Power Forward

by Sylvain Hotte

  As he stepped out of the car into the rain, he held the door open and said:

  “So we’ll be seeing each other later.”

  “I’ll be there at eight on the dot.” I jotted down his address on a piece of paper.

  “What happens at eight?” asked Sylvie.

  “Nothing. Chill, play some Xbox.” Sylvie, usually a worry-wart, seemed relieved.

  Louis insisted on driving me back, but I told him I’d take the bus. Besides, he was with Claude, Sylvie’s girlfriend’s boyfriend, and they’d drunk one too many. I took the Henri-Bourassa bus, which went down to 1st Avenue in Limoilou.

  The rain had stopped. I walked, hands in my pockets, trying to remember where we’d left Tommy off a few hours earlier. The streets were confusing and I got lost. Finally, I recognized the big brick building and I turned down his street. Unsure, I climbed the rusty iron stairs. The concrete structure was disintegrating and the landing seemed to be suspended in thin air. I didn’t have to knock. Tommy opened the door.

  “Come in,” he said, casting a glance up and down street as if he was afraid I’d been followed. Then he closed the door quickly behind me.

  He lived in a huge six and a half room apartment. What was really troubling was that all the rooms were completely empty. In the kitchen there was a refrigerator and an old stove with a missing burner. There was a small room way at the back. It must have been his bedroom. A bare mattress was on the floor, no sheets or pillow. It was dusty and filthy. At the door sill lay a hockey bag and a suitcase. He was all set to leave this unhealthy environment that Vincent called home.

  While Tommy was in the bathroom, I opened the fridge. Just some milk, three eggs, and some out-of-date hamburger that had turned brown. On the counter: three huge containers of protein powder, fat burner and other junk.

  “Disgusting, eh?” he said, coming out of the bathroom and opening the fridge behind me.

  He took the meat and threw it into a white oil drum that served as a trash can. There was a small card table in the kitchen and two folding chairs. Tommy drew up one of them and sat down.

  “Want a shake?”

  “No,” I said. “Thanks.” After a short silence, I asked him what we were waiting for.

  “I told you, I’m working for Vincent. I’ve got a package to deliver to a customer. Then we’re out of here and I’m finished.”

  I had nothing to say. I suspected that something shady was going on and that Vincent’s “business” was located somewhere on the wrong side of the law. But at least it was coming to an end.

  We waited nearly an hour talking about one thing or another. I was trying to make a plan for the next day. We had to get on the same line so we could show what we were capable of. I promised I’d speak to Carl, the assistant coach. He’d give us a chance, I was sure of it. Tom nodded yes to everything I said, but without much enthusiasm, as if he was only somewhat interested. Most of his attention was concentrated on the front door and the one remaining customer who was supposed to be arriving any time now.

  Finally, as we sat across from each other in total darkness, the doorbell rang, shattering the silence that blanketed the spooky apartment. Tommy jumped to his feet, telling me to keep quiet and not to move.

  He went to his room, opened his hockey bag and then brushed past me with a package in his hand. He felt his way to the door, hugging the wall. I couldn’t see what he was doing in the dark, but I could hear him moving down the hall until he reached one of the front rooms. He returned, running.

  “Quick! Hurry up!”

  I stood up, not knowing what was happening or what I should do. He went to his room and came out with a backpack. My backpack, the one I’d forgotten at the gym.

  “Hurry!” he told me. “Get out back. Hide yourself, I’ll be there in a jiff!”

  Quickly I slung the bag over my shoulder and walked out the door that opened onto a dirt yard. I slipped in the mud and wiggled through the gate and into the alley.

  A streetlight shone on an old metal shed that I hid behind. And waited.

  I’d grabbed the backpack with no hesitation. Now I could feel something heavy inside. After waiting for a while with no sign of Tommy, I decided to open the bag. My workout clothes were still there. Rummaging further, I felt a plastic bag at the bottom. I took it out, opened it and removed what turned out to be an awful lot of cash. In fact, it was a huge stack of twenty-dollar bills, tied with rubber bands.

