by Van Barrett
I gulp. “Yeah. It's been a while.”
“It's been a crazy year,” he says, sipping from his glass. “Stressful year. Disappointing year.”
I stare at my feet and nod. “Yeah.”
“Why would you say that is? Why would you say we're under-performing this year?”
I frown. “I could be more focused, Doug. I haven't been able to lead the team like I know I can.”
“I'm not looking for a guy to hang here, Tyler, I don't need a scapegoat. I wanna talk systemic issues. From your perspective.”
Systemic issues? I ask myself. Well, they all root from the fact that we came this close to winning, only to blow it in the end ... we're hungover from that defeat. It's still too recent to get over. Yet it's so far in the past, we can't even remember what it was we did to get there in the first place. We're fucked.
And it's all my fault.
That's how I really feel. But how do I say that to my boss, in captain speak?
“We uh.” I gulp. “We're uninspired. We lack a catalyst. We need more of a driving force.”
“Fresno played great tonight,” Doug says, taking another sip of his whiskey. “Fantastic game, actually. Only guy who showed up.”
I frown. “Yeah. You're right. He really carried the win.”
“I know you guys love him,” Doug says. He leans forward, his voice lowering. “But, how big a part of that room is he?”
My mouths falls open. The GM is asking me how expendable Fresno is from a team chemistry standpoint. What he really wants to know is, would the guys lose their shit if he was traded? Would they sulk because they lost a great friend, a valuable glue guy?
He wants to trade Fresno? My mind is reeling. No way. That's a mistake.
“Fresno?” I gasp. I knock back the rest of my whiskey. “You can't – can't trade Fresno.”
“Trade?” Doug chuckles nervously and pours me a second glass. “Who said anything about a trade? I'm just curious ... that's all.”
He's lying, but he has to. A GM can't ever tell his players that he's considering moving someone. The fact that he even dances around the topic with me at all shows how much he respects my opinion.
But I'm not in the mood to play along tonight.
“You're lying. I heard you through the bathroom wall last night,” I blurt out suddenly. I didn't stop to think if this was the right move, but it's too late, I'm doing it anyway. “I heard my name come up. Someone from another team is on the outs and you're offering me up in return.”
Doug's cheeks redden. He's an honest guy, and that means he's got a terrible poker face. He takes another drink and a deep breath.
“Shit, really? Those goddamn walls are paper thin!”
“So if that's why you asked me here – to make up your mind between trading me or trading Fresno—”
“Settle down, Tyler.”
“—Then I'll make it real easy on you, Doug. Just trade me. Fresno's a huge part of this team, way bigger than I could be. He scores more goals than I do. He'll be a better leader for this team in the long run.”
“Shutup already, willya?” He groans. “Look. I normally wouldn't say a goddamned thing about this to a player. You know how damaging it can be when rumors get around. But I'm a couple drinks in and damnit, I've always liked you, Tyler, and respected your honesty.”
I stare at him with a grimace.
“Someone around the league – a good, young player – is available. I can't say who. But they want you in return. But I'm not gonna trade you. Yeah, I thought about it – that's my job Tyler, you can't take it personally – but I told 'em I couldn't do that trade.”
I feel a rush of relief – but a cynical part of me holds back. That's if he's telling the truth. Then again, I don't see him getting his bad poker face. So he must be.
“I told 'em you weren't on the table, but I'd be willing to move Fresno. After his game tonight? They're sold. I got 15 minutes to pull the trigger on this deal. If I don't, they're trading him to another team. They've got back-up deals already in place.”
I click my tongue and shake my head. “You can't, Doug. Fresno means too much to the team. End of story.”
“Are you comfortable saying that, without knowing who the other guy—”
“Doesn't matter who the other guy is.” I fold my arms defiantly. “It could be the best player in the league and I'd still say no. Fresno is that valuable. The guys would riot if we lost him. A thousand new problems would crop up with him off the roster.”
