Power Play (6 page)

Unable to come up with the answer, I shook my head.

“I’ve coached
all
of those players,” he said proudly. “Either while they were on my team or at a camp.
All
of them. I had a hand in them getting to where they are now.”

“That’s amazing. I didn’t know you coached him,” I said, pointing to one of my favourite NHL players.

“He’s a good guy. Next time he’s in town, maybe I can arrange for you to meet him.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course I’m serious. He remembers where he came from and who helped him along the way. But do you know what’s the most amazing thing about this wall?” he asked.

I shook my head.

He pointed to a big blank spot in the middle of the display. “I always leave that spot open because there’s still room for somebody else to make it.” He looked at me. “Somebody like you.”

I didn’t even know what to say.

“It could happen, and it all starts now, tonight, right now. Do you believe it’s possible?” he asked.

“I’ll do everything,
anything
, I need to do to make it happen,” I replied.

“I’m counting on that,” he said. He gave me a big
slap on the shoulder. “Now, let’s get you those gloves and shoulder pads.”

He opened up a closet. There were a few suits hanging there, but mostly it was filled with sticks and gloves, a set of goalie pads, helmets, and other equipment. He pulled out a pair of gloves and looked at them. “Try them on.”

I slipped them on.

“Well?”

“They feel good.”

“Leave one on, and then slip on one of these and tell me which feels better.”

He handed me a right glove from a second pair, and I slipped off the right one I was wearing and handed it to him.

“Hold the stick,” he said, handing one to me. “Which one feels right?”

I gripped the stick, flexing my fingers. Both gloves were good, but one was better. “This one,” I said, holding it up.

“Nice choice.” He handed me the left glove from that pair.

“Now take off your shirt,” he said.

“What?”

“So you can try on the shoulder pads,” he explained.

“Oh … sure,” I mumbled. I felt awkward. Even though I was used to changing in front of other players in the dressing room, this was no dressing room.

He pulled out a pair of pads from the closet. “They look about the right size.”

He handed them to me and I took off my shirt and slipped them on. I started to adjust them and he helped, tightening the straps, snugging them into place.

“They look like a good fit,” he said. “How do they feel?”

“Nice. Expensive.”

“They
are
expensive, but you need to have the right equipment. If you’d been wearing these pads today, you wouldn’t have a sore shoulder right now,” he said.

“How do you know I have a sore shoulder?”

He laughed. “I know everything.”

“Seriously.”

He laughed again. “I saw your reaction after you blocked that shot in the scrimmage. It caught you under the padding … right here.”

He pushed his finger into my shoulder and I grimaced in pain.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to hurt you, just wanted to show you. The problem is that because of the pain, you started to protect your shoulder and it affected your shot. You know that breakaway you missed?”

“How could I forget?”

“You missed because you didn’t have full mobility when you went to your backhand after the deke. In the Show, they’d have a physiotherapist, a chiropractor, an exercise physiologist, and a massage therapist who would be working with you right away … maybe even in the intermission.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Next year I’m going to arrange for a massage therapist to help my team. Have you ever had a massage?” he asked.

“Never.”

“It’s very therapeutic. Sit down,” he said, gesturing to the bed, “and take off the shoulder pads.”

The whole idea of getting a massage from anyone, let alone a guy, made me a little uncomfortable, but I did what he said.

“I’m no massage therapist, but I know some of the techniques. Turn around.”

From behind me he placed his hands on my shoulders. “Man, are you tense. You’re as hard as a rock.”

I was feeling pretty tense and really sore.

“Massage can have lots of uses. It can help with tired muscles. It can help repair strains. It can feel good or it can actually hurt. How does this feel?”

“Um … okay … fine, I guess.”

“You’ve got a bad knot,” he said. “Deep-tissue massage can free up muscles like that.”

He dug his fingers into my back, just under the shoulder blades, and I had to fight to not jump up and yell at him to stop.

“Sometimes it can be a little painful,” he said. He released the pressure. “I know that hurt, but how does it feel now?”

I shrugged the shoulder and then rotated it. “It feels better, a
lot
better.”