  A couple of juicy swear words popped out of my mouth, because never, and I mean never, would I have agreed to take off with Vincent’s money. I left my hiding place set on getting an explanation from Tommy. I was about to cross the street when I saw him leave the apartment and walk toward me.

  “Hey you big bozo. What’s the story?”

  I showed him the money.

  He shrugged, hands in his pockets, shaking his head from left to right. He was sucking air and grimacing horribly. By the harsh light of the streetlight, I could see two big tears running down his cheeks.

  “Come on, Tommy, what’s going on? What are we mixed up in?”

  “Forget it, man. There’s nothing we can do.”

  “Nothing we can do? What do you mean there’s nothing we can do?!” I shouted. “What’s going on?!!”

  He didn’t answer, but tears were running down his cheeks. A couple of motorcycles came roaring down the adjacent alley. I tossed the wad of money right in his face and took off running.

  Two Harleys suddenly appeared at the end of the alley and veered right toward me. I pivoted, and ran back to where I had started. But it was too late; a car was coming from the other direction with its headlights on. The two bikers caught up to me, jumped off their bikes and jammed my face against the metal siding of the old shed.

  I recognized Vincent’s sidekick, the guy with the beard, with his disgusting laugh and the red, white and blue scarf he wore on his head. Along with him was the little sourpuss who worked at the gym. He pinned me against the wall, digging his nunchucks into my throat and cutting off my breath.

  “You little Indian son-of-a-bitch, one move and you’re dead!”

  The car crawled slowly up to where we were. It was the white Nissan Maxima with the tinted windows. Vincent got out and walked over to me, limping.

  “No marks,” he said to the little sourpuss, who released the pressure on my neck.

  I felt oxygen begin to slowly flow into my lungs.

  “You! Get in!” he shouted to Tommy who climbed meekly into the back and sat down.

  Vincent stared at me. His broad face was completely red. He rubbed his forehead a couple of times as if distressed.

  “Guys, guys, guys… I’m so disappointed, you can’t imagine. What in the world were you thinking? Good thing Tommy was due for a shot and I came by. What do you think would have happened to you, Alex, if you’d disappeared with the money?”

  His face was twisted with anger.

  “Have you thought about what would have happened to you if you’d taken off with my money?!!”

  The little desk clerk, egged on by his boss’s words, dug his nunchucks into my throat a little harder.

  “No marks!” Vincent barked, to settle things down.

  He leaned over into his car for a moment and then got back out, a rectangular box covered in blue felt in his hands. He set it down on the hood and opened it, revealing the vials and syringes inside.

  “Easy. No marks,” he muttered to himself.

  He stuck a needle onto a syringe, tightening it with his fingertips, and then inserted it into the cap of a vial to extract the liquid. After ensuring it was full to the brim, he came up to me with a demonic smile.

  “I can’t stand a thief. But especially if he’s trying to steal from me. Normally, I give you the beating of your life. But my problem is I’m a hockey fan and I just love athletes. I know you’ve all sacrificed a lot to get where you are. It’d break my heart if one of you failed to reach your goal on account of something I did. That’s why I like to b
e helpful.”

  And he waved the syringe in front of my eyes.

  “No marks. But a good lesson for a thief and a snot-nosed brat who spies on me in my own basement. If it ever gets out that there’s a doping problem on the Quebec City team, you can be sure that everyone of you will be tested. What’ll happen to you, Alexandre, if they find steroids in your urine?”

  I didn’t catch any more than half of what he said. My heart was pounding so furiously in my chest, I thought it would burst.

  Vincent held the syringe just above my nose. I was sure I was going to pass out from the unspeakable horror unfolding before my eyes.

  “It’s too full,” he said. “If I give you a dose like this, you’ll end up in the hospital for sure. But what a decent man like me has in mind is for you to grow big and strong.”

