Power Forward

by Sylvain Hotte

“Ahh… no.”

  “Did he go along with you on your workout?”

  “Uhh… no. He hasn’t been for a couple of days.”

  I admit it, it wasn’t too swift. Now she was really fuming. It would have been so easy to say, “Yes, he was with me. But he had to go to the pharmacy for something, he’ll be back soon.” But I felt cornered, trapped, caught with the handgun. It was a lie, but I had to protect it. So instinctively, I began to tell every half-truth that popped into my head, hoping to keep the existence of the revolver secret.

  Nathalie began to rant, consumed with rage, huge tears running down her cheeks.

  “He’d better not be pulling his old shit anymore! I know exactly why he came to stay here. But I’m telling you, that’s not going to happen! Not in my house. I never want to see that damned maniac again. Never!”

  Outside, the two girls, tired of waiting, honked the horn a couple of times. Nathalie was still crying. The horn of the Tercel honked again. And I decided to take care of job one. The two girls. I brushed past Nathalie and left the room, exiting by the back door.

  As I shut the door behind me and was crossing the street, I heard her yelling through the window:

  “That goes for the two of you too! Get the hell out of here!”

  I jumped into the car, and Vicky gave it the gas.

  Just as they were about to drop me off at Victoria Park, I told them that I’d like to go to Cartier-Brébeuf Park with them. I’d do four or five laps of the park and that would be enough of a workout. Jessie was pleased. Vicky, still wordless, turned the car around. I couldn’t tell if the pouting expression on her face, which I could see clearly in the mirror, conveyed impatience or a kind of satisfaction.

  The park was buzzing. People were picnicking, playing frisbee, sun tanning and doing anything and everything that people do to pass the time relaxing on a beautiful August day. I changed in the car and joined the girls, who had stretched out on a large blanket, not far from the pond. They’d stripped down to their bikini tops: pink for Vicky and white for Jessie. I started warming up on the grass but I couldn’t keep myself from eyeing them as they lay there on their blanket.

  They were talking quietly between themselves. I could hear Jessie clearly enough, in spite of the fact she was whispering. But it was impossible to hear Vicky.

  I was about to take off running when Vicky shook a bottle of sunscreen in my direction.

  “He’s Innu!” quickly exclaimed Jessie. A rapid exchange of glances took place between Vicky and me. Jessie must have realized she wasn’t getting the whole picture. The keenness with which she had jumped in told me all I needed to know. I let them know that my mother was Québécoise and that even Innu didn’t spend the whole day in the sun unless they wanted to burn like anybody else. I took the bottle out of Vicky’s hand.

  Our fingers brushed. I couldn’t tell if she did it on purpose.

  I slathered sunscreen over my arms and shoulders. Now it was the girls who were discreetly watching me out of the corners of their eyes. After thanking Vicky, I gave them both a wave and took off on the run.

  In my mind, I could hear Larry’s voice:

  “You’re a power forward, Alex, never forget it.”

  The day was gorgeous. The ducks were quacking. A group of African Quebecers were chilling, listening to dubstep. Some guy in a Chevy Nova laid rubber, sending up a cloud of smoke and perfuming the air with the aroma of burnt tires. And all along the bike path, the dance of families on their two-wheelers enjoying the extraordinary weather. Summers are short, winters are long, and people try desperately to extract as much pleasure as they can from a beautiful day, like squeezing the last drop from an old lemon.

  My legs were solid and my pulse was steady. On the other hand, I was having a hard time getting my wind. It was hot and I was drenched with sweat. It ran down my face and into my eyes. I might have been pushing it a little too much for the heat of the day, like somebody in too much of a hurry to get where he’s going. The most important thing in running is to find a steady pace. But the scent of the sunscreen kept reminding me of Jessie and Vicky. I wondered what that loser Tommy was doing. He was probably at the back of the gym pumping big iron and getting shots of dope in his bum. Funny… Not even a year ago, he’d have been the one hanging out with the prettiest girls in town while I’d be cruising alone in my quad in the sand pit beside the municipal garbage dump.

  When I came back to near the duck pond, Vicky was all alone. I let myself drop to her side, catching my breath. When I asked her where Jessie was, she answered by shaking her water bottle in the direction of the drinking fountain. There she was, in the distance, holding two bottles of water, talking with some people.

  “You don’t say very much, do you?” I asked. I could sense her looking me up and down from behind her sunglasses. Her navel was filled with the same sweat that was trickling down her long slender frame.

  “What are you doing tomorrow night?” she asked.

  Finally, I heard her speak. Her voice was deep, with a slight tremolo. And something nasal as well, but incredibly seductive. In fact, even if she had sounded like a gorilla, I would have found her cute. I was bitten.

  Before I could say anything at all, she added, in all directness and with little modesty:

  “My mom’s spending the night at her boyfriend’s tomorrow. She’ll be back late. Do you want to see me?”

  I felt my legs go wobbly. And the butterflies in my stomach. The sun was burning me and the dubstep pounding from across the park made my head spin.

  Jessie returned, walking barefoot on the grass. When she noticed me watching her, she waved hello, flashing me a big smile. Discreetly, I palmed the piece of paper that Vicky scooted across the blanket. On it was her phone number, written in pink.

  “I figured you’d be pretty thirsty,” said Jessie, kneeling beside me.

  She was breathtakingly beautiful. I held the piece of paper in my fist, squeezing it like a school kid afraid to be found out in class. On full breakaway, a good hockey player has to rely on his instincts more than anything else. That gives him a clear advantage over his opponents. He has to move for the best opening without a second thought. That was the mark of a champion.

  I thanked her in all sincerity, telling her how thoughtful I thought she was. Then, I drank two-thirds of the bottle before sinking back down on the blanket, one arm shielding my face from the sun. Jessie was lying on my left, Vicky stretched out on my right. I could feel each of their thighs touching my own.

  We stayed like that for close to half an hour. Until, totally fried by the sun, we couldn’t take any more and got up to look for some shade. Vicky was waiting in the car, the radio cranked all the way up, as if she didn’t really want to hear what Jessie was saying to me. Jessie had taken me by the hand to hold me back. She wanted to talk to me. Under the shade of a big tree, on the sidewalk, she asked me what I was doing later on. I was busy, I told her. Then I kissed her on the cheek, saying I was glad to have seen her. I watched her climb into the car, and I started running again, pretty sure I’d seen Vicky flash me a huge grin in the rear-view mirror.

  I ran down the cycling path and then over the iron bridge. After passing through the industrial park, I crossed an overpass that brought me close to the baseball stadium. I took the back streets back to my apartment.

  Something potent, primordial energy was driving me on. This time, it wasn’t fear that sent my feet flying; it was desire. My strides, normally heavy and regular, were light and nimble, carrying me along at full speed. I felt something akin to hunger. That was it. I was hungry. There was a taste in my mouth. It wasn’t fresh like hay or putrid like lake algae. It was blood. My mouth was wide open, dripping with saliva, my teeth long and sharp. I paused at every corner, sniffing the air, alert, looking all around, with the irresistible urge to call out to the pack to follow me.

  Back at the apartment, Larry was in a fine mood. Which was a relief, considering what I’d discovered in his closet. I’d been h
olding my breath, afraid I’d find him sitting on the couch with his arms folded behind his head and the gun on the coffee table, asking me if I was the one who’d been going through his stuff. Instead, a chef’s apron tied around his waist, he ushered me into the kitchen where he was in the midst of preparing two humungous T-bones fresh from the butcher.

  When he saw me, he let out a whoop, saying how glad he was to see me. He offered me a beer that I gingerly nursed, a little suspicious of the whole setup. Larry wasn’t the kind of guy to offer you a beer, usually. He was more likely to whip up a banana smoothie, loaded with protein powder.

  “So,” he asked. “how’d it go?”