His mouth cinches up into a tight circle. He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Okay. That's kinda what I was thinking. But thanks for your input. It helps.”
“No prob,” I say as I stand up and make my way to the door. But, with the door open, I turn and ask. “... Who is it, by the way?”
He shakes his head. “You know I can't say.”
Then I remember the game on TV at the bar. The Jets' suspicious move in making Callan Jones a healthy scratch. Could he the player on the outs? He just had a monster game against us, though ... it doesn't make any sense.
I close the door and lower my voice. “... Wait a minute. It's not Callan Jones you're talking about, is it?”
Doug gets that uncontrollable smile, that terrible poker face of his. He tries to bite his cheeks to make it go away. “I can't confirm or deny any rumors.”
“Oh my God, it is Jones, isn't it?” I walk into the middle of the room and start pacing around. “Callan Jones? Really? Whoa. Why? Why would they give up on him so young?”
Doug chuckles. “I dunno. And that's part of the risk in trading for him. Whatever he did, it's bad, because the Jets want him off the roster by midnight. So I don't have much time to mull it over.”
“Fresno for Jones? Straight up?”
Doug reluctantly nods. “That's the deal on the table.”
All I can see is Callan Jones' cocky smirk. His boyish face. His short, golden hair. His blonde five o'clock shadow, which is probably more like a five-day shadow. All I can think about is how he's the straw the stirs the drink. How much we need a guy like that. How much I need a guy like that. To help me carry this team.
“Well. That changes things,” I mumble.
Doug guffaws. “A minute ago you said it didn't matter if it was the best player in the league coming our way. Callan Jones is nowhere near the best player in the league, Tyler.”
“Nah. Of course not. But he's still damned good, and he's the best at what he does. And ... I think he's just what this team needs.”
“But the guys can't stand him. They hate him, Tyler. That's obvious.”
“Yeah, they hate him. They hate him because he's that good at what he does. They'll get over it. I'll make sure of that. And whatever issues the Jets have with Jones, whatever problems he's got? I'll make sure he grows out of 'em.”
“... I can't believe I'm talking about this with you,” Doug groans, rubbing his face.
And I can't believe I'm ready to throw Fresno to the wolves, I think. Damn.
“Look, no guarantees, alright? They might get a better offer or I might decide against it.”
“You have to do it,” I say sternly. “Look, you know I love Fresno. But when he doesn't play well, he's moody, and his mood infects the rest of us. And he only plays well when we're playing like garbage. I hate to say it, but ... he's not on the same page as the rest of us.”
Holy shit, I think. I just said that.
“Damn.” Doug stares at me, astonished.
“Yeah,” I agree. “I know. I'm surprised at myself here, Doug. I guess that's how bad I want this Jones guy on our team.”
“If I do this,” Doug says before I leave. “If I do this, you're responsible for smoothing it out with the team. And making sure Jones fits in that dressing room. Understand?”
I gulp. That's my job as captain, I know it. And I know it's a tall order. That I might fuckin' hate Jones as much as Donovan does once I have to be around him ...
But it's a risk we ha
ve to take.
“Understood.”
10.
Time Bomb
Callan
I'm fucked. Done. My career is over. I'll be the laughing stock of the league. Nobody's gonna take me seriously anymore. I'll never hear the end of it on the ice – all the guys I ribbed? All the insults I lobbed? All they have to do is look at me and laugh. That's it. And I'll know exactly what they mean.
And that's if a team even lets me play on their squad in the first place ... which is a big if at this point. Once word gets around? Yeah. Forget it. I'll be black listed from this league. No team will want me, no room will ever accept me.
I'm so stupid, is all I can think. My mind's numb.
I'm sitting around my apartment. Trying to pack. I don't have to do this right now, since I don't even know where I'm going. But I don't know what else to do. It feels like it's time to start moving on with my life. So, okay. Get out the boxes. Start packing up. Away I go.
