by Melanie Ting
Lucky got me a beer, and we sat down in the front row of the box to watch the game.
“Where’s Amanda?” he asked.
“She went to walk the concourse after the first period,” Greg replied. “You know her, she’s always trying to get a read on the ‘real’ fan experience.”
“Damn good idea,” Rhett said. “I wish my marketing people would do more of that.”
The Millionaires coach sat down beside me and began grilling me on the power play success we’d been having in Albany. Even after thirty years of coaching experience, Coach Barber was looking for a new edge. The Millionaires might miss the playoffs this year and that clearly bothered him. No coaching job was ever guaranteed.
I watched the Vice breaking out of their zone. One player lugged the puck from the goal line and tried to make his way singlehandedly into the offensive zone. Not surprisingly, he got stripped of the puck, and Manitoba got a good scoring opportunity.
“Christ, Lucky, what’s wrong with Lepper?” asked Barber. “A few weeks ago, we were ready to call the guy up, and now he’s playing like horseshit.”
Lucky shook his head. “I don’t understand. Lepper has been one of our best players all season. But lately, he’s been crapping the bed. Maybe he needs a head coach kicking his ass.” He turned to me. “He’s your problem now.”
I nodded. “Nothing I like more than fixing hockey problems.”
Don Swan snorted. “You’ve come to the right place then. The assistants have been useless, these players are putting the ‘me’ in team, and attendance blows.” He motioned to the half-empty arena.
“Jesus, Swanny, don’t scare him off before he’s even started,” said Lucky.
Rhett cleared his throat. As the senior manager here, he had the most authority. “He might as well know the real situation now.” He turned to me. “Leo, we hired you because you’re a good coach with a record of winning. You’ve got a lot of experience with younger players, which is exactly what we need. But now that the Millionaires have a share in the Vice, we want to run the same systems on both teams. That way, when we call up players from your team, they can mesh seamlessly into our NHL systems.”
“And who decides the systems?” I wondered. I wasn’t into coaching a losing system and both the Vice and Millionaires were losing right now. Lucky had promised I’d get to run my own ship, and now these guys were saying the opposite.
Rhett laughed. “You’re ballsy, Leo. I heard that about you. You’ll get input too.”
That was fair. The Vice could play within the big club’s systems, but I’d have freedom to tinker with the things like the power play, which would depend a lot on the talent I had. If there was any talent. The Vice had just been scored on again. This game was only in the second period, and it already looked like a beat-down.
“Ugh, Manitoba scored again? In the time it took me to walk up the stairs?” a female voice asked.
Lucky’s head jerked around, and I followed his gaze to see a blonde woman. This must be Amanda. She was casually dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, but she oozed class. Everything about her looked expensive, from her styled hair to her designer boots. She moved gracefully towards us, and as if in reaction to her royal presence, every man in the room rose. Barber probably hadn’t stood for a woman in years.
She smiled and held out her hand. “Leo! Welcome to the Vancouver Vice family.”
I shook her hand and felt the cool pressure of her soft skin. Merde. I could understand Lucky’s reaction now. This was the kind of woman you got serious about. She reminded me of Sophie, my ex. Maybe it was because I came from a true working class family: six kids and never enough money. We weren’t poor, but there was only enough to get by. The first time I wore new skates was when I played junior hockey and manufacturers gave them to us. New sticks, new helmets too. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. My feet ended up bloody because I’d never broken in a pair of skates before.
It wasn’t that I envied people with money, more that I admired how they knew how to roll in any situation. When I first saw Sophie Demers at university, I thought, “That’s what I want. Class. A woman who knows what’s what.” She was a tall, beautiful blonde who dressed like a model. But most of all it was her confidence. She acted like nothing could shake her. I admired everything about her, including the fact that she was completely uninterested in an uncouth hockey player. I’d gone after her hard, but it was months before she’d even go on a date with me. When we got married, I felt like the luckiest guy on the planet. And when we had Charlotte, my heart had been even fuller.
