!”
“Oh, fuck off,” snapped Andreas. “You’re not the only person on this team, Tom – or did you forget hockey’s a team sport and not all about you?”
The swing shouldn’t have taken anyone by surprise – least of all Tom, who was the one aiming for Andreas’s nose. Andreas let out a howl as blood spurted out, covering his face with his hands as both Adam and Farida rushed forward to separate them.
“Thomas!” snapped Adam. “Go shower and cool off, now!”
Tom’s eyes were wide, though his hands were still clenched at his sides. “Shit shit shit shit, I’m sorry, I—”
“Now!”
Tom turned and ran for the showers. Two of the other boys, after quick glances at the others, followed him at a more sedate pace. They were some of the more level-headed guys on the team, ones Adam instinctively knew wouldn’t bother Tom, but let him shower and make sure he didn’t punch a wall or break anything while he worked out his aggression under the shower spray.
“Sit down,” Farida told Andreas, as she pinched his nose with one hand and dug into her bag for tissues with the other.
“He didn’t have to punch me,” sulked Andreas.
“Is he off the team, Coach?” asked another boy, worry overriding anything else.
Adam sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know.”
“He punched Andreas, you’re going to let that slide?” asked another boy hotly.
“Can I have five minutes after the fact before I answer?” asked Adam testily. “There’ll be a consequence, I just don’t know what. One thing I’m not going to do is make a decision when we’re all still upset.”
“Okay, pinch here,” Farida told Andreas. “Keep up the pressure.”
Pressure, thought Adam grimly. One more thing I don’t need today.
“Come on, guys,” said Adam, clapping his hands to get the boys’ attention. “Hit the showers. We’ll talk when you’re out.”
“Let’s go in the office,” Farida told Andreas, who nodded gingerly and let her lead him into the enclosed space, giving the boys some privacy to strip without their female coach nearby.
Adam waited until the boys were in the showers before he sat down on a bench and covered his face with his hands. The only phrase that was going through his head was, surprisingly, in English: Fuck my life.
It summed up the way he felt fairly accurately, at least.
“Coach?”
Adam looked up; Tom stood in front of him, dripping wet and clutching a towel around his waist. It was painfully obvious how young he was with his hair over his eyes and without the bulk of the hockey gear he nearly always wore when Adam saw him.
All of a sudden, it seemed more ridiculous than ever that any of them – as young as they were – could possibly be taking such a game to heart.
I did, though. When I was their age and younger, Adam reminded himself.
Tom fidgeted, shivering slightly. There were already goosebumps along his arms and across his chest.
“You should get dressed,” Adam told him. “Your mom will kill me if I bring you home with pneumonia.”
Tom nodded. “I will. I just... I’m sorry I punched Andreas.”
Adam nodded. “You’re going to tell Andreas that, I assume.”
“Already did. I’ll tell him again when he’s not cursing me out when I say it.”
Adam wanted to laugh, but Tom looked entirely too serious. “Probably a good idea.”
Tom pursed his lips, looking grim. “I shouldn’t have let my anger get the better of me.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” agreed Adam soberly. “I’m glad you see that.”
Tom gave him an odd look. “You’re not going to say something stupid like, it’s just a game, it’s not a reason to be mad, are you?”
It was so close to what his first reaction had been, Adam wanted to laugh. “Wasn’t planning on it. Why, is that what you expected?”
Tom shrugged. “It’s what my mom would be thinking. She wouldn’t say it, but she’d be thinking it. I mean, I know it’s a game, but... I really wanted to win it for you.”
Adam’s heart caught in his chest, and he had to blink fast to keep the sudden wetness in his eyes from being too noticeable. “Tom – that’s good of you, but it’s all right. There’s always next year.”
Tom stared at him. “What?”
“I know you and Andreas won’t be on the team, and probably not a couple of other kids either, but the ones who stay are good players. We can be just as competitive as—”
“No, Coach,” Tom interrupted him. There was a note in his voice that made Adam feel a little like Tom was the coach, about to school Adam in some point of hockey logic. “I’m not talking about us. I’m talking about you. You’re going to coach for junior league, aren’t you? You got that big job offer or whatever, right?”
Adam shook his head. “No. I’m not.”
Adam hadn’t realized how quiet the locker room was until then. The showers were off; the boys’ voices no longer echoed off the tiles.
Instead, they stood at the edge of the changing room, in various states of dress and undress, staring back at their coach. Even Farida was at the door to the manager’s office, with Andreas in front of her. There were tissues stuffed up his nose, and he was a bit paler than normal, but otherwise he looked fine.
Angry, but fine.
“What?” spluttered Andreas. “You’re not taking it?”
Adam glanced from Andreas’ angry face to the shocked expressions on the other boys. “I don’t think this is any—”
“Are you stupid?!?” shouted Andreas, and Tom rounded on him again.
“Andreas, shut up.”
“No, I won’t shut up!” yelled Andreas. “Coach is being an idiot! Hugo Nilsson, Tom! Fucking Hugo Nilsson himself asked Coach to coach for one of his teams and he’s not going to do it! I’m pretty sure I’m allowed to be mad about that!”
“No, you don’t!” Tom yelled back, just as the rest of the boys erupted into shouting. “It’s his choice! Even if it’s a fucking stupid one!”
Farida leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed. She had a grim expression on her face. “That’s your decision?”
“You told them?” Adam asked her, raising his voice to be heard over the cacophony.
Farida snorted. “Of course not. They have ears.”
Adam stood up and raised his voice. “All right, pipe down.”
The kids lowered their voices and glared at him, a mixture of fierce stares and crossed arms. Adam hadn’t been on the side of their wrath before; he wasn’t sure he liked the feeling.
“First of all,” he began, “while I appreciate your concern over my career, it’s not really something that concerns any of you.”
“It kinda does, Coach,” said Richard. “Seeing as your career is being someone’s coach, and currently, you’re ours.”
He had a point. Adam crossed his arms and stared at Richard, who stared solidly back. “Are you saying you’re looking to get rid of me, Richard?”
“Yes,” said Tom hotly.
“No,” Andreas corrected him. “You’re a great coach.”
“Thank you.”
“We just thought you’d want to coach junior league,” explained Richard, the epitome of cool-handed logic. “Seeing as how they’re better than us.”
“It’s more money!”
“It’s more prestige!”
“You could end up coaching NHL one day!”
“You could coach us again one day!”
Adam held up his hand, and the boys quieted down. “Okay, fine, you’re raising some good points. But I’m not coaching you guys for the money or the prestige or because I want to coach in the NHL. I coach you guys because this is what I want to be doing. Helping you guys get better is my favorite part of the job. I had my chance for the NHL a long time ago. It didn’t work out. I’ve made my peace with it.”
“So what, we’re second best?” demanded Tom. “Fuck you, Coach.”
The locker room exploded for a second time – this time, with half the boys leaping on Tom to pull him back, not that he was really gunning for Adam in the first place. The other half of the boys looked like there was a possibility they would have helped Tom kick Adam back into gear.
“Hey!” yelled Farida. “Settle down. Settle down!”
“That’s not what I meant!” Adam shouted, not that anyone was actually listening to what he said.
“We’re not your fucking consolation prize, you know!” Tom yelled. “So sorry you fucking screwed up your life and didn’t get to play in the NHL, here, have a bunch of screw-up kids to coach while you’re moping!”
“Tom!” yelled Farida. “That was uncalled for!”
“That’s not how it happened!” Adam snapped.
“I’m not going to stand here while he calls us his second-best option!”
The locker room erupted into shouting again. Adam knew he didn’t have a hope in hell of overcoming the screaming while the boys argued with each other. He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hand and wondered how long it’d be before they wore themselves out.
The foghorn broke through the racket perfectly well. When Adam looked up again, he saw the boys doubled over, their arms over their ears as they stared at Farida in shock.
Farida released the foghorn button on the megaphone and lowered it to her waist. “Okay, then,” she said. She might have been bellowing; it was hard to tell with the ringing in Adam’s ears. “Now that we’ve got that out of our system. Step one: everyone apologizes to Coach, because he’s worked damn hard to get us here and you guys played your hearts out and we’re going to acknowledge that we appreciate him.”
“Coach Farida swore,” breathed Pierre.
Farida lifted the megaphone again with a menacing look.
“Sorry, Coach.”
“Thank you, Coach.”
“Yeah, thanks, Coach.”
“Step two,” continued Farida. “Everyone gets their clothes on. Step three: everyone goes back to the hotel where we can all have good cries or naps or raging online gaming sessions until we’ve worked out whatever emotions we’ve got in our systems. Step four—”
Farida glanced at Adam.
“Step four,” said Adam, picking up where Farida clearly wanted him to continue, “coaching you might not have been what I wanted to do with my life originally – but it’s the only thing I’ve wanted to do over the last ten years. I don’t regret a single day or wish I’d been doing anything else. And today, you guys proved that my pride in your playing has not been misplaced.”
The boys shuffled from foot to foot, more than likely to cover the sniffing Adam was sure he could hear, too.
“Coach,” began Tom.
“I know,” said Adam. “But it’s not your decision, guys. It’s mine.”
“What about Ben?” asked Pierre. “Don’t you want to be with him?”
The boys went quiet again, staring at him.
Adam felt his skin go cold. “That’s not... look. It’s not that simple.”
“Isn’t it?” asked Andreas.
Adam took a breath and closed his eyes again. When he opened them, he had a dozen pairs of eyes staring back, waiting for an answer.
“Not always,” said Adam. “Step two, guys. Let’s go.”
It was as they were leaving the rink that Adam heard Hugo Nilsson call his name.
“Bernard! Hey, Bernard, wait up a mo’.”
Farida muttered something under her breath before turning to Adam. “It’s okay if you want to stay and talk to him.”
“No,” said Adam bluntly. He could already hear Nilsson’s boots on the linoleum, though. Even if he didn’t plan on taking the job, sneaking away just seemed... wrong. “This won’t take long.”
Farida gave him a hard look. “Don’t you dare make a decision about this right now.”
Adam frowned. “I’m not—”
“I’m serious,” Farida cut in. “You’re upset, we’re upset, there’s a whole lot of emotion, and whatever you tell him, I don’t want you to regret it. Even if you te
ll him you’re taking the job.”
“I thought you wanted me to the take the job,” said Adam slowly.
“I do. I just don’t want you to regret it.”
“Hey, there,” said Nilsson, right behind Adam. “Great game, sorry it didn’t go your way.”
“Boys,” Farida muttered out of the side of her mouth.
“Thanks, Coach,” they said, almost as a unit.
“Can I borrow your coach for a minute?” Nilsson asked them.
The boys gave him a hard look, almost as if they didn’t quite believe him. Adam’s heart stalled in his chest, suddenly frightened of what they might say.
“Go on,” he told the boys. “I’ll be right behind you.”
“Come on,” Farida said, ushering the boys away, with a last stern look at Adam over her shoulder.
“Your assistant coach is one tough cookie,” said Nilsson. He took off his glasses and rubbed them on his shirt. “I like her. She gonna stay with the team after you go?”
Farida and the boys disappeared out the door; Adam turned back to Nilsson. “I haven’t made up my mind about that.”
Nilsson raised his eyebrow. “Last day’s tomorrow. You guys fly out in the evening, right? Not that we need an answer that fast – but it’d be nice to get started on the papers.”
Adam sighed. “My team just lost, Nilsson. I can’t make this decision now.”
“Understandable. What about tomorrow?”
Adam snorted and shook his head. “You’re not going to let up on me, are you?”
“Adam,” said Nilsson. His given name from Nilsson was a beacon; Adam’s attention was caught. “I need you for this team, Adam. But I won’t need you forever.”
Adam held his breath.
“Tomorrow,” he heard himself say. “I’ll come by before the games and tell you then.”
“That’ll do.” Nilsson slid his glasses back on. “Go console your team. And think about it.”
“WELL, BENNY-MY-BOY, I have to admit, you pulled it off,” said Sheldon as he rocked back on one of the chairs in the bakery. “You’ve actually made enough money in the last week that you could probably pitch the entire stock of fruitcakes you’ve got back there and still come out even by the end of the year.”
Ben's Bakery and the Hanukkah Miracle Page 19
