After a long discussion with the sommelier, Astrid found something she approved of. Our wine was very good, but after a point, it was hard for me to tell the differences. I could tell a cheap wine from a good one, but beyond that they were hard to distinguish. Astrid said my palate was developing, but I wasn’t so sure.
She was in the middle of a convoluted story about her job. “I told him, I am extremely competent at my job, but this is the first time I’ve worked on a project like this. He has to understand that there’s going to be a learning curve.” She flipped her long hair back for emphasis. Tonight, Astrid looked very beautiful in a navy dress. Other men in the restaurant were checking her out.
“To my complete shock, he said he wanted me taken off the project! Can you believe it? I went right to Randy and complained about the lack of respect. He’s going to take care of everything.”
Astrid had lots of drama at work. Sometimes I wondered if she was as good at her job as she claimed, since she seemed to have so many arguments and problems.
Dinner was good, but afterwards I was feeling a little antsy. Sitting and talking about nothing was not my ideal evening. I wanted to head home and do my own thing. I was having more headaches lately, so I figured that I needed more sleep. I wondered how I could let Astrid know this in a diplomatic way. Sometimes, she got upset when we didn’t do what she was expecting.
“James,” she began. I recognized that tone of voice, and I didn’t really want to get into anything serious right now.
“What is it?” I said. Did I sound as irritated as I felt?
“I’ve been talking to a few people, and apparently not every NHL player ever wins the Stanley Cup.”
“Yeah, so?”
“In fact, I Googled this topic and only 15% of all retiring players have ever even won the Cup!”
It wasn’t like Astrid to be doing hockey research. “Really? I knew it was tough, but I didn’t know it was that low.”
“Well, now that you know, does that change your mind?”
“About what?”
“Oh my gosh, about getting married. You said you wouldn’t think about settling down until you win the Cup. But what if you don’t win the Cup?”
This was really bugging me. I was already too much of a worrier, and I didn’t need my girlfriend to be casting doubt and negativity on me. Of course I was going to win the Cup—it was one of my goals, and it had been forever. First make the NHL, now I was team captain, and we were winning. You had to stay positive and confident.
“Don’t even think that,” I told her. I signalled the waiter for the bill since I wanted to get out of here.
“You have to be realistic. What would you do if you didn’t win the Cup?”
“I am going to win,” I told her. “Anyway, who cares? I can get married when I retire.”
“Well, women might care. We have biological clocks, you know.”
The bill came and I had a quick look, and then slapped my credit card on it. I was glad my mother wasn’t here to see how much I had paid for an average dinner. It was weird that I could still feel like a hick from Fredericton who was out of his element. My parents had met Astrid before Christmas, and I knew my mother wasn’t very impressed.
“Whatever, Astrid. Let’s go, I’ll take you home now.”
“Why aren’t we going to your place? I don’t think we’re done talking.” We got up and got our coats from the hostess. The valet had already brought my Mercedes to the front door. It was snowing, but not very hard.
I wasn’t a superstitious guy, but I didn’t like all this talk about not winning. “Can’t we drop this subject? I really don’t want to deal in hypothetical crap.”
“It’s not hypothetical, James. It’s real and important to me. The least you could do is focus on what I’m saying and not keep brushing me off.”
“Oh, for crying out loud. Why is winning the Cup so important to you all of a sudden? It’s not like you’ve taken the time to learn about any other parts of the game.”
“That is so untrue. I have spent a lot of time learning about hockey, all because it’s something you care about. Go ahead, ask me a hockey question.”
“Uhhh.” I tried to think of a question that was reasonably hard, but not too expert. “What’s icing?”
She huffed in frustration. “Nobody knows that. At Tuesday’s game, Val said she still doesn’t get icing. And she’s been married to Chico for years.”
Some girls knew what icing was. I turned onto Michigan and didn’t say another word. Was I supposed to keep asking her questions until we found one she could answer? My life was stressful enough without having to argue with my girlfriend about stupid things. Astrid was not usually like this.
“What does the year on a wine label mean?”
“What?”
“I’m asking you a question about my work. You got to ask me a question about your work, and now I’m doing the same thing.”
Was she kidding? She insisted on being quizzed, and all I wanted was to have a relaxing evening. I stepped on the accelerator in order to drop her off sooner. She was still waiting, so I answered, “Uh, it’s the year the wine was bottled.”
“Wrong!” Her high voice echoed through the car. “It’s the year the grapes were harvested. That’s a very common error that….”
I stopped listening to her. I was getting another headache and now I worried that it might be concussion-related. Was it that hit I took in the game two nights ago? Concussions could end your career prematurely, and I’d had one in my last year of college. It was a minor one—but still—any concussion was dangerous. That was a huge worry for me.
Astrid’s sharp voice interrupted my thoughts. “James! You’re not even listening to me. I put up with you talking about hockey for hours, but you can’t even spend two minutes hearing about my area of expertise.”
“Put up with? You told me you loved hockey now.”
She scowled at me. “Well, yes. But I like it as a normal person would. You’re completely obsessed with hockey.”
