by Van Barrett
“You're just rambling. You're not even making sense.”
Jono giggled. “No, you're just not listening.”
“I'm listening fine, Jono. But all I hear is some bitter, jealous bullshit about why you stabbed me in the back.”
“I already told you. I didn't want to.”
I gritted my teeth. “You're just pissing me off more every time you say that.”
“Do I have to spell it out for you? God damn, River, I thought you were smarter than this.” Jono grinned before he delivered whatever it was he was holding onto. “Rickert promised me if I could get you to sign, Carolina would award me with a contract. One year, two-way deal. The team would stuff me in the minors, but at least the dream wouldn't be dead. I'd still have a shot at the big club. And I'd make a couple million on top of it too.”
“… That's what all this was about?” I blinked.
He nodded. “You think I care who the hell you suck and fuck? I don't give a shit about you, River. Personally, I thought it was obvious back in Faribault. The rest of us were horny fuckin' teenagers who were just dying to get inside the next pussy that came along – but you? You never cared, never wanted to go out and pick up chicks. I thought something was off about you.”
“I – I was focused on hockey.”
“Yeah, and that's what you always said back then, but are you gonna deny that there's something between you and that newspaper kid?”
I bared my teeth.
“Ha. That's what I thought.” Jono grinned. “Point is, I knew you were hiding something, and if anything could get you to sign with Carolina … it'd be that.”
My grip tightened on his collar. I pressed my forearm tighter into his throat until he grunted and choked. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because—ack!--” he tapped my forearm to get me to let up. I did, slightly, and he coughed. “Because I don't care anymore, man. Rickert's fuckin' furious with me for leaking that pic. He said our deal's off the table. Hell, he said you could sign with Carolina and he still won't gimme that contract. So fuck 'em. I don't care what you do anymore.”
“But why?” I asked, my brow heavy.
“Because. That dildo pic is it, man, that's all they've got on you. Rickert is freaking the fuck out right about now.”
“I … I don't understand.”
“I wasn't supposed to leak that picture, River!” Jono yelled. “They've lost their trump card, understand? They've got nothing else to hold over you. God damn, you are dense!”
“So that's it? That's all Carolina has?” I stared long and hard into Jono's eyes. “You swear it?”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “I swear it, alright.”
We stared each other down. He looked like he was telling the truth … but could I still trust him?
“So why the hell would you do that?” I asked.
“Where should I start? How about, I'm looking at the two biggest games of my career, and now I don't even get to play in 'em? Or maybe because I was tired of living in your shadow? Or maybe it was because my only chance of earning an NHL contract was based on whether or not you signed with the team that drafted me. You know how demoralizing that is?”
“Enh,” I grunted.
“Nah, see, you don't know. Of course you don't. I got sick of it, River. Sick of you and sick of Carolina. So fuck you both.”
The door suddenly opened and we both turned our heads as Ocho walked in first, followed by the rest of the boys back from practice.
“WHOA!” Ocho yelled. “Boys boys boys!” He rushed over, and then Ells and the others did too, and they pried me away from Jono and kept the two of us restrained. Coach walked in and saw that the two of us had obviously been caught in a fight.
Coach shook his head at me. “Brame. Clark. You guys wanna tell me what the fuck's going on in here?”
“I'm outta here,” Jono said. “Lemme go. I already know I'm suspended. I just came to pack my shit up and get outta here.”
The boys let Jono go. He grabbed his bag and left in a hurry. “Later boys. Good luck in the finals, eh?”
Coach looked at me. “Brame. You wanna tell us what the hell's going on between you two?”
I took a deep breath. “Not really.”
The room was stuffy and silent. The tension was so thick you could swim through it. I jerked my arms free from the boys that held me and started undressing. Coach watched me the whole time, his gaze plastered all over me. I pretended I didn't notice.
“Brame.” He motioned for me out in the hall.
I followed him out. “What's up, Coach.”
“Tell me what's going on.”
“I can't.”
He sighed. “I told you, we can't have you acting like this. You're bringing everybody else in there down.”
“I'll be fine, Coach.”
He laughed. “Bullshit.”
I slouched. “Well, what am I supposed to say?”
“I dunno, Brame. I was gonna threaten you and say I'd sit you in the championship game if you didn't get it together real fast. But hell. I can't even do that. You've carried the team this far. If you crash and burn, so do we. It's only fair.” Coach shook his head. “I just wish you could get that monkey off your back.”
“I'll try. We still have a few more days.”
“Yeah. Alright. Shower up and go home. And please, Brame. Do whatever you gotta do.”
“Will do, Coach.”
If I had any idea what that was.
48
Who is River Brame?
– River –
After my talk with Coach, I went back into the room, ready to act normal with the boys. And I really thought I could act normal. Because what Jono told me, if he could be trusted, was great news! Carolina didn't have anything else. I was free to sign with whoever I wanted after all. I had every right to feel totally happy and free.
But the bewildered conversation took on a nervous edge when I walked through that door. The boys didn't know what the hell was going on and they had a right to be freaked out and confused.
All they knew was, for some reason, Jono's play had fallen off in a hurry. And then he was scratched from the lineup, and then he disappeared, and then suspended. And the next time they saw him, I had him pinned up against the wall and we were at each other's throats.