  He squirted half the contents into my face, before lifting the needle, sticking it into my shoulder and injecting the rest. I didn’t feel any pain. I was completely stunned. My legs gave out. After he pulled out the syringe and Mr. Nunchucks let go of me, I sank to my knees. The man with the beard started laughing and sputtering. Then the two bikers jumped on their Harleys, gunned the engines and took off, spinning their tires and kicking a pile of gravel right into my face.

  All I could see as I looked up were the tail lights of the Maxima as it swung around the corner. In the next yard over, a dog was howling.

  I walked back to my new home. It took me more than an hour to make my way up Boulevard Henri-Bourassa. I walked as fast as I could on my shaky legs, trailing my backpack, unable to get my mind off the strange buzzing sensation in my left shoulder. Everyone was asleep in the bungalow on Rue des Sureaux. I entered by the side door and snuck down to the basement on tiptoe. I could hear Louis, on the sofa bed, snoring like an old diesel engine about to give up the ghost.

  Sylvie was lying on a mattress on the floor. She was awake. Fortunately, she couldn’t see me in the dark. She whispered:

  “Hey, you’re coming in kind of late.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you have a good time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

  I went into my tiny bedroom in the back and closed the door.

  Lying there on my bed, I couldn’t stop crying as I opened my laptop and looked over and over again at the beautiful pictures of Chloé. Especially the one with her eyes closed with her big smile. And the grey sea behind her. The sea, which I could practically smell and taste.

  That morning the locker room was buzzing. Ties are quickly forged on a hockey team. Despite the competition, the victories and disappointments, the athletes share a passion and a team feeling evolves spontaneously. Everyone seemed in high spirits. Everyone except me and Tommy; both of us felt like we’d just come back from a funeral.

  Before we went out onto the ice, Tom came over to my locker. His eyes were red, puffy. No marks, as Vincent had said. But I was pretty sure he’d been through the wringer. He didn’t look too good. But my heart was cold. Bitterly cold.

  “Uh … Alex.”

  “Never mind, Tom. We won’t mention it again, okay? It’s over.”

  He shook his head like a forsaken puppy.

  “I’m not feeling too hot. I’d better go.”

  “No, Tommy. This is not the time to give up. You’re stronger than that. We’re stronger than that. We have to put all that behind us. We came here for just one reason, and that’s to play hockey. We’ll be playing against each other today. Make sure you always come down the ice on my side. It’ll go well for you. I promise. They’re not going to be sending you home. You’re going to make the team, with me.”

  He smiled feebly. As if he didn’t really believe a word of it. But my pep talk must have gotten through to him; he shook his head and said:

  “Okay, let’s get it going. We can do it.”

  “That’s right, man. We can do it.”

  The whiteboard session seemed to go on forever. My legs were numb. I kept clenching my jaws and rising quickly up off the bench every time I thought the coach had finished putting X’s and O’s up on the board. But on he went and I’d sit down again, telling myself that it’d have to come to an end sooner or later. And when he finally laid his marker down, clapped his hands a couple of times and shouted out two or three angry sounding clichés, I was first out the locker room door and onto the ice.

  I went around the rink at full speed during the warm-ups, passing Tommy several times, encouraging him with a friendly tap of the stick on his rear.

  “Let’s go, buddy! Go! Go! Go!”

  And he’d come after me, growling, but without ever catching me. In fact, I stayed right up with Ruslan Abishkin in the skating exercise and I was very proud. No, I couldn’t beat him, but I was on his heels most of the time and I could tell he was annoyed, trying his best to put some distance between the two of us.

  I went hard at the one-on-one exercise. The coach sent a puck into the corner of the rink and two guys would battle for control. I did pretty well, giving my shoulder to guys who were a whole lot bigger than me. I might not have been the best, but I fought hard and held my own. I made some good plays that earned me some “atta-boys” from Carl.

  When it was Tommy’s and my turn, I eased up a bit. I decided I’d let him win. I battled hard, but without much conviction or great originality, finally letting him come out of the corner alone with the puck, like a champion.

  We were side by side, catching our breath and waiting for the next instructions.

  “Okay, we can do it!” Tommy exclaimed.

  He was red faced, sucking wind, wincing in pain, an anxious look on his face.

