“Not my office!” Corey exclaimed. “I had that camera shut down!”
The security guard looked at Corey with some hesitation. “Um, yes, sir, but…”
“But what?” Corey exploded. “But WHAT?”
The young man gripped his soft drink tightly as though he were protecting himself with it.
“Well, er, that lady…I think she’s an associate or something,” the guard stammered. “S-she came down one day and said every camera had to be working, including yours…‘lying ability’ or something like that.”
“Liability,” Corey corrected. “Can these cameras take pictures?”
“Oh, sure,” the guard replied. “It’s actually really cool. All you do is zoom in as much as you want and then you hit this button. I can show you.”
Corey left abruptly and got back on the elevator. On the ride to the Associate Lawyer’s floor, he imagined himself strangling her with his bare hands. The elevator dinged and when the doors opened, Corey made a beeline for her cubicle.
However, as he approached the Associate Lawyer’s workspace his eyes widened. Her desk was completely empty.
A paralegal walked by. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Corey.
“Are you okay?” the paralegal asked.
“Where is she?” Corey demanded.
“Who? Agnes?”
As crazy as it seemed, Corey could not remember her name. He’d never used it. He could only point at the barren cubicle.
“Yeah, Agnes,” the paralegal said. “She quit weeks ago. Said she had a better offer on the West Coast…opportunities for advancement…that kind of stuff.”
“She quit?”
“She quit.”
Corey stood there and did not say anything for several seconds. Finally, he covered his hurt face with one of his hands.
“Are…you crying?” the paralegal asked.
Corey ran past the elevators and took the stairs to his office. He walked quickly by his stunned secretary.
“Mr. Peters?”
“Leave me alone.”
Corey went into his office and slammed the door shut before falling into his desk chair and closing his eyes. He wanted to lock himself in there forever.
After a few minutes, he opened his eyes again and through his good eye saw an envelope with Evans Tax File written on it. He smelled a familiar perfume.
Corey’s hands were shaking as he used his fingers to slowly open the envelope and unfold the tiny piece of paper inside.
He read the very brief message:
Fuck you.
8.
Isaac sat in his dressing room stall at the Old Arena Gardens holding his new guitar. Through his sunglasses he looked around at his listless teammates as they went through the motions of putting on their equipment.
“Look at this bullshit,” he lamented. “Like lambs to the freakin’ slaughter.”
He turned to Alex who was suiting up right next to him.
“You gonna say something?” Isaac asked. “My man, you need to say something.”
Alex did not respond and instead put all his equipment on in a hurry. Isaac played a slow, mournful tune on his guitar.
A minute or so later Alex got up and stood in the middle of the room. The guys all went quiet. Freddy had been discussing a play with Mike, but quickly slipped out the door when he saw what was going on.
Players only.
“You know, I’ve been trying to think of something to say,” Alex began. “We’re about five minutes away from going out there, and if we get our asses handed to us again it’s all over. Being down 2–0 is bad enough, but I don’t think anyone here’s kidding themselves about what 3–0 would mean.”
Some of his teammates nodded.
“You know,” he continued, “by nature I’m kind of a reflective guy. Sometimes that’s a good thing and other times maybe not so good, but that’s who I am.
“I think as you get older, you start looking at things differently. People in your life come and go…sometimes for reasons that are hard to understand. You get to the point where you wonder what everything means, or why certain things happen.
Alex pointed up at an old clock above the door.
“Over the last few days, I’ve thought about how I’d love to go back in time to when I was sitting in a dressing room like this when I was younger – away from everything, and just with a bunch of guys trying to do something together. I’m not sure I appreciated it enough.
“But win or lose, I know we’re better than this. I mean, is it okay that they’re beating us to every puck? Is that okay?”
After a brief silence, Mike responded: “No.”
“Is it okay that they’re hitting us harder than we’re hitting them?
“No,” said another player.
“Is it okay that they’re smirking at us?” Alex asked, irritated.