So they knew something was up. But they weren't about to ask me. And I wasn't about to tell them, either. It was no secret the vibe wasn't right in the room. But no one knew what to do about it, 'cause they didn't know what had started it. So we took our showers in tense silence, got dressed, and parted ways.
I made my way out of the arena and called up my old friend Alan Rickert.
“Hey Al!” I said as soon as he answered.
“Er, hey there, River! Heh! You calling about our offer?” He sounded nervous.
“I sure am, Al.”
“Oh yeah?”
“And I've decided, you can shove it up your ass. How 'bout that, Al?”
“River … now now … you uh, you wouldn't want us to, uh, to--”
“I just talked to Jono, Al. I know about the little deal you made him, and I know you've got nothing left to blackmail me with, too.”
“Err … but River … you really wanna gamble on that?” I heard him swallow over the phone.
“You sound nervous, Al. Not nearly as confident as you did last time we spoke.”
“But River …”
“Hey Al? Good luck to you and Carolina. I can't wait to play you fuckin' guys. I'm gonna be pretty fired up for it, lemme tell ya.”
I hung up my phone, straddled my motorcycle and muttered under my breath. “That rat motherfucker.”
After the bike ride home, I was greeted at my apartment door by Deke, as usual. I fell into the couch with a tired groan and he hopped right on my chest, eager for pets.
“You still love me, don'tcha buddy?”
His short stub of a tail wiggled back and forth.
“Thought so.”
I wasn't sure how to fix the situation. The boys probably wouldn't feel normal again unless I came clean about the beef between me and Jono. But … that was the whole reason for everything getting fucked up in the first place. Because I didn't want people to know.
Ugh.
This was one of those situations where there were no right answers. Any path I took was gonna lead to shame, embarrassment and suffering. I wished I could pick up the phone and call Lane and ask him what he thought. Obviously, that couldn't happen. He'd probably tell me to go fuck myself. And rightfully so. Especially after I heard the news today that Bitch and Moan had been canceled. He couldn't be too happy about that.
I eyed the garbage can. His piece. I think it was still in there. That was my last connection to him.
I scooted Deke aside and hurried over to the garbage can. Was I desperate? Hell yeah. But who knows. Maybe I'd find the answer I was looking for in there. I rooted through the trash until I found it at last – a little crumpled, a little grease-stained and gross, but still in this world, still in my hands. I took it back to the couch, got comfortable and read.
***
The title at the top page said, “Who is River Brame? By Lane Matthews.”
Yeah, good question. I oughtta ask myself that. I started reading:
When I was given the assignment to follow River Brame around for a special, one-on-one personal expose, my first reaction was, “who the heck is River Brame?” I know, the thought that one of your fellow students could be ignorant of UND's most celebrated and successful athlete makes this newspaper crinkle and crackle in your trembling hands. . . .
“Ha, oh please,” I mumbled and conferred with Deke. I read on. Lane wrote a big old disclaimer that, prior to meeting me, he didn't know a single thing about hockey. And he explained that he tried to get out of this assignment numerous times – so don't hold it against him if he got anything wrong.
I read on:
. . . So who exactly is River Brame? In the hockey world, he is defined as a 'skilled power forward' – a rare and highly-valued embodiment of oft-conflicting attributes: size, strength, and skill. Yet, this jargon-laden label falls short in capturing River's mesmerizing virtues and style of play.
See, big hockey players like River tend to be slow, lumbering presences on the ice. Compared to their smaller, quicker contemporaries, the bigger skaters lug around the ice with the agility of a supertanker. Those big guys aren't supposed to skate with the lethal speed and grace of a cheetah. But watch River fly up the ice on a rush, and that's exactly what you'll see.
On the other hand, smaller, more skilled players – guys who can deftly stick-handle a puck inside a crowded phone booth – aren't supposed to be armed with the physical strength and reckless abandon of a bull. But watch River bowl right through a defenseman, only to cleanly deke the goalie out of his jockstrap, and that's exactly the mix of skill you'll see. . . .
Lane talked about how dedicated to exercise and diet I was, and how that attitude rubbed off on my teammates. He transitioned into telling the account of the first time he officially met me: when I was training freshman Chris Cale until he puked. The scene Lane painted made me chuckle – a dead-tired Lettuce, languishing on his exercise bike and begging to be done, with bright blue streaks of Gatorade all over, and a room full of awed hockey players grunting and groaning their support. And Lane, of course, wondering what the heck he'd been wrangled into.
. . . Walk into River's apartment and the first thing you'll notice is that this isn't your typical college-boy hovel. In plain view is a squat rack, a power cage, an exercise bike, and a wall lined with dumbbells and free weights and sundry workout equipment. In fact, the only piece of normal furniture in River's apartment is a small leather couch that an ex-girlfriend coerced him into purchasing when she swore she'd never relax another day on the FlexMaster-3000. Open his kitchen cabinets, and you'll find a supply of protein powder so vast, it'd make any accomplished doomsday prepper wet themselves with envy.
So has his gym-rat lifestyle paid off? One need only to look at a picture of River as a scrawny, bright-eyed, 5'10 freshman that arrived for the first time in Grand Forks – and then compare it to the strapping 6'3 senior who is set to leave this small town as the school's all-time leading scorer in goals, assists, and points. And it should be clear the answer is yes. . . .
Lane segued into writing about the 'reason' I wanted him to write this piece. He said he'd get the obvious out of the way first: the reason was because I wanted to explore free agency. And Lane did a nice job explaining all the technical aspects of how NHL contracts work, and why I thought it was important to exercise the right to free agency that I'd earned.
But then the article took a turn. He said that the free agency angle was too obvious, and not what I, River, actually wanted the readers to know. And the piece was actually about something else entirely. He hinted at my troubles at home, with an alcoholic Dad and a single Mom.
. . . when you see a guy like River, and you see where his life is going, with all the impending fame and money and adulation, all you can think is that he was born lucky, plain and simple. Surely the stars and planets had aligned in some miraculous formation the day he was born. Perhaps a cosmic beam of energy touched his infant head and destined him for greatness. The stuff of folklore and legends. And that's what made him tall and handsome and physically gifted. He had a birth-right to breeze through life, rich, successful, famous; and life would always open up and reveal her secrets to him at his slightest urging.
You'd never stop to think someone like that would have his own pain, his own troubled past. That his suffering could eclipse yours by entire worlds. And yet, that those troubles honed his desire to improve his lot in life: that it made him strive to be who he is today.
. . . Now, I can't tell you River's history. All I can tell you is that despite his intimidating size, his bone-crushing strength, his rugged toughness – underneath all that, he is protecting a secret: River is a thoughtful, kind and sensitive soul.
Like most college hockey fans, I think River will have boundless success in the NHL. In fact, there's no doubt in my mind he will. He's too driven not to. And he will be loved because of it. But as hard as it is to believe? Beneath the hockey player that will wow the world, there's an even more amazing person just waiting to be discovered.
So who is River Brame, you ask? I hope someday, he'll tell us all.
***
Splat. Splat.
That was the sound of a couple of tear drops rolling from my cheek and hitting the page.
“Aw, goddamnit,” I sniffled and wiped at my cheeks. Deke put his muzzle on my chest. I hugged him tight. “Look at your old man, Deke.”
Lane's paper, and the blowup earlier with Jono, gave me a lot to think about.
See, after Jono told me that no more information could come out, I knew I should feel like I was on top of the world. With that bit of information, I knew I wasn't hand-cuffed to Carolina and I could sign with whoever I damn well wanted. My agent Pete would be pleased too – no more leaks meant he could bury the headlines and get me top quality endorsements in no time.
I got to have my cake and eat it, too.
But after reading Lane's piece, I had this eerie feeling. Like I was peering over the edge of a cliff and I could see the trajectory of my entire career, maybe even my life.
I'd break into the league next year, wide-eyed, star-struck, wowed by the people and places that my job, professional hockey!, took me. But eventually, the long season, the travel, the rigors of the pro schedule all added up, and the novelty would wear off, and hockey would turn into a grind.
And from there, I'd plateau. But I wouldn't be satisfied with reaching that plateau, because I never have been when I hit a plateau in life. So I'd push myself to work harder. To get faster, better, stronger. Because I knew I could surprise everyone still. But there would be this deep fear that I'd be desperately trying to ignore: that someday, my body would hit its peak, and fr
om there it'd start to decline.
And when I couldn't get any better. When there was nowhere to go but down again. I'd have to ask myself … what was it all for? What was it I'd been trying to run away from?
I'd earn a lot of money, and I'd tell myself that meant that I was a success, that my life had meaning. But deep down, I'd be scared of how empty and hollow it was to have that much money, when I knew there was more important work to be done in my life.
I guess what I'm saying is, I had this sense of unfinished business, no matter how successful I might end up being. Hell, I already suffered from this feeling that I'd never be whole if I didn't do the right thing.
But did I know what the right thing was? And if I did, was I even brave enough to do it?
“What should I do, Deke?”
49
Man Up & Move On
– Lane –
On Thursday, things went back to normal. Well, as normal as things can go, all things considered.
But I started my day by swallowing my pride and going back to class. I took a page out of River's book and wore a hat. I also wore a huge pair of sunglasses, outdoors and indoors, which also helped hide my bleary, light-sensitive eyes. All that drinking had added up, and I didn't look so hot. I did my best to blend in and be just another normal student on campus.
Yeah, people still pointed and snickered. Casual acquaintances elbowed me in class and whispered, “so? Is it true?” As if I'd just tell anyone.
But the point was, I'd reached my limit. There was no point in trying to escape the inevitable anymore. I had to man up. I deleted my Facebook, I got a new e-mail address, and I changed my phone number.
Like I told Devon: it was time to move on.
I wasn't even mad at River anymore. Well, maybe a little. But as the embarrassment, guilt and shame washed away, I was left with only one feeling: regret. Regret that things had gone the way they had. We both made mistakes, and we both shared the blame for why things didn't work out. Honestly, it felt like we had a shot at something real … but we were both too immature, too afraid to have it.