That’s where both linesmen and the referee finally managed to capture me—on top of the net trying to punch my way through the mesh to get at Klomysyk.
They pulled me away and dragged me back toward our players’ box. Sanity finally returned, time slowed and I felt as stupid as I must have looked.
My bleeding didn’t slow down, though. And there was a thin line of red splotches the length of the ice where I’d chased Klomysyk.
As they led me off the ice, Klomysyk finally decided it was safe to crawl out from beneath the net. The entire crowd whistled at him. A part of me wondered whether they whistled at him for the dirty shot he had given me or for hiding in the net.
The major part of me, however, was just trying to keep my balance as weakness hit me. During the intermission between the first and second periods, a doctor worked quickly on my face, taking thirty stitches to close the cut. Before the second period had even begun, the side of my face had ballooned so badly I couldn’t see out of my right eye.
As much as I tried, I couldn’t convince the coach or doctor to let me play the rest of the game. I was forced to sit in the stands, just above our players’ box. More than a few Russian fans made a point of stopping by to shake their heads with sympathy, saying angry words that I guessed meant they were as disgusted with Klomysyk as I was.
It also made me feel a little better that my thirty stitches helped us during the second period. Klomysyk received a five-minute major penalty and a game misconduct. It meant we had a man advantage for all five minutes, and our team scored three goals while the Russians were shorthanded.
It didn’t make me feel better, however, to see the guy with the goatee and the eyepatch again, here in St. Petersburg, six hours of high-speed travel away from Moscow. And it made me feel even worse to see him with Nadia. They were on the opposite side of the arena, high up in the stands where they were nearly invisible among the crowd of people.
I wondered why I felt so jealous to see him playing with her long hair and whispering in her ear. After all, I was nothing to her. And it was becoming obvious she was someone not to trust in any situation, let alone in a country where I could easily get lost and never be found again.
As the second period continued, however, I couldn’t keep my eyes from constantly looking in her direction. We were up 4–1 with nine and a half minutes of play left in the second period when I glanced in her direction again.
The eyepatch guy had taken her by the elbow and was leading her up the aisle. At the top of the aisle, it looked like she tried to pull away from him.
He yanked her toward him.
She pulled back again.
So quickly I wondered if it had actually happened, the eyepatch guy slapped her across the face.
chapter twelve
Coach Jorgensen had told me to stay in the stands right above our players’ box. He had told me to wait until the second period ended and then return to the dressing room to join the team.
But Coach Jorgensen’s attention was on the game, not on me.
I spun out of my seat and dashed upward, away from the players’ box. I pounded up the steps of the aisle. At the top, I turned right and sprinted through the oval concourse that would take me around to the other side.
Most of the spectators in the rink were in the stands, watching the game. The few Russians wandering throughout the concourse wisely moved aside as they saw me running. And it was probably a good thing too. Since the vision in my right eye was blurry and my balance was off, I’m not sure I would have been good at dancing around them, not at the speed I was running.
I didn’t know what I was going to do or say when I reached Mr. Eyepatch, but I wasn’t going to need Russian to let him realize what I thought about him hitting Nadia, especially if this involved the danger for her I thought it did. Whatever had happened in the black market could not have been good, and he was obviously connected with it, even if I didn’t know how or why.
It probably took less than thirty seconds to make it halfway around the oval. I’m big but faster than I look. Even then, arriving so quickly, I was barely in time to see them.
Mr. Eyepatch had pushed Nadia through a double-wide exit door at the far end of the concourse. If the slap to her face hadn’t been enough indication of trouble, this confirmed it. Nadia was supposed to always be near our team. Should any major incident take place, she would have to translate for us. So I guessed if she was leaving, it probably wasn’t by her choice.
I started running again.
The crowd roared, and part of my mind told me the Russians had just notched a goal. I didn’t spare the ice a glance.
I burst through the doors.
Sunlight battered my eyes. Although it was mid-evening, St. Petersburg was far enough north that, at this time of year, the days were so long the sun barely set for more than a couple of hours.
My head seemed filled with pounding blood. I wondered if any of my stitches had broken open. I blinked away the sudden light, heaving for breath. My right eye filled with tears. I rubbed the tears away, and when I was able to focus again, I saw the two of them rounding the corner of the outside of the building.
Again, like a fool, I rushed forward.
Unlike ice arenas and major stadiums in North America, this one did not have acres and acres of parking lots. Not enough Russians could afford cars. The tiny parking lot was deserted. I didn’t have to worry about knocking anyone over.
I rounded the corner and ran into deep shadow. Buildings pressed in all around this ice arena, and I dashed forward into a narrow alley alongside the arena.
What a mistake.
Mr. Eyepatch stepped out from behind an old truck. At full speed, I almost speared myself on the huge knife he held waist high in my direction. I managed to throw myself to the side and dodge the knife.
I stopped a few stumbling steps later, turned to face him and gasped for breath.
He snarled something at me in Russian.
I didn’t move. There were only those couple of steps between us. Up close, even in the shadows, I could see how his face was filled with pockmarks. His hair was short, lined with gray. The goatee, too, showed gray. The eyepatch covered his right eye. His left eye glittered black with hatred.
He snarled more Russian.
I couldn’t think of anything to say. He held a knife; I didn’t. Big as I am, the knife made up for a lot of his disadvantage in size. Especially the knife he held, a big bowie knife with notched ends.
He waved it at me and stepped forward.
I stepped back and bumped into some garbage cans.
Again, more nasty Russian, probably curses. More knife waving.
“Goreela,” Nadia’s voice floated out from beside the truck, “he asks why you have turned on him.”
There was a slight scuffling, and she came into view. Two of her. My vision was blurring. I also saw two trucks, two of Mr. Eyepatch and, worst of all, two of the murderous knives.
“Tell him he shouldn’t hit you.” Wet warmth was running down my face and onto my neck. I realized it was blood from my stitches.
“You came out here because he hit me?” Her voice was filled with disbelief. “You risk everything for something as simple and meaningless as that?”
Simple? Meaningless? Why did she sound so old as she said it?
Mr. Eyepatch spoke to her without taking his glittering black eye off me.
She replied in Russian, explaining, I guessed, what each of us had just said.
He laughed. It sounded as mean and hollow as one of Chandler’s laughs.
“Tell him to put that knife away before I get really, really mad,” I said. I hoped my voice didn’t sound as shaky as I felt.
“You simple boy,” she told me. “Have you no idea what you’ve done?”
I had a good idea. Too good. I’d backed myself completely into a set of garbage cans. With a madman ready to rip my stomach apart. All for a girl who didn’t seem too impressed that I had tried to defend her.
<
br /> Mr. Eyepatch slashed the air in front of me.
I tried pulling back and knocked over a garbage can. It clattered on the pavement. He laughed again.
I had never felt more alone. I’d been raised on a farm and had learned how to be tough against the weather, against hard work, against the bitterness that had made my father hateful toward life. In hockey, I’d learned how to be tough against uncaring coaches, against opponents who wanted to crush me and against all the lonely hours of missing my family during the months on the road.
But I had never learned how to fight for my life.
Nadia shouted something at Mr. Eyepatch in Russian. Her voice sounded desperate. Was she begging him not to do this to me?
Another slash.
This time I fell backward. My vision was betraying me. With blurred vision in one eye, I had trouble getting my bearings.
He moved forward.
I kicked at his knee.
He laughed and jumped back.
I tried pushing up. In the rotted garbage spread all around, my hand touched cool metal. The metal of a garbage can lid. I watched him close in on me. He was taking his time, licking his lips like a cat watching a crippled mouse.
I felt for the handle of the lid.
He moved forward again.
Nadia continued to plead with him in Russian.
I closed my fingers over the handle and jumped to my feet. He seemed surprised I was so quick. But it only set him back for a heartbeat, and then he slashed forward again, bringing his knife from his waist up toward the center of my ribs.
I brought the garbage can lid around and managed to shield myself.
His blow was so hard that the knife tore through the metal, missing my hand by inches and stopping just short of my stomach.
He yelped.
It was too late for him. I brought my other hand around, and it caught him on the side of his jaw.
He dropped. I stood above him, heaving for breath, glad to be alive. The man had just tried to put a knife through the center of my body. I steadied myself, ready to go after him again.
Nadia ran forward. “No!” she cried. “Don’t!”
Her voice was like a pail of cold water thrown into my face.
I stopped.
He groaned and tried to roll over.
“Please,” Nadia said. “Go now.”
“And leave you here with him?”
“You have caused enough trouble. Please go.” She knelt beside him and cradled his head in her hands.
I stood, unable to understand.
She looked up at me. There was a sad smile on her face. She spoke as if she were many years older than I was.
“Goreela, you are a sweet, sweet boy. I thank you for caring for me. But if you truly care, you will go now. It is the only chance I have.”
I turned and stumbled out of the alley.
How could any person make sense out of this, let alone a big, battered hockey player like me whose job never depended on thinking?
chapter thirteen
I couldn’t play the next night either—at game time my face still looked like uncooked hamburger. I couldn’t see how it mattered. I wanted to be on the ice. Instead I had to watch game four from a seat in the stands, again just up from our players’ box.
The night before, I had returned from the knife fight with Mr. Eyepatch to find we were leading 6–3. The game had finished 8–3, putting us up two games to one in the series.
From the start of this game, however, we were doomed. Chandler missed an easy open net two minutes into the game. Then the Russians stormed down the ice to score on a tic-tac-toe pass play that made us look like blundering robots. I could hear my dad watching this in September and yelling his anger at our stupidity for allowing the Commies to score so easily.
The Russians scored four more goals in the next ten minutes. All I could think about was getting back on the ice and throwing my body around. Instead I was forced to sit up here and watch the slaughter.