“No!”
“That they’re laughing together before a faceoff? Laughing, like we’re a joke?”
“No, baby,” Isaac said.]
“Are we a joke?”
“No!”
“Are we?”
“NO!!!” the players all yelled in unison.
“Alright, so here’s what’s going to happen,” Alex declared, with a finger pointing at no one in particular.
“We’re going to go out there tonight and we are going to bang, and crash, and scratch and claw for every inch of ice on every play!” he shouted.
Eddie got up and stood by Alex as though he were ready to go to war with him. Matt lowered his mask and walked over to line up at the door.
“Let’s go!” the younger defenceman Todd yelled.
“Yeah!”
Alex went over to his stall and grabbed his helmet as Isaac put the guitar down and removed his sunglasses.
“Not bad,” Isaac said.
Well, you would never know by the way these Toronto fans are cheering, but their team is down in this series: 2–0 against a mighty Detroit squad. Detroit’s fans were super for the first two games, but I tell you, Toronto fans are answering the call tonight. This building is shaking, and the game hasn’t even started yet!
When the door to Toronto’s dressing room opened and Matt led the players out, the fans were on their feet and gave Toronto a hero’s welcome as the team hit the ice.
For their part, Detroit appeared unfazed by the atmosphere. One of their pesky wingers, a guy named Dino Francis, seemed to take pleasure in flashing a big grin at Toronto players. As Francis leaned in against Curtis for the opening draw, Curtis wasted no time bumping him with his large butt. One of the linesmen skated over and cautioned both players.
“You guys are a joke,” Francis sneered.
“Yeah, we’ll see,” Curtis responded.
Mike took the draw against Detroit’s star, Steve Reynolds, and won it cleanly. Barry picked up the puck near centre ice and shot it into Detroit’s zone. Isaac went after it with a desperate sense of urgency. Mike followed closely and Curtis went to the net to jostle with Detroit’s defence.
For the first time in the series, Toronto managed to keep Detroit trapped in their own zone. Mike and Isaac battled Detroit players for the puck with more intensity than any Toronto player had previously shown. When the puck got stuck between Mike’s skates along the boards, Detroit’s Francis decided to give Mike a few shots from behind. Alex skated in from the blue line and bodychecked Francis hard against the glass, sending the crowd into a frenzy.
“Punk!” Francis yelled at Alex.
“Drop ’em,” Alex responded.
Francis dropped his gloves and barely had time to get his hands up before Alex threw a flurry of punches at him, connecting well on at least two of the blows. Francis went down and the noise from the fans was deafening.
They’re going at it, and ohhhhhhhhh! Bucco is all over him! Down goes Francis! Down goes Francis!
Alex skated calmly to the penalty box. Francis had a small cut above his right eye and a thin stream of blood coming down the
right side of his face. This made the fans cheer even more, and an infuriated Francis tried pulling away from the linesmen. He skated by the Toronto bench and pointed at Ken Hornsby and Freddy Rozelli. Ken was calm, but Freddy stood on the bench and gave it right back. Some of the players pulled Freddy down.
On the ensuing power play, Toronto kept control of the puck inside Detroit’s zone and barely missed a number of scoring chances. Curtis was just shy of another garbage goal as he rang a rebound off the post. Two minutes went by without a goal, but the home crowd was buzzing, and Toronto kept pouring it on.
Then on a rare lapse of communication between Barry and Alex on defence, Steve Reynolds grabbed a loose puck and flew up the middle on a breakaway.
Everyone in the rink seemed to hold their breath as Reynolds closed in on Matt, who came out of his net to challenge him. Reynolds faked to his right before putting on a beautiful deke, but Matt the Cat timed Reynold’s release of the puck perfectly and dove across the net to make a jaw-dropping save.
Matt had gotten his father a ticket behind the goal where he’d be playing two out of the three periods, and as he turned to take a drink of water from the bottle on top of his net before the next faceoff, he saw his dad standing with the other fans behind the glass, smiling and looking very much like a proud father.