But it hadn’t worked out. How could it? We had such different expectations from marriage. I expected she’d be a wife like my mother: hard working, loyal, and uncomplaining. And she expected I’d treat her like her father did her mother: spoiling her with gifts and attention, and making her the focus of my life. At first, we were in love enough to make things work, but once my career began to take off, I had to work more and eventually leave Montréal. And Sophie wasn’t into making sacrifices, even for me.
My marriage had taught me a lesson. All that effort distracted me from my main purpose: getting ahead in coaching. These days, I preferred women who were straightforward and relationships where we both knew what we wanted. Sex was a necessary part of life, but love sure wasn’t.
Unfortunately, that didn’t negate the attraction I felt to classy chicks. Luckily, since Amanda was out of bounds on so many levels, she wasn’t attractive to me. Ever since Sophie, I’d avoided the blonde princesses. But Lucky was a lucky guy.
I pulled Amanda closer and air-kissed her on both cheeks. She flushed, so I explained, “A Montréal greeting. Especially when we meet beautiful women.”
Swanny snorted. “Better watch out, Lucky. These French-Canadian guys know all the tricks.”
Lucky sighed. “It’s true. I never played with a Quebec guy who wasn’t a ladies man.”
I sensed a slight tension that I needed to diffuse. “We appreciate women—even when they are our bosses. Is there anything wrong with that?”
Amanda regained her composure. “Nothing at all. We’re all excited that you’re joining the team. Thank you for coming so quickly. Sorry that your apartment isn’t ready yet. Did you get the questionnaire from the relocation people?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t fill it out. All I need is a home office and a bedroom for my daughter when she visits from Montréal. I don’t care about any design stuff.” Because Vancouver’s cost of living was so high, my lawyer had negotiated a fully-furnished apartment for me, a leased car and a hefty raise. The fact that the Vice were willing to pay up for me was proof that they were committed to change.
Amanda nodded. “Well, hopefully you’ll be in there soon. Did you already check into the hotel?”
“Not yet. We came straight to the game.”
“Oh really? Did you have dinner yet?”
I shook my head. I’d been too interested in the game, and I didn’t realize how hungry I was.
Amanda looked around at the remains of the food platters. “We’ll order you something fresh and hot. Unfortunately, there’s not a ton of choice at this time of night.”
“Get him a Triple-O burger,” Greg suggested. “That’s a real Vancouver specialty.”
I nodded. While I was pretty sure that a Triple-O wasn’t going to be as sexy as it sounded, any food would be good right now.
3
All That She Wants
Jackie
“Are you making two separate dinners?”
Sharon Zennaro sounded irritated. She was sitting at my kitchen breakfast bar with a half-empty glass of pinot noir in front of her. Sharon was a sturdy, attractive woman whose cropped black hair was streaked with strands of grey. Her grimy t-shirt and brown overalls were jauntily accessorized with a red bandana, and she looked exactly like what she was: a competent woman working in the man’s world of home renovation.
“Nooooo,” I hedged. I was actually making three dinners.
Sharon and her daughter coming over for dinner meant a chance to try an intriguing chicken tikka masala recipe. But that might be too spicy for the kids, so I was doing grilled chicken with fruit salsa for the girls, and chicken strips with fries for the fussy Tristan. Of course, Sharon would see this once we all sat down for dinner, but I could escape her lecture about spoiling the kids for another half hour.
Sharon’s scowl showed her opinion of all my hard work in the kitchen. We’d been best friends for years, ever since Brent and I moved into our home in West Van, right next door to Sharon and Peter. Now both our husbands were gone and Sharon had moved to East Van, but we were still best friends. Our daughters stayed best friends too, despite the move. Right now, we could hear hysterical giggling from behind the closed door of Hannah’s room.
“Hannah is like a drug for Kayla,” Sharon declared. “If she’s moody, I get them together and she’s back to her cheerful self. But I foresee that the teen years are going to be challenging as fuck.”