“Well, look where it’s gotten me. You don’t seem to mind going out and enjoying the benefits of a hockey career.” I pulled up in front of her apartment building.
“Focus on the bigger picture here. We’ve been dating for over four months now—that’s something real and serious. And now I find out that you’re not going to settle down until you win some stupid prize that you may never ever win.”
“It’s not a stupid prize.” The Stanley Cup was everything—every boy who ever played pictured himself winning the final, hoisting the cup, and skating around the arena in victory. Even imagining it gave me this incredible feeling inside—this warmth and hopefulness.
“You know what, James? You’re a child. I’ve been wasting my time here, and I’m not going to waste another minute. We are done.”
She got out and slammed the car door. Stunned, I watched her walk up to the front door. Her posture was as perfect as ever, and her blond hair contrasted with the navy coat. Absentmindedly I noticed that her dress and coat had been perfectly coordinated. Snowflakes drifted down, and she disappeared into the white swirls and her glass lobby.
I should have felt bad about Astrid breaking up with me. But instead I felt relieved. I pulled away from the curb and headed home. I realized that my headache was gone.
40
Reunion Island
A new year, a new start? Nope, 2009 was looking as challenging as last year had been. My one shot at the big time had been the disastrous interview with Peter Haines. And I had to plead with Peter to explain to Marc Latour what actually happened. All I needed was for Williams to hear a rumour that I was giving blowjobs in the Canucks dressing room—it would confirm what he thought anyway and give him a reason to fire me. Peter acted all amused and superior, and kept saying, “You owe me big time, Kelly.”
But he had done it, and then gotten sent back down to Manitoba. So other than a boring interview clip, there were no repercussions from my brief momen
t in the spotlight. In January, I was back to covering human-interest stories, but luckily, no more hockey-playing dogs.
“Tanaka! Get in here.” I flinched when I heard Brendan Williams’s gravelly voice. Normally, he only called me in to give me hell, mock me, or threaten to fire me. Only a few people were still left in the “firing date” pool. Too bad nobody had bet on me actually surviving my probation, which was coming up in a week’s time.
“I see you’ve been working hard on your little human interest pieces. It’s always good to have filler around for the down times.”
Awesome, just what I was hoping to hear—all my work seen by twelve people.
“But there have been comments,” he raised his eyebrows here, “that we’re not using you to your fullest… capabilities.”
Sarcastic pause.
“I begged to differ, but Ross Laurie’s a personal friend, right?”
Suggestive pause. I didn’t bother correcting him.
“He can be a very stubborn man. So, I’m supposed to give you more high profile assignments.”
Williams gave me a big shit-eating grin.
“I’d like you to get the postgame comments at GM Place tonight.”
Was he kidding me? This was awesome, finally a chance to go to an NHL game and talk to some of the actual Canucks!
“From the Chicago Blackhawks.”
* * *
Jeremy Ormiston got all the best reporting assignments. He was the one who usually did the postgame one-on-ones with the Canucks or the live feed interview with the player of the game. He was a little surprised to find out that I was his counterpart in Chicago dressing room, but he was chipper as usual.
“Team Pokémon has got the Hawks, okey-dokey. We’ll meet up in the edit suite after the game and see what you get.” Zack and I had a new nickname these days. He wore trucker’s caps, had pale skin and messy hair. I was half-Japanese and as energetic as Pikachu. It was a huge step up from my previous nicknames.
The Chicago Blackhawks were on a tear and considered to be the league’s top team and a potential Stanley Cup winner. So they were favoured to win this game. I was way back in the press box, as befitted my lowly status. Everyone pretty much ignored me and talked to the people they already knew, which was fine with me.
However, the Canucks ended up dominating, chasing the starting goalie for the Hawks, and winning 5-1. The game was marred only by a fight between Vancouver’s Adam March and Chicago’s William Kissman.
And the lone goal by the Blackhawks was scored by James Frechette.
What can I say? It was pretty weird that the first time I got to see Jimmy play in the NHL was under these circumstances. He played okay—well, better than okay—but I could read his body language and he was frustrated that the team couldn’t get rolling. He took a dumb slashing penalty in the second. Of course, a few people in the press box knew I had had a relationship with him, which was unbelievably awkward. I guessed tonight was going to be every bad thing Williams wanted, especially since watching Jimmy play was giving me some very unprofessional emotions.
After the game, I had to submit a list of players that I wanted to talk to one-on-one to the Media Relations guy from the Blackhawks, Tim Glasser. I could tell from the onceover he gave me that he knew exactly who I was and whom I had dated.
“Well, Kelly, I heard you were working for C2C Sports, but I had no idea you were doing Canucks games already.”
Apparently he wasn’t a fan of lousy defencemen. “I get around,” I said, then realized how sleazy that sounded.
“Oh, do you?” he asked, as I handed over the list. Due the lack of Chicago star power on display tonight, I didn’t have a ton of choices. I had asked for William Kissman, Ty Ballanchuk, and of course—the guy who had scored the only goal. Tim looked at it, raised his eyebrows and then frowned at me. “I don’t think I should let you talk to James without giving him a heads-up first. We had no idea it was going to be you in the room. I’m not saying it’s a big deal for him, but we don’t want any extra drama here. Isn’t that why they sent you in the first place?”