With about forty seconds left in the period, Toronto controlled the puck deep in Detroit’s zone again. Mike danced around with it and shook off attempts from Detroit players to take it away from him. Curtis stood in front of the net taking all kinds of abuse from both Detroit defenders as Isaac lurked around the net, waiting for a shot or pass.
Toronto is moving the puck around…a pass to Davis on the point. Davis a shot! Hits someone in front…loose puck! Lewis is on it…Banion’s in there…still loose! Now Hill dives in…a scramble! Lewis whacks at it!!!
He SCOOOOOOOORES!!!!!!!
The crowd erupted so loudly after Curtis finally knocked the puck in before being unceremoniously dumped by Detroit players that no one heard Cole Foster bellowing.
Curtis Lewis gives Toronto a 1–0 lead and this place is going crazy!
Toronto continued to cycle the puck effectively. Halfway through the second period, Mike took a pass near the Detroit net and unleashed a perfect wrist shot in the top corner to increase Toronto’s lead to 2–0.
The game was tight, but things were looking good for Toronto – until Isaac allowed Detroit’s pesky Francis to goad him into taking a retaliatory penalty after Francis slashed him when the referee’s back was turned. Isaac hauled him down and immediately regretted it when the referee’s arm shot up to put in him the box for two minutes. On the power play, Reynolds tipped a point shot in perfectly to put his team on the board. They now trailed 2–1.
Back on the Toronto bench, Isaac slammed his stick in frustration. Ken looked over at him, but did not say anything.
As soon as the third period started, a rejuvenated Detroit team took it to Toronto. By the ten-minute mark of the final period, Toronto was still leading 2–1, but they were being outshot 10–0 in the third and were hanging on by their fingernails.
On the Toronto bench, Ken conferred quickly with Freddy before turning to Alex, who was double-shifting on defence and trying to catch his breath.
“Alex, you’re moving up,” Ken said, pointing to the forward lines.
“Coach?” Alex asked, surprised.
He could not recall ever being asked to play forward while the team was protecting a one-goal lead. Ken pointed to the top end of the bench.
“Yes, sir,” Alex said as he got up and shifted over to join the forward lines.
During a quick break during which Angus Miller had come on the ice to shovel some of the excess ice away, Cole Foster’s voice could be heard throughout the nervous crowd.
Toronto’s back on their heels and someone, like maybe their captain Alex Bucco, has to grab the team by the throat, and get ’em going like the way they came out and played the first half of this game.
On the next shift, the pendulum slowly swung back in Toronto’s direction as Alex and Eddie used their speed to run down the Detroit defenders. Alex hit three Detroit players on that shift and the fans started to make noise again.
With about five minutes left and bodies flying everywhere, a loose puck in the Detroit zone was within Alex’s reach.
And there’s a loose puck. Bucco is there…snaps it! HE SCORES!!!
Alex raised both arms in the air and Eddie jumped on him to celebrate. The arena was deafening again as the fans began to taste victory. Suddenly awash with fatigue, Alex felt himself go numb and his senses became very acute. Everything seemed so loud and bright. Eddie nudged his captain toward the bench to get off.
With fifteen seconds left and Detroit’s goalie out, Eddie dove headfirst at a loose puck to poke it out of his zone and down the ice. The final buzzer rang. Game over.
Toronto won 3–1.
9.
Matt left the rink so amped up that he probably could have played another full game. It was a huge win, and he made some big saves. His father pointing out to everyone around him that Matt was his son was just icing on the cake.
The two of them now sat in one of the many trendy restaurants near the Esplanade district of Toronto. This time Matt’s father started ordering appetizers and beers before Matt had the chance. He was grinning from ear to ear and could not stop talking about the game.
“That breakaway you stopped after your D went brain-dead,” his father marvelled while stuffing his face with bruschetta, “I mean, that set the tone. Totally different game if they score there.”