To add to my lousy mood, I couldn’t get comfortable. In this ice arena, the seats consisted of wide planks, barely more than glorified steps. Because the planks weren’t divided into one seat per person, Russian spectators pushed and jostled for better positions all through the game. When I stood to cheer our first goal of the night—scored on a deflected slap shot—someone slid over to take my spot, and I had to fight to get my seat back as I sat down.
We scored again a few minutes later. I made the mistake of standing again. This time, when I tried to sit, some woman in a gray shawl had wedged herself almost beneath me.
I decided to pretend I was Russian. I squeezed down beside her and took the space I needed, squishing her into a fat man on the other side of her.
She elbowed me in the right side of my ribs.
I knew I couldn’t elbow her back—this wasn’t hockey—so I pretended it hadn’t happened.
She elbowed me again, and I brought my right arm down to protect my ribs. Then she grabbed my arm.
I turned my head to ask her to let go. She wouldn’t understand English, but maybe the sight of my stitched and bruised face would scare her away.
I discovered her shawl pushed back. Nadia!
“Goreela,” she said, “watch the game. People must not know we are talking.”
I drew a breath to finally correct her about my name. Except I realized Hog wasn’t much of an improvement. And so few people called me Timothy that it would sound just as strange to me as Gorilla.
“People?” I asked. “You mean the guy with the knife?”
“Yes. Boris. He cannot know I am speaking privately to you.”
I took a quick look at her face again. There was no trace of where he had slapped her.
“Are you all right?”
“Watch the game,” she said. “I remind you again. If he knows I am speaking with you, I am in serious danger.”
I wondered what spectators around us might think about our conversation, until I remembered they were Russian. The safest thing Nadia and I could do was speak English.
“What is going on?” I asked from the side of my mouth, my face turned back toward the ice. Hadn’t she just the night before called me a simple boy and told me to leave her alone?
“He and I had a disagreement that is none of your concern.” She paused. “Tell me, what do you expect to gain by betraying Boris?”
I nearly turned my head to stare at her in disbelief. “You think I betrayed the eyepatch guy?”
“You assisted him in Moscow. Then, strangely, you fought him here in St. Petersburg. I cannot really believe you did this because he struck me.”
The Russians swarmed our net. Three shots later, they scored to make it 6–2. But I cared less about the game than I had earlier.
“Where I come from, it isn’t right to hit a woman.”
“I wish I could believe that,” she said.
“Believe it,” I assured her. Then I asked, “What do you mean, assisted Boris in Moscow? And betrayed him here? Are you sure we’re talking about the same guy? The one with the eyepatch?”
“Yes. Boris.”
“I did not assist him. I don’t even know him.”
“You and Chandler,” she said, “you are together, are you not?”
“Yes,” I said. “But it’s not what you think.”
“You are his bodyguard. Is that the way it is said in English?”
It was very difficult to look at the ice as if I were watching the game. “What!? Bodyguard?”
“The black market in Moscow. It is a place where you can hire murderers. Robbery is as common as shaking hands. With someone as big as you nearby, Chandler has few fears.”
“No,” I said, “I only did it because...”
Because he had offered me a large sum of money. To walk with him. I guess it did make me a bodyguard, even if I didn’t know it at the time.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Nothing. But hanging around with Chandler doesn’t make me friend
s with Boris.”
All the time we talked, she leaned into me. I wondered what it might be like to sit this close to her at a movie. I reminded myself that girls like her would not date guys like me.
“I wish I could believe that too,” she said, so quietly I almost missed it.
“Please, tell me what is going on.” I wasn’t good at riddles, and this one was driving me nuts.
“If you already know, I shall be wasting my breath. If you don’t know, it is best for you it remains that way.”
Another riddle answer. “Nadia, I—”
She squeezed my arm. “I must go before Boris wonders about my absence.”
“But—”
“Did I thank you last night for facing Boris? If truly you did it for my sake, I owe you a debt.”
With that, she disappeared back into the pushing crowd. Instead of answering questions, she had raised too many more. So why did I have this insane urge to want to trust her?
chapter fourteen
I was allowed to dress for game five. We needed the win badly. By beating us the night before, the Russians had tied the series. Whoever won this game would go up three to two in the best-of-seven series, and with the two remaining games back in Moscow would only need one more win to take the $100,000 prize.
Klomysyk was not dressed to play for the Russian all-stars. It shouldn’t have surprised us, though. Since he had ripped my face open and hidden beneath the net, the Russian fans had booed him with their weird whistling every time he’d stepped on the ice.
Maybe losing one of their biggest guys demoralized the Russian all-stars. They skated poorly and made it easy for us to get the go-ahead game with a 7–3 victory.
We were on the return train to Moscow by ten the next morning. This time, however, it wasn’t the Avrora high-speed train. Today was an off day. Because there was no hurry to get to Moscow for an evening game, Henley had decided to save some money and put us on the slow train.
This one seemed straight out of a Second World War movie. It clacked and swayed. We traveled second-class, called hardseat because we sat on wooden benches with only thin cushions for comfort.
All-Star Pride Page 5