Tim was certainly a straight shooter. If Williams found out about this, I was in big trouble. But if I got anything decent, maybe it wouldn’t matter.
“No worries, Tim. He scored the only Hawks goal, so I had to request him. But to be honest, it wasn’t something that I was looking forward to anyway. Strike him from the list, and we’re cool here.”
Tim smiled at me. “Thanks. Of course anyone can do the scrum with him—just no one-on-ones. I’m sure you’ll be cleared by the next time we’re in town. Good luck.”
A few minutes later, the dressing room doors opened and the media rushed into the room. I followed Zack inside and took a deep breath. The rooms got bigger and nicer, but the essential smell was still the same. The stinky smell I always associated with hockey games and fun. I felt a certain confidence seeping into me—I could do this.
As I surveyed the room, I could tell that Jimmy was already in the middle of a mini-scrum on one side of the room after his awesome one goal performance. I made my way over, but I was kind of boxed out on the side. I was pretty sure that Jimmy hadn’t seen me yet, but I could see him. He looked sweaty, frustrated, and—hot.
Shit. I needed to be a professional. My stupid body was having this whole magnet/steel reaction. But parting the scrum and straddling him would not be a normal reporter action. I tried not to breathe too deeply, in case I picked up his scent. I closed my eyes briefly, and as I closed them, I saw Brendan Williams’s face, smirking at me when he gave me this assignment. He did it because he knew it might be a problem for me. He wanted me to screw up so he could fire me and prove himself right. Fuck Williams, I could do this.
There was a brief pause in the questioning, and I jumped in.
“James, was the penalty you took in the second a sign of your frustration with the way the team was playing tonight?”
Jimmy turned towards me, and his eyes widened in shocked recognition. His mouth opened for a moment, and then shut. Then, he deliberately turned away and ignored me.
Shit. There was a weird silence, and then I asked my question again.
Still Jimmy said nothing. Finally Bob Harper, who I knew from C2C Sports Radio, asked the identical question for me.
Jimmy frowned and finally answered. “I don’t think I was frustrated with the team, so much as with my own performance. We certainly didn’t bring our A-game tonight, and the results show that.”
Since there was no point in my staying here, I backed off from the scrum and grabbed my BlackBerry, which had been vibrating non-stop.
“Jesus, Kelly, you need to pick up my calls right away,” Jeremy hissed when I phoned him back. “Please tell me you put William Kissman on your one-on-one list.”
“Of course.” The fight was one of the only highlights of the Hawk’s performance.
“Good girl! Adam March went ballistic when we talked to him about the fight. He called Kisser a cheap shot artist and a coward. Send Zack over and you can show Kissman the video, and get a reaction.”
“Okay, I will.” I was still reeling a bit from the scrum, but this was a real opportunity.
“Don’t screw this up, Tanaka,” Jeremy warned me. “If I didn’t have to do live postgame shit, I’d be doing this myself. Maximize the drama, okay?”
“For sure.” How was I supposed to do that?
“I’ll meet you in the edit suite right after.”
Zack sauntered off to get a copy of the March video. Ty Ballanchuk walked by.
“Why hello, Kelly.” His welcoming grin made me realize that this wouldn’t be a complete uphill battle.
“Hey, Ty.”
“You’re really moving up in the world now,” he commented. “Didn’t I see you on a car commercial too?”
I laughed. “Yeah, did I convince you to switch from your Porsche to a Honda?”
“Totally. I have a whole fleet of Hondas now.” Probably would have been an even trade.
<
br /> “Then my work here is done.” Just then, Zack came back, so I said goodbye to Ty and we found William. He was sitting in his cubby and icing his hand.
“Hi, William. I’m Kelly Tanaka from C2C Sports.”
“Hey.” He smiled and nodded.
“Would it be okay if we talked to you a bit about the game?”
“Me? Sure, probably not my best game.”
“No worries, you always bring emotion, which is what we’re interested in.”
I nodded at Zack, who started rolling.
I started off with some softball questions to get things going. William seemed relaxed, even when I got into his history with Adam March. They had had a few confrontations last season, but no fights. Both were hard-nosed players, but not normally fighters.
William was politically correct, and said nothing controversial at all. Obviously, he had been well trained by the Blackhawks media department, unlike some people. Then I showed him the video of March calling him a coward.
All hell broke loose.
“That mother-fucking pussy. He’s a douchebag who’s always talking and never backing anything up. What a bullshitter. He’s a chicken and a diver just like his girlfriend, Latour. I would take him on, anytime, anyplace. Just name the spot, March, and I will be there. When’s our next fucking game? I’m going to rip his head off next time we step on the fucking ice!”
I managed to calm William down enough to wrap things up. Zack and I headed to the exit and I was relieved not to see Jimmy around any more.
Once outside, we high-fived each other. Without even playing it back, I knew we had gotten some awesome footage. I had struck out with Jimmy’s scrum, but I was hoping that the Kissman interview would save my skin.
Hockey Is My Boyfriend: Part Three Page 23