Matt had worked up quite the appetite following the game, but watching his father simultaneously inhale bruschetta, fried calamari and a glass of wine was suppressing his own hunger.
“You just looked so great out there,” his father continued between mouthfuls. “I mean, I’m thinking you’re as good if not better than back in the day.”
Matt’s dad went on like this right through the main course and into dessert. At one point, Matt couldn’t listen to any more of it and excused himself to go the bathroom, where he pulled out a little vial from his pocket and took a quick hit.
He leaned toward the mirror and wiped the residue away from the base of his nostrils. If Matt felt strange about his father’s praise and newfound company, those feelings quickly gave way to something more positive, almost euphoric.
As he returned to the table to find an array of desserts waiting for him, his father motioned for their server to come around. He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill.
“I was wondering if you knew where my son and I could go for, you know, some fun,” Matt’s father smiled while holding up the bill.
“Dad?” Matt asked. “What are you doing?”
“The night is young, Mattie,” his father replied.
The server looked around to make sure he was out of earshot.
“I may be able to help you,” he said before walking away.
“You still have an office?” Matt asked.
“In a little bit of a transition right now,” Matt’s father replied. “Moving into a new one soon. Really nice place.”
The server returned quickly with the bill for the meal. He leaned in and said, “Thank you very much, sir. I’ve included some information that you asked for. Have a nice evening.”
Matt’s father chuckled and licked his fingers one by one before wiping them with the tablecloth.
“I’m sure we will.”
10.
Coming off their victory against Detroit in Game 3, Ken and Freddy put the guys through a light skate the next morning followed by a team meeting where they discussed plays and talked strategy. The coaches were intent on keeping the meeting short, as they wanted the players to rest and clear their heads before coming back later that night to play Game 4.
After his teammates all dispersed to go home for a few hours, Isaac paced the hallways of the Arena Gardens looking for Helen. Her office wa
s closed, and no one seemed to have any idea where she was. In fact, no one had seen her for a few days.
He finally ran into Angus Miller. As the city custodian approached Helen’s office the keys on his belt jingled loudly. He carried a stack of envelopes. Angus saw Isaac and started looking through the stack.
“You here for your scraps again?” Angus asked as he found the right envelope and held it out to Isaac.
“Thanks, my man.”
“Don’t spend it all at once.”
“It’s got a purpose,” Isaac responded while folding the envelope in half and stuffing it in his pocket.
“Oh, yeah? Like what?” Angus asked.
“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” Isaac replied before putting on his sunglasses and leaving.
Isaac’s swagger was gone a short while later as he stood nervously on the sidewalk outside his ex-girlfriend Melanie’s house. The cops had been decent with him the last time he was forced to leave her property, but there was no chance it would go down the same way again.
All he had to do was drop the envelope off and walk away – or run away if there was going to be another confrontation. He tried to convince himself for the hundredth time that everything would be fine.
Drop it off and leave. Simple.
Isaac took a step, then stopped abruptly when he saw a woman he quickly recognized as Melanie’s mother pushing an umbrella stroller with the cutest little girl possible sitting in it. He froze and his throat made a noise. His daughter and her grandmother were still a fair distance away, but Isaac strained his eyes to try and make out Sophia’s face. Melanie’s mother didn’t notice him. She had a cigarette going as she pushed the stroller along.
Isaac took a few lateral steps to hide behind some bushes and then peered through them. He mouthed her name silently to himself: Sophia. Little Sofe-Sofe. She was swinging one of her legs up and down, as carefree as can be. Isaac smiled as he watched Melanie’s mother push the stroller toward the house.
She lifted the little girl up and carried her inside, leaving the stroller on the porch. Isaac waited until the front door closed before sprinting out from behind the bush. He leapt up the small steps, dropped the envelope in the mailbox and was turning to leave when he heard the unmistakable sound of the door being opened from the inside.
The Tournament Page 29