  “Great.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I made the cut, for sure.”

  “You can say it again, for sure!” he said, slapping me on the back with one hand as he held the steaks on a wooden cutting board in the other.

  Out in Nathalie’s back yard, the table was set with placemats, plates and condiments. Smoke billowed out of the gas grill along with the smell of grilled onions. I glanced up towards the house; the door was shut and the window curtains were closed.

  “Don’t worry, she’s away for a few days. Nobody to get on our case.”

  So that explained his good mood and the impromptu little party.

  It was just what I needed, this dinner for two. I’d piled up more than my share of unpleasant moments since I’d arrived in town. Me too, I felt like celebrating. Camp was going smoothly, I’d just come back from a great afternoon and Vicky’s phone number was in my pocket.

  Larry put the steaks on the grill and I sat down at the table, enjoying the scent of the flowers in Nathalie’s garden.

  “What’s on your mind, big guy?” said Larry, dishing me up the big T-bone, which began to swim in its juices.

  “Nothing much,” I said.

  He heaped my plate with grilled onions and a baked potato that had been cooking in the blood-red sauce. I was hungry. We talked about hockey and whatever else came into our minds while we ate. Larry was upbeat and talkative. Too talkative.

  He spoke passionately of the Côte-Nord: of its beautiful and extraordinary land. Of spaces so vast that you could get lost forever and never be found. He remembered going fishing with his uncle Henri when he was a kid: maybe he should go back to sea. Crab fishing was hard work, he knew. But he was tired of lousy low-paying jobs. He didn’t have any illusions. He realized he’d never make a good coach and would never go any higher than midgets. He dreamed of buying his own place somewhere between Sept-Îles and Havre-Saint-Pierre, maybe at Rivière-au-Tonnerre or Magpie. With any luck, he’d pick up something cheap right on the water. He was tired of being a loser who lived in a semi-basement in the middle of some town. For the first time in his life, he had something to live for. He could feel it: the taste of freedom.

  It made me really happy to see him like that. I’d only been half tuned in as he blabbered on, his little eyes sparkling, his gestures excessive, too expressive, like an Italian mamma. Slouched on my patio chair, feeling the beer, I floated in a sea of blond hair, gold as honey, and the alluring scent of goddesses.

  “Alex, I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  And with that, I stopped daydreaming and sat bolt upright in my chair. Larry had said a lot of things, jumping from one subject to another, idealizing life and dreaming of a better future. I knew they were only dreams. I couldn’t believe he was set on making them come true, certainly not any time soon.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Totally.”

  “But rookie camp ends tomorrow. Real camp starts next week. Don’t you want to see how I make out with the older guys?”

  He smiled, shaking his head from left to right.

  “It’s obvious you don’t need me anymore, Alex. I’ve been watching how you handle yourself. You’ve done amazing. A hell of a lot better than I ever imagined. I talked to your coach. It’s in the bag, believe me. Starting next week, he’s putting you on a line with Steven Caron and Ruslan Abishkin. He says you’ll be turning heads this season. Do you know what that means? If it happens, if you end up Abishkin’s right winger, you’ve got a good shot at winning rookie of the year. That just about guarantees you’ll be first NHL draft pick.”

  He was exaggerating about a top draft pick. Not too many players from Quebec had gone high in the draft in recent years. But what was even more striking was that I had never, ever, heard Larry say anything like that about me before. His style was to bring me down to earth by telling me I wasn’t good enough, I wasn’t working hard enough.

  I must say I was disappointed, even a little sad, to hear him. His confession and all the compliments seemed to be saying that he wouldn’t be my coach any more, that he was letting me go.

  And still he went on: “Your skating is way above average. You’re tall and agile. You’ve got great range. An accurate shot, really amazing!”

  Night was falling on the city with a coolness that soothed my sunburned skin. I could hear the distant siren of a police car and the cries of children playing in the park. Then Larry began to speak about love. A love that was deeper and stronger than anything else.

  “Love, McