“He could, though,” said Pierre hopefully. “I don’t think he was all that mad. Just sad.”
Adam’s heart lurched. Ben was... sad? What did Ben have to be sad about?
Unless... if he really had thought...
“Sad like Coach, you mean?” asked Richard.
The last thing Adam wanted was for his team to start pitying him. “Thanks for the relationship counseling, guys. Wow, look, there’s a hockey game. With your teammates. Go watch it.”
The boys went back to their seats, making as much of a racket as they had before. Farida moved the popcorn container back in between them.
“He did seem sad,” she offered. “You do, too. That’s what they call a sign.”
Adam sighed. “Can we just watch the game?”
“Sure.”
The game moved fast – but that wasn’t surprising. The best of the best, the cream of the crop, the kids who probably had a future in the sport were all out on the ice, and they were going all out too, no matter what their coaches had counseled. They wore their team uniforms under red or white pinnies, and shouted at each other in English, French, Spanish, and Hockey. Adam didn’t doubt that the visiting coaches weren’t here to scout... but he also didn’t doubt that they’d remember the kids they saw on the ice today.
Including Andreas and Tom, who were both playing as hard and as fast as they ever had. It was easy to see them continuing on to the junior leagues, maybe even pursuing hockey to the NHL, or at least the NCAA.
Maybe neither of them would be sidelined by family or injury or anything else. Maybe one of them would go all the way, and one day he’d be reading a news story about them and they’d say...
What? Like they’d mention me out of the slew of coaches they’re going to have over their lifetimes? They probably won’t even remember my name.
He’d still be in Montreal, coaching kids, half of whom would never advance to the next level and didn’t want to. Sometimes there’d be the diamonds in the rough like Andreas and Tom who made it worth it. He’d still be taking care of his dad, visiting his mom’s grave, nuking a frozen meal of mac and cheese for dinner.
And it was all right. It wasn’t even a bad future, necessarily. He was young; he could be coaching for another forty years. His dad was in reasonably good health, he could be alive for another twenty.
The future stretched out before him, long and bleak and lonely.
Fuck, thought Adam.
“Nooooo!” Farida’s voice pulled Adam back to the game. The players were racing across the ice, a tight pack of pads and sticks and fury. Just in the front, hunched over and determined to reach the goal on the other end, was Andreas, with Tom right at his elbow trying to keep the other team at bay.
“Come on, Andreas!” Farida yelled from the edge of her seat.
The boys were howling and stamping their feet, shouting encouragement to their teammates. Adam leaned forward with a frown.
“They’re too close together,” he said.
“I know,” said Farida, clearly upset. “Don’t you think—”
Adam wasn’t sure what happened: only that one moment, the pack of boys were on their feet and the next, they weren’t. The mass of players slid on the ice, slamming hard into the nearby boards with so much force that it was surprising they hadn’t been knocked over.
More worrying was the smear of brownish-red on the ice that the boys left behind. Someone was bleeding, and it was impossible to know who.
Adam flashed for a moment to the video he’d seen earlier that week – a crash on the ice, a smear of blood left behind. And crumpled by the boards, Ben bleeding out.
“Oh no,” breathed Farida again, clutching Adam’s arm. Her fingers dug in, even through the thick sweater. “Oh no. Adam. Tom was on the outside.”
Adam’s heart skipped a beat.
The refs were on top of the pile a moment later, pulling boys onto their feet, giving them a quick look over to make sure they were fine, and then gently pushing them away.
Ben hadn’t skated away. It’d been the end of his career.
Would it be the end of Tom’s?
“He’s fine, I’m sure he’s fine,” said Adam. He stood up, not that it gave him a better vantage point. The boys who were skating away didn’t seem inclined to continue the mess into a fight; they were shaking out their arms and heads, as if trying to dislodge a ringing in their ears.
None of them wore Penguin colors under their pinnies. Adam’s heart started to race.
Farida stood up next to him. The rest of the Penguins had gone quiet, as had most of the rest of the rink, waiting to see what – who – was on the bottom of the pile.
Andreas was one of the last to rise. Farida breathed out a sigh of relief when he worked his skates back and forth, rolling his shoulders and twisting to get out the kinks.
Adam didn’t breathe until he saw Andreas reach down for Tom and pull him to his feet. His helmet was still on his head, but twisted at an angle that probably explained the blood that was splattered down his chest.
The moment he saw the blood, Adam was off the bleachers and heading for the other side of the rink.
“Hey Coach,” said Tom as the refs led him to the box. There was a steady flow of dark blood coming from one nostril and dripping through his fingers. Adam sighed with relief that it was the only visible injury. “Aren’t you supposed to be watching the game?”
“Aren’t you supposed to not get hurt?” challenged Adam as the tourney doctor approached.
“I’m fine,” said Tom, jerking away from the doctor.
“Yeah, yeah,” said the doctor, completely unfazed. “Are you his coach?”
“Yes,” said Adam.
The doctor nodded. “All right. Take off your helmet, son, let’s have a look.”
Tom winced as he took off his helmet. There were a few scratches on his nose and his cheek from where it had scraped as it twisted during the fall, in addition to the thick rivulet of blood from his nostril. The doctor handed him some gauze, which Tom immediately pressed up to his nose.
“Name,” said the doctor.
“I don’t have a concussion,” insisted Tom.
“I’m assuming that’s not on his birth certificate,” the doctor said to Adam.
Tom sighed and responded with the thickest Quebecois accent Adam had ever heard the boy use. “Thomas Gagnon.”
The doctor looked at Adam for confirmation, and Adam nodded.
“Know what day it is?”
“Sunday,” said Tom, irritable and impatient. “I’m in Boston, I’m Canadian, and your president is an asshole.”
“He’s fine,” the doctor told Adam.
“Debatable,” said Adam.
“Can I please go back out to play now?” begged Tom.
“No,” said the doctor and Adam together.
“At least wait until the bleeding stops,” added the doctor.
Tom groaned as if this was the most boring and stupid decision in the history of hockey – which Adam supposed it probably was.
“Come on, I want to play,” groaned Tom as he twisted in his chair and leaned against the Plexi-glass. “I can’t just sit here. They’re dying out there without me.”
A glance showed that they weren’t – the game was continuing without Tom just fine. Adam saw the longing on Tom’s face though. He could feel the itch that Tom must have felt under his skin, the pull toward the action that he couldn’t ignore.
“They’re not dying,” said the doctor patiently. “And you need to give your nose time to stop bleeding.”
“Fuck that!” snapped Tom, and then he glanced at Adam with a strange, almost frantic expression in his eyes. “Coach, I’m on a streak, did you see me out there?”
“I did,” confirmed Adam. “You were doing great.”
“So you know I can’t wait, I’ll end up going stagnant! If I don’t get back now, I won’t get back at all.”
Like me, realized Adam.
The ice was calling
to him, same as it had once called to Adam.
And he’s afraid if he ignores it for too long... it’ll stop.
Like it did for me.
Tom pulled the gauze away from his nose, grimaced, and threw it in the trash. The skin under his nose was still flecked with blood, but the flow appeared to have stopped. Adam had no doubt that the moment he was able, Tom would be back on the ice, and gunning harder than ever.
“I gotta get out there,” muttered Tom into the Plexi-glass.
“Tom,” began Adam.
“Good player you’ve got here,” said the doctor, amused. “The ones with spirit are my favorites.”
“Yeah,” echoed Adam as the doctor moved away. “Tom.”
“What?” muttered Tom.
Adam hesitated, unsure what to say.
You’ll play again.
This isn’t forever.
It’s just a nosebleed. It’s not like it was for me, or for Ben.
I still hear the ice calling, Tom. It never really stopped. I just... didn’t listen to it.
Adam clapped on Tom’s back; Tom didn’t even flinch. “Thanks, Tom.”
Tom’s angry expression slid into confusion. “Huh?”
Adam didn’t answer; he just patted Tom’s shoulder one more time before stepping away.
Hugo Nilsson was sitting just behind the box, eating popcorn piece by piece. “How’s the kid?” he asked when Adam approached.
“He’s fine,” said Adam. “Yes.”
Nilsson held the popcorn kernel an inch away from his face. “You saying yes to what I think you’re saying yes to?”
“Yes,” repeated Adam.
Nilsson broke into a grin and offered him the popcorn container. “Hot damn. Okay. When do you leave town?"
“Tonight,” Adam told him. “But I’ll call you in the next couple of days?”
“Do that,” said Nilsson. “We’ll get the papers drafted – oh. Which team?”
Adam frowned. “Huh?”
“Hartford or Quincy?”
“I—”
There was a shout from the ice as one of the teams scored a goal. Adam glanced over to see which one.
He never got that far. Instead, his gaze landed on the figure standing by the door, arms holding a cake box.
Adam’s heart skipped a beat.
Ben.
“Can I get back to you on that one?” asked Adam.
“Kinda need to know before I draft the papers,” said Nilsson.
“Won’t take more than five minutes,” said Adam. “Excuse me.”
The game was back in play when Adam reached Ben, still standing by the doors, holding a large box that surely held something delicious. Ben looked nervous, shifting from foot to foot, but his gaze was solidly locked with Adam’s, and he wasn’t turning away. The light from the glass doors shone on his blond hair, making it look like his entire head was aflame, or at least lit from within and glowing.
Like a candle, thought Adam.
“Hey,” said Ben as Adam reached him. “Um. I know you’re flying out tonight, so—”
Adam didn’t stop; he reached out on either side of Ben and shoved the doors behind him open, which had the added benefit of pushing Ben through them and straight into the lobby. It was thankfully deserted; Adam let the doors slam shut behind them. Ben kept stumbling backwards, struggling even more to hold the box up.
“Ah,” stammered Ben as they walked. “Okay, sorry, this was a bad idea, you’re still mad...”
“Mad?” echoed Adam, and then they ran up against the display case on the far side of the lobby. The thud against the glass echoed and made Ben flinch, which in turn sent a spike of guilt through Adam. “I’m not mad. Why do you think I’m mad?”
Ben’s eyes narrowed. “Um. Because you left two nights ago after we argued and I haven’t seen you since? What else am I supposed to think?”
Adam glanced down at the box. “These are in the way.”
“Yeah, I like protection,” said Ben, gripping the box harder.
Adam opened the box. Inside were brown paper bags with spots of butter turning the paper translucent. “You brought—”
“Zucchini muffins,” said Ben. “Boys get hungry when traveling. There should be enough for all of them. And for you,” he added.
Adam glanced up at him. “You think I’m mad at you, but you brought me muffins?”
“I don’t like it when people go hungry,” said Ben loftily. “Hey, what are you—?”
Adam had to lean over the box to kiss him. It wasn’t much of a kiss, but the box kept him from getting any closer. It was enough to keep Ben from finishing his inane question, at least, and when Adam pulled back, Ben’s eyes were glassy and his lips were damp.
“I’m not mad at you,” said Adam, pulling the box from Ben’s now-lax fingers.
“Figured that,” said Ben.
Adam set the box down on the nearby bench. When he straightened, something in the case caught his eye.
“Hey,” he said, looking closer. “Is that you?”
Ben turned his head and looked. “Um. Yeah. Where do you think I trained?”
Adam wanted to sit down and laugh. Or maybe examine the case for more evidence of Ben’s career. Instead, he rested his arms against the case. “I have something I need to ask you.”
Ben took a breath. “If this is about the Christmas tree—”
“I don’t care about the Christmas tree.”
“You cared about it two days ago.”
Adam shook his head. “It wasn’t about the Christmas tree—”
“Of course it was about the Christmas tree, you made it about the Christmas tree—”
“Ben—”
“I start selling fruitcakes tomorrow,” said Ben in a rush. “And cookies with Santa Claus and reindeer. I put up Christmas decorations and I make cakes for first communions and Easter brunches. And Eid celebrations, and iftars during Ramadan, and I know I’ve made cakes for Hindu and Shinto celebrations, and a bunch of other holidays for religions I can’t even begin to name. Because yeah, it’s good business practice to sell that stuff but also because I know what it’s like to be the odd man out when it comes to finding a place that will cater to your Bar Mitzvah and not suggest serving bacon-wrapped crabcakes. I know what it’s like to feel like you’re on the spot explaining your religion when all you want is a decent challah bread for that weekend’s oneg. I remember sitting in the high school cafeteria, comparing fasting for Yom Kippur with fasting for Lent with fasting for Ramadan.”
“Okay,” said Adam, but it was clear Ben was on a roll and not inclined to stop.
“And you know what? It doesn’t matter. I can be Jewish and make a fruitcake, I can be Jewish and write Happy Eid in Arabic on a cookie, I can be Jewish and have a tree in my house in December, and guess what? I’m still Jewish. And I’m really sorry you don’t realize that.”
“I have a job offer,” said Adam.
Ben stared at him. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes,” said Adam. “Did you hear what I said?”
“I—” Ben shook his head. “Two days ago, you were furious.”
“There’s a junior league hockey team in Boston. They want me to come and coach them.”
Ben stared at him.
“I want to know if that’d be okay with you.”
“If that’d be—” Ben shoved against him. “Why are you asking me? Boston’s a big town. You could come here and never see me.”
“I know,” said Adam. “Except... I don’t want to.”
Ben stared at him again, suspicion on his face. “Don’t... want to come to Boston? Or—”
“I was mad about the Christmas tree,” said Adam. “I didn’t understand why you’d have one. But I was raised in a Jewish house, by Jewish parents, in a Jewish community. You weren’t.”
Ben opened his mouth, ready to argue. Adam pressed his thumb on Ben’s lips to stop him speaking. “I don’t mean you’re not Jewish. You are. You’re probably
better at being Jewish than I am.”
Ben shook his head to disagree.
“It’s...” Adam exhaled, looking into the case as he tried to think of the words. “My father might have been a walking bar joke, but I’ve only ever known one way to be faithful. The more he participated in other faiths, the more he held tightly to his own. But not you.”
“I don’t know how to be Jewish, not the same way as you,” said Ben.
“Maybe not in the details. But you know how to be a more accepting person than I am.” Adam leaned forward until his forehead touched Ben’s. “You’re braver than I could ever be. You stepped back out on that ice, Ben, when you had every reason in the world to refuse, and no one would have blamed you for it. I’ve spent ten years avoiding even that much.”
“Not true,” murmured Ben. “You’re still in hockey. I can barely face my teammates.”
“But you did. You’ve inspired me. I can’t be in Boston, and know you’re here, and not see you. Not want to be with you, or near you, or anything about you. I need you to teach me to be a better man. Please.”
Ben was shaking under Adam’s hands. “This was just a fling. Just a week-long fling. Nothing serious. Just for fun.”
Kissing Ben would have been unfair just then – but there was nothing else Adam wanted to do more. He tilted Ben’s face up to his. “I don’t think that’s been true for me for a while now. Six days, at least.”
Ben was so still. “What are you asking me? I need you to say it.”
The world was nothing but the noise of the game behind them and the roaring in Adam’s ears. “I don’t want this to be a fling anymore. I want to see you, Ben. All of the time. Every day. I want to take you out on dates and wake up with you in the morning and make dinner together and complain about the weather.”
“And take showers in my bathroom.”
“That too,” said Adam gravely. “But mostly, I want you. A week’s not long enough. Not anymore.”
Ben tasted like sugar and coffee and cinnamon; his lips were cold but his mouth was warm, and he felt so perfectly right in Adam’s arms.
The sounds of the game faded into the distance; Ben kissed him and whispered things Adam couldn’t quite make out between the sounds of their lips against each other. Adam wrapped his arms around him and held him tight, wishing he didn’t have to let go.
Ben's Bakery and the Hanukkah Miracle Page 22