“Oh, hey, you should get going,” Coach said. He pointed at a clock on the dresser.

“It’s almost curfew!” I exclaimed.

I jumped to my feet and grabbed my shirt, the shoulder pads, and the gloves from the floor and hurried back into the living room. I slid my arms into the sleeves of my shirt and then stuffed the equipment in the bag that I’d brought with me. Quickly I grabbed my coat and put it on.

“I lost track of the time!”

“We both did,” he said. “You’d better rush.”

“I will, and thanks for the gloves and the pads. I really appreciate it.”

“It’s my pleasure. Just tell people you had them in your suitcase if anybody asks,” he said.

“I will.”

“And remember, there are always a couple of beers here in the fridge waiting for you.”

“Thanks. Good night.”

After he closed the door, I took a few steps down the dimly lit hall and then just stopped. I took a deep breath. Here I was, new equipment in the bag, having just been told that I had what it was going to take, that he believed in me, that I was going to be drafted in Junior A. I should have felt like I was walking on air, but instead I felt just … just … off.

Then my stomach lurched and I realized I was on the verge of throwing up. I tried to keep it down and stumbled into the stairwell where I promptly threw up all over
the stairs. The vomit—clear and liquidy, smelling of the beer that made up most of it—washed down the stairs, dripping from stair to stair. Well, at least it wouldn’t smell like piss anymore.

Carefully, a hand on the railing to steady myself, I walked down the stairs, stepping around the mess I’d made.

T
he cold, clean air felt good in my lungs, although my legs still felt a little bit wobbly. I’d thrown up a second time on the street, probably from trying to move too fast. I slowed down. I was already five minutes late for my eleven o’clock curfew and there was no rolling back time … wait, didn’t Superman do that once in a comic? He flew really fast, circling the world, and he slowed it down and made it turn backwards. Who said I couldn’t read and absorb stuff? If I could have done my book reports on comics or graphic novels, my marks would have soared. I just didn’t have the time to waste on a novel.

The residence was just up ahead. I crossed the road and then the grass so I was walking right up against the wall of the building, hidden in the shadows. I came up to
the door and peeked through the window. There were a dozen guys sitting in the common area, still playing Xbox. I drew back my head so I wouldn’t be seen. It was after curfew, but it wouldn’t be lights out for another forty-five minutes. If I walked in now, the odds were that somebody was going to notice. Maybe it would be better if I just waited until everybody went to their rooms, and then I could sneak in—assuming they didn’t lock the doors. I couldn’t take that chance.

Quietly, slowly, I opened the door. Nobody turned away from the game. I was in the clear.

“Curfew is at eleven, Cody.” Coach Terry.

“Sorry, sir, I lost track of time.”

He leaned in closer and took a deep sniff. “Did you lose track of our non-drinking policy too?”

He gestured for me to follow him down the hallway to the office. I saw that nobody had noticed any of this. I was at least grateful for that. He closed the door behind us and sat down behind his desk while I took the chair in front.

“So, tell me what happened,” he said. “You smell like you’ve been drinking.”

“Um … a guy spilled a drink on me.”

“It smells like he spilled it down your throat,” he said. “A number of times. Look, Cody, you can’t con a con, and you can’t fool an alcoholic.”

What was that supposed to mean?

“I’m an alcoholic,” he said. “I’ve been dry for almost ten years, but I’m still an alcoholic.”

“But doesn’t that make you an ex-alcoholic?” I asked.

“Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic,” he said, correcting me.

“Oh yeah, that’s right. I remember them saying that at the meeting,” I said.

“You’ve been to a meeting about alcoholism?”

“I was forced to go to a couple of those Alateen things.”

He nodded his head knowingly. “It’s good that teenagers have support groups like that. Can I ask? Is it your father, or your mother, or someone else in your life?”

“My father. My mother doesn’t drink at all.”

“Your father has a drinking problem,” he said.

“He doesn’t think so. As long as he has enough to drink, he doesn’t figure he has any problem at all,” I said, trying to joke around. Just then I wished that I were a lot more sober, because the way my head was still swimming, I had a feeling I might say just about anything, and that wasn’t too smart.

“It’s still probably a problem for all those around him. If you’d like, I could talk to him,” he said.

“No!” I exclaimed, surprising myself with the force of my answer. “I mean, no, thank you, sir … it’s okay.”

“I wouldn’t talk to him without your permission. But if now’s not the right time … often people have to hit bottom before they look for help.”

I didn’t know how much further my father could sink. It was scary to think that he hadn’t reached bottom yet.

“You should keep going to those meetings,” Terry said.

“Why? I’m not the one with a drinking problem.”

Coach Terry got up and circled around till he was sitting on the edge of the desk right in front of me. “You’re here, having missed curfew, smelling like a brewery, and lying to me about drinking.”

“That doesn’t mean I have a drinking problem!”

He gave me a look that left no doubt he was questioning that. “I want you to know, son, that if you ever need to talk about this, not just here, but any time, you can just call.”

I almost blurted out, “I have nothing to talk about,” but I knew better. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”

I’d heard similar words from different people—teachers and guidance counsellors, mostly—over the years, offering me help with one thing or another. I’d learned that talk was cheap.

“Alcohol is often a problem with hockey players … a big problem. I’ve lived it and I’ve seen it. If I can help you or anybody else, well, that’s my duty.”

“Thank you,” I repeated, unable to think of anything else to say.

“It’s hard to grow up with an alcoholic parent. I know about that too,” he said.

Wow! Somehow my father’s drinking had finally worked in my favour! It looked like he was going to let me get away with this. I started to get up.

“Now we just have to figure out what to do about you missing curfew and this underage drinking.”

I slumped back down. The only luck I ever had was bad.

“In the long run, it wouldn’t be fair to you to brush this under the carpet. What do
you
think I should do?”

I shook my head. I had no real idea, and I figured “Leave me alone” wasn’t the answer he was looking for.

“I do know that everything starts with being honest … including the punishment. So tell me what happened tonight, and remember, I’m pretty good at telling when somebody is lying to me.”

Great. If I told him the truth, I’d be betraying Coach Connors … and turning my back on my whole future. But there wasn’t much choice. I’d have to tell the truth … well, at least part of the truth.

“I’m sorry, sir. I admit it. I was drinking. I had four beers … no, five. I shouldn’t have had any, but I drank too much … I’m not used to drinking.”

“Let’s hope you
don’t
get used to it. Now, there’s no way that any bar in town would serve you, so where did the beer come from?” he asked.

“Sir, you’re putting me in a bad place,” I said. That was no lie. “I know I’m in trouble, and I deserve to be in trouble, it’s just that I can’t tell you … I can’t rat out somebody else.”

“Is it another one of the players at our camp?” he asked.

“No, sir, it isn’t.” It wasn’t a player. “I just don’t want to get
her
in any trouble.” That was just one word of a lie.

He leaned forward and placed a hand on my shoulder.
“I guess there’s honour in protecting a girl. You wouldn’t be the first guy who thought with his groin instead of his head. Let’s call it a night.”

“Thanks, sir.” I got up and went for the door.

“We’ll meet tomorrow and I’ll let you know what your punishment is going to be,” he said.

Hopes dashed again. “What could happen?” I asked.

“You could be expelled and sent home.”

I felt sick again, but this time it had nothing to do with beer.

“We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Thanks, sir.”

“Get to sleep,” he said.

The night passed slowly, without much sleep. For starters, the guys wouldn’t let me drift off until I’d told them all about what had happened between me and my imaginary date. She was a lot better looking than any girl I’d ever actually gone out with. Not to mention a lot more accommodating. I’d never gotten that lucky with a real girl.

The next morning, the door to the coaches’ office was open. Coach Terry was at his desk and Coach Connors was sitting in a chair next to it.

“Come in,” Coach Terry said. “And close the door.”

I sat down.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Terry asked.

“Good … fine … really sorry.”

“And your head. Do you have a hangover?” Terry asked.

“No, I’m good,” I lied. “Ready to play.”

“Whether you’ll be able to play hasn’t been determined,” he said ominously. “The first thing I did this morning was talk to Coach Connors about what happened. He was very disappointed in you.”

“Very,” Coach Connors said solemnly.

I looked at him closely. He did look disappointed. Was he disappointed that I’d been caught? Had he said anything to Terry to explain what happened?

“Your decision to drink reflects badly on him,” Terry continued.

My
decision. It was Coach Connors’s decision, his beer, and his insisting that I drink to begin with.

“I wanted Coach Connors here this morning since it is because of him that you’re even here at this camp.”

Both at the camp and in trouble.

“I think we should start with you apologizing to Coach Connors.”

I almost laughed but caught myself. I was going to have to apologize to the person who’d got me into trouble to begin with? But what choice did I have?

“I’m sorry … really sorry,” I said.

“I believe you,” Coach Connors answered. “And I want you to know that I accept your apology.”

He came forward and offered me his hand. We shook, and then, with his back still turned to Terry, he winked at me. He sat back down.

“You have a good friend in Coach Connors,” Terry said. “He is the one who should be most upset and disappointed in you, perhaps the one who should most want you punished, but instead he’s spent the morning defending you.”

I appreciated that. A lot. My father had never defended me. Although, really, was Coach defending me or protecting himself?

“He told me about your circumstances,” Terry said.

What did he mean by that?

“You and I talked about the home situation, so I know about your father, but Coach Connors also told me about the difficulties in school, the impulse issues around temper and fighting. He convinced me that we shouldn’t go with a
death sentence
and kick you out of camp.”

A wave of relief washed over me.

“In fact, we’re not even going to call home to inform your parents of what happened.” He looked at Coach Connors, who nodded sympathetically. “Coach Connors felt your father would overreact, possibly take it out on you.”

“Thanks, really, thanks.”

“Instead, as punishment, you are not allowed to leave the building unless you’re under the supervision of a coach. Do you understand?”

“I understand and I’m grateful. Thanks for giving me another chance. I won’t let you down … again.”

“We’re counting on that. Now go, get breakfast, and get suited up and ready to play.”

I got to my feet and shook hands with both men.

“This is for you,” Terry said as he pressed something into my hand. “It’s my business card. It has my e-mail and my office phone number. And on the back are my home and cell numbers.”

I turned it over. There in pen were two phone numbers.

“I don’t know where you’re going to be next year, but this is more than just about you as a hockey player. This is about you as a
person
.” He paused. “If you need me, you call. I’m only a phone call away.”

More empty words.

“Thanks … thanks so much.”

I tucked the card into my pocket.

“There are lots of things to consider. It’s not about making mistakes,” he said. “It’s about what we learn from those mistakes.”

“I’ve learned, sir, and I won’t do it again.”

“I’d like to believe you. Go and have breakfast and I’ll see you out on the ice.”

Coach Connors followed me out of the office and closed the door behind him.

“He still likes you,” Coach said.

“That’s good … although I’m not sure he likes me that much.”

“He likes you enough not to kick you out of camp. You know, he’s like an institution around here … there are lots of snakes in this business, but he has integrity. That’s why we’re such good friends.”

“So he meant what he said about me calling?” I asked.

“He meant it.” He paused. “But remember, he’s a pretty busy guy, and talking to him about problems might work against you the next time. So … just play it cool.”

“That’s what I figured.”

“Besides, it’s not like you have a drinking problem … other than your father’s drinking.”

That sounded right to me.

Coach threw an arm around my shoulders as we walked down the hall. “You know I had no choice,” he said. “I couldn’t tell him.”

“I know.”

“You handled that well,” he said. “I want you to know that I appreciated what you said, and more importantly, what you
didn’t
say.”

“I’ve never finked out on anybody in my whole life. I know when to keep my mouth shut,” I said.

“What I learned this morning is that I can really trust you. I hope you learned the same thing about me. As far as I’m concerned, this morning, in that office, you just moved up a whole draft position. I’m going to make
sure
you’re on my team next year.”