I should've listened to Grams, I think as I throw a pile of dirty laundry into a moving box. Should've finished school.
But school was so ... boring. And hard. I always felt different in school. Scratch that, I was different, and the kids knew it too. And that made me a target.
At school, my response to the stupid idiots and their playground insults – Hey Jones, where's your parents? – was often a fist to their face.
But a fist to the face always got me in trouble. And trouble broke Grams' heart. And then I felt bad as hell.
But the one place I didn't get in trouble for acting like that, was on the ice. Suppose a guy tells you straight to your face that he thinks you're an ugly dumb-shit. You tell me: in what other hobby, or sport, or job, or any walk in life – can you throw your body into a guy at 20 MPH and crush him into a wall? Where else can you agree to a fight and punch each other until someone falls down without getting in some kind of serious trouble for it?
That's right – nowhere else.
So that's how it all started for me. Hockey was the only place I felt like an equal, where I could take my frustrations out on people. My first few years, it's true, all I cared about was crushing other kids. The physicality of hockey, the hits!, that was my favorite part.
I grew up in Toronto and spent all my time at my local outdoor rink. Skating and skating and skating until long after the Sun went down and the temperature dropped and my feet like frozen solid bricks, and still I kept playing until that rink was empty.
Grams thought I might benefit from playing organized hockey, where I might learn some skills besides how to punch a guy in the face. She'd hoped to get me away from the violent part of the game. (The piano lessons certainly weren't making me any less angry, even if I was pretty damned good.)
Hell, getting to play more hockey? Of course I agreed. I was getting a late start – far behind most Canadian boys, who start with private lessons before they even start grade school. But I was angry and determined to catch up.
Some kids were fueled by some childish dream to 'be a famous sports star.' Others were fueled by their parents, who were still miserable about their own failed hockey career. Me? I was fueled by ... getting to crush people.
It was great at first. But then my hockey skills had to improve to keep playing. The coaches didn't just want a loose cannon out there. They wanted a guy who could skate, pass, and shoot. So I worked at those, too. Just so I could stick around.
Everybody's gone through that awful time when life rears its ugly head and says, “hey, you aren't good enough and this isn't your path, go do something else instead.” And believe me, I was no exception with hockey. I had coaches who told me I was dog shit. That I was a talentless goon, who wouldn't ever be anything else. I was cut from travel teams, forced to scramble to find a team that would take me last-minute. My career was on death-watch more times than I can remember.
During those early years, everywhere I turned, people had a laundry list of reasons why I'd never amount to shit as a hockey player.
And after every failure, Grandma would give me that sagely look and ask, “So what do you wanna do with your life now, Callan? You can't play hockey forever ... look at the signs. Look what God is telling you. Why keep struggling at this, when you're already so good at piano ...”
But I'd just lower my head and say I wasn't done yet. I still had more to prove. She thought I was crazy. Delusional even, who knows.
I don't hold it against her. She's one smart lady, and practical, too. Technically speaking, she's absolutely right – the odds were stacked against me. She didn't wanna see me put my life on the back-burner just to chase some fantasy.
But ... it wasn't a fantasy. Hockey was the only place I felt like I could be myself and I didn't wanna give it up. Couldn't give it up.
So I never, ever let a failure hold me back. I never believed the things people said about me. I always bounced back from failures, from rejections. Everything they said I sucked at, that I just couldn't do because I didn't have the tools or the smarts? I practiced those things. Obsessively. Until I turned a weakness into a strength.
Grandma watched my budding career with a kind of horrified interest. It began to dawn on her that it wasn't going away. Hockey was making me confident, and I stopped having fights at school. Actually, I'd turned into quite the popular kid at school.
And then I dropped out of school the day I turned 16 so I could play Junior hockey. Grandma was devastated. She felt like a failure as a parent – even though she never should've been in that position in the first place. My parents were the real failures.