I nodded. “I took Hannah bra shopping yesterday. I have to confess, I was shocked at all the cute bras they have for girls who basically have no breasts. When I was her age, I think I had a choice of two styles—ugly and uglier. Oh my God, do I sound like an old lady?” I raised my voice to a cackle. “Back in my time... kids today are so lucky... we had to dial up the internet.”
Sharon laughed. “Yes, clothes shopping is a pain in the ass now. I’m not allowed in the changing room anymore, and it takes twice as long. I have no clue what Kayla is actually doing in there. Sleeping? Starting a YouTube fashion channel? Plotting world destruction?”
All the food prep was now done, so I put a bowl of my spicy nut mix on the counter and poured my own glass of wine. I leaned across the counter and lowered my voice. “Brent says we have to sell the house.”
“Really? I thought you two had worked something out.” Sharon and Peter had sold their house shortly after he’d left. It was pretty traumatic at the time, but now Sharon compared it to ripping off a bandage. She had moved to a place in East Van, reno’d it, and started a whole new career for herself. Sharon’s dad was a carpenter, so she already had some skills, and she had learned a lot on the job.
“Yes, I reread terms of our divorce. The house will be sold when both parties are in agreement or at the end of five years. Now one of us is in agreement. I think he wants to buy a new place or maybe something’s going on with Margaret.” Fighting Brent for a couple of extra years was pointless.
Sharon reached across the counter and squeezed my hand. I was shocked at the warmth that spread from that touch. Other than Tristan’s sudden hugs, there was so little human affection in my life. I was getting to be a dried-up old lady.
“Oh Jackie, that sucks. I know how much you love this place.”
“Yeah, it does suck. I tried so hard to keep things the same for the kids. But what can I do?” It was funny how quickly I had gone from shock to acceptance. Nothing in my life was permanent anymore.
“Well, if you need a good real estate agent, the one we used was great. She negotiated our battles like a fucking peacekeeper. Where are you going to live?” Sharon wondered.
“I’ve been looking around, and I think with my half of the house money, I could buy one of those new townhouses in Dundarave. Then at least, I’d still be in the neighbourhood and the kids could still go to the same schools.”
“Why don’t you move near us? The school’s pretty good, and Hannah would have a built-in bestie. Besides, a townhouse around here is going to take up all your money. It’s good to have a nest egg for unexpected expenses.”
I nodded. Brent had always taken care of everything financial since it was his area of expertise, but I’d learned a lot in the past couple of years. Unfortunately, even with the child support, I couldn’t manage to save much. “Brent thinks I should get a job—a real job.”
“As much as I hate to agree with that douche-canoe, he’s right.” Sharon’s brown eyes met mine. “Jack, there’s nothing like a real job to make you feel competent as fuck.”
“But I don’t have marketable skills like you. Before I got married, I worked in cosmetics at The Bay. Those skills are worthless now, unless someone needs a punk eye shadow look or dark lip liner.”
“They’ll be flocking to you when Eighties Dance Night rolls around.” Both of us snorted and clinked their our wine glasses together.
Downstairs, there was a knock on the front door. Before I could move, the door opened and a voice called out, “Helloooo, it’s just me.”
Sharon could not help rolling her eyes. I heard a muttered fuck as well, but by the time Wendy Harris walked in the kitchen, Sharon had pulled on a completely neutral face. Probably the same one she wore when homeowners complained about the delays caused by their inability to make decisions or stick to a plan.
The Harrises had moved into Sharon and Peter’s old house and done a complete gut-job. Now it was a lovely traditional home with marble countertops and neutral furnishings, but it looked exactly like every other home from the decor mags.
“No personality,” Sharon had muttered the first and only time she’d seen it. And then she’d gone home and cried. Sharon could not stand Wendy, either because of Wendy’s personality or because she’d destroyed a charming Arts and Crafts interior that had taken Sharon years to perfect. However, Wendy was completely oblivious to this fact, so having the two of them in one room wasn’t too horrible.
Wendy and her husband had always been very nice to me, and even more so since my divorce. On the few occasions it snowed, Wayne had cleared my driveway. I’d protested I could do it myself, but he insisted it gave him a chance to use his snow blower. And Wendy lent a sympathetic shoulder many times while I was going through the divorce. Our two sons were great buddies, so there was steady traffic between our houses. It was funny how your kids inadvertently chose your friends for you—the parents of their friends were the ones you ended up seeing the most.
“Hello, girls,” Wendy said. She cast a long glance over Sharon’s appearance. “Did you come straight from work?”
Wendy herself was perfectly turned-out in a pair of navy designer pants, a wool turtleneck, and a rust-coloured leather blazer. She was always dressed up, even though she was a stay-at-home mom. Wendy’s dark blonde hair was neatly blown-out and her makeup was also perfect, if a little heavy on the contour.
“Actually, I wore a suit to work,” Sharon replied. “This is what I wear for dinner with Jackie.” Perhaps she wasn’t hiding her animosity that well.
Wendy only laughed and sat down at the breakfast bar as well. I held up the bottle of wine and Wendy nodded. I passed her a glass, and she sipped it. “This is a very nice wine,” she commented.
I prickled a little at the surprise in her voice. Wendy’s transparent reactions had advantages and disadvantages. Her implication meant either that I couldn’t be trusted to choose a good wine or I shouldn’t be spending money on expensive wine when I had so little income. But I had enough battles in my life without picking new ones. I forced out a laugh. “Brent has yet to find a new place to store all the wines he collected, so for the time being they’re still here, and I’ll use any occasion to crack one open.”
Both my friends laughed at this. “The best revenge,” Wendy said. “As long as you don’t start drinking alone.”
“I can always invite you over.”
“What are the boys up to?” Wendy wondered.
I realized with a start that I hadn’t seen them for at least an hour. “I think they’re gaming in the family room.”
“It’s time for Wyatt to come home for dinner,” Wendy said, but she sipped her wine and looked in no hurry to go. She pulled a folded paper out of her pocket. “Oh, I put this together for you.”
As I unfolded it, Wendy explained, “I looked for possible jobs on Craigslist and that Monster job site.”
Sharon rolled her eyes. It was a little strange to print out links instead of emailing them, but Wendy was no techie
.
“Oh, thanks.” The jobs looked pretty bleak, mostly retail or direct sales. My spirits fell further as I realized how limited my options were. I had no job skills. “Man, none of these look too appealing. To bad nobody needs to hire a wife. That’s one thing I’m good at.”
Luckily, neither of my friends pointed out that I couldn’t have been that good if Brent had left. Everyone around here had gossiped about what happened. It always caused a tremor in the neighbourhood when a couple split—especially a couple that everyone thought of as happy. When Brent left, he told me there was nobody else, but he never gave me any real rationale. At first I hoped it was only a mid-life crisis and he’d come back. But with time, the only explanation I could figure out was that he had always been dissatisfied, wanting more than he had.
“It’s tough to get a job when you’re older,” Wendy said. “I have a friend from university who’s been out of work for two years. Of course, he’s a man, so that makes it worse.”
“Why?” Sharon asked.
“Because men have so much pride. They don’t want to take jobs that are a step down. Women are more practical, they’ll take whatever job comes along.” Which meant me and the crappy job list.
“The best thing is to be an entrepreneur,” Sharon replied. “Then you don’t have to deal with bosses or interviews at all.”
“But you have to start somewhere,” Wendy said.
Sharon pointed to her overalls. “Yeah, like me. I started out doing demos and framing. But when the project managers saw how good I was with homeowners, they kept sending me with the bad news. I finally figured out that if I became the project manager and got things properly organized, I wouldn’t have to give bad news all the time.”