  “I beat you pretty good, eh?” he said, puffed with pride.

  “Yeah, right on,” I said, trying to put the best face on things.

  Right on, Tommy, you should have seen how happy you were! You were snorting like a calf, you were hurting, my friend. But you were happy. And that was all I wanted.

  The exercise period over, we formed up squads for the usual after-workout game. As I had hoped, I wasn’t on Tommy’s team. I was with Steven Caron and that was fine by me since I was at the top of my game and I really wanted to go up against Abishkin. Which is what happened right from the faceoff.

  Arnaud, our centreman, won it. I backpedalled to pick up the loose puck, then passed it to Caron, who was coming hard after knocking over his opponent like a bowling pin. With a few sharp strides, I shook off Ruslan’s tight check. As soon as I was onside, Steven passed the puck back to me. I one-timed it. Thwack! He scores!

  A true work of art.

  Caron, delirious, leaped into my arms, screaming for joy. It was totally over the top for a practice game, but his spirit was infectious. The guy from Maniwaki loved to compete.

  I was still on the ice for the next play. In the meantime, Tommy had jumped over the boards. He was playing on the third line. An energy player, his strength was forechecking. After I made a couple of half-hearted moves, his line took control of the puck. Following the advice I’d given him earlier in the locker room, he tried to come up my side. I went at him, slightly altered direction and hit the boards behind my big friend who went to the net at full speed, with an excellent scoring opportunity. Unfortunately for him, Loïc Martin, the team’s starting goalie was in net, and he wasn’t about to be beat by Tommy, who tried to deke him off his feet. Martin didn’t bite and easily gathered Tommy’s feeble shot into his glove.

  Tommy skated beside me, carrying on.

  “Hey, hey, McKenzie!”

  “In your face, Courchesne,” I joked. “I’ll nail you next time.”

  “Yeah, right. Go ahead and try.”

  It’ll happen soon enough, Tom. Don’t worry. I was a wicked, scary spider. A black widow, relentlessly weaving her web, knowing that her prey would end up in her net. It was inevitable.

  Several minutes went by before we were face to face again, alternating shifts on the
fly at the whim of our respective coaches. This time I made a real bonehead play with a sudden change of direction that let Tommy get position on me. I didn’t put up much of a fight as he walked right out of the corner. He dished it off to his centre who put it right back on his stick on a nifty give and go. I could have intercepted it, but I let it go. Tom put his whole body into it and buried it behind Loïc Martin, who immediately began to harangue me, yelling that I was playing like a total wimp.

  Tommy flashed his pearly whites in an outpouring of happiness. It was stacking up to be his day.

  Back at the bench, Carl looked at me.

  “Hey Alex, your friend get a free ride with you?”

  “Last time, Carl,” I answered tightly. “It’s over.”

  “Atta boy!” And he slapped me on the back.

  It was over for Tommy. Really over.

  Third shift. I had just scored a beautiful goal on a breakaway on a long pass from my defenceman, and Carl left me on the ice when the lines changed. At the faceoff circle, I was shoulder to shoulder with Tommy. Arnaud won. Caron controlled the puck and passed it to me. I turned it over on purpose, putting it directly on Tommy’s stick as he thundered towards me.

  I gave him the right, where he had gone twice before. But no more free rides. He came on like a freight train, sure he would repeat his previous exploits. Only this time, I didn’t miss.

  I turned on the jets, fuelled by a dark rage. And I lined him up for a crushing check with no thought in mind other than totally demolishing him. To increase the force of the impact, with a really dirty move, I jumped and my skates were off the ice.

  I could feel my back driving into his. He had twisted around, facing toward the players’ bench. Right where the glass panels began. Under the force of our combined weight, he hit the metal stanchion with unimaginable force. His rib cage was completely crushed. He fell to the ice, unconscious, his body twitching in spasms.

  Stunned, completely paralyzed by fear, I saw François lean over him, trying to revive him. Carl jumped on the ice with the defibrillator, and they gave him a series of electric shocks that he never responded to. He died instantly.