“Callan, please,” she begged me. “Get your diploma! Then you can play college hockey ... if you work hard, you can still make the NHL, but at least you'll have an education in case things don't work out ...”
But I could only shake my head. “Doesn't work like that, Grams.” Our high school wasn't good enough. I wouldn't face the quality of opponent I needed to raise my game. I wouldn't get noticed, wouldn't get a scholarship. It'd be over before it started. I had to go elsewhere to play.
So I dropped out of school and joined a Junior team. I signed with a team in Ontario, left home, and moved in with a billet family.
And there, in Junior, I kept getting told I wasn't good enough.
But I kept working. Kept skating, and stick handling, and practicing, and lifting weights. And doing everything I could to make an impact on the game. To stand out.
That's how I got to be so goddamn cocky. I didn't think anyone could stop me. I really, truly thought I was invincible.
And then ... one small mistake ... and I feel like it's finally all caught up to me. I finally stood out – too much.
I am a good enough hockey player to stick around the NHL. That's the crazy part. But who I am, what I like, is the part that ruined me in the end. How fucking tragic, eh.
Grandma was right. The signs were all there. You can only run for so long – eventually, you're gonna slip up. And it'll all catch up to you.
Oh well. Maybe I'll get my GED and become a mechanic or something.
IT'S A LITTLE AFTER midnight when my phone rings. It's my GM. I answer.
“Hello?”
“Callan,” he says. “It'll be Chicago. I'm sending you your itinerary.”
Wha? I think. Chicago of all places wants me? I think of all the players on that team that hate me. Donovan, Emerson, Dufresne ... hell, all of 'em, really, except maybe Vance – and he's probably just too polite to show me how much he hates me.
And once they find out what I've done? Then they'll really be done with me.
“Do – do they know why?” I stammer nervously.
“No,” he grunts, and I can tell he doesn't want to speak any more of it. I realize that this is part of my punishment: not knowing when word will get around. Because it surely will. It's a ticking time bomb.
“Okay,” I swallow. “Um, I just wanna say thanks for the opportunity, I really enjoyed playing in Winni—”
Click. He hangs up and t
he dial tone screeches back at me.
“Well ... okay,” I mumble to myself. Welp.
My phone dings to let me know that I've got an email. It's from the GM. I open it and see my flight information. I've got a flight in two days to join my new team, the Chicago Hawks, in Tampa Bay.
I wonder if the TSA will let me board an airplane with this time bomb strapped around my neck?
Maybe I just won't report to my new team. What's the point, anyway? I could save myself the grief. I already know it's over. Might as well make it official.
Sigh. What to do.
11.
Au Revoir, Mes Amis
Tyler
It's late-morning and a knocking at the door wakes us up.
Fresno gets up first and answers the door. When I see Doug at the door, I know exactly what's going down.
“Morning, Michel,” Doug says to Fresno. He waves at me over Fresno's shoulder. “Tyler.”
“Morning,” we both say.
“Michel, you got a minute? I'd like to talk to you.”
“Oh uh, sure,” Fresno says.
“Just come to my room when you get a chance.”
“Okay.”
Fresno shuts the door and turns around slowly. “Calisse. Did that seem weird to you, Vance?”
I gulp nervously. “I dunno, what do you think it is?”
Oh God I feel like a traitor.
“I have no idea ...” His upper lip curls upward with anxiety. I feel terrible for him. I know what he fears, though. And I know it's all true. He's about to be told he's been traded. The worst thing a player can got through.
Fresno throws on some clothes. “Wish me luck, brother,” he says.
Brother. He had to call me that now, didn't he? I feel like human trash. Like I've sold my soul.
“Good luck,” I cough, almost choking on the words.
Fresno heads out. He comes back no less than sixty seconds later. He comes in, doesn't say a word, sits at the edge of his bed and stares at the wall. He's quiet as can be. All I hear is his breathing, deep and slow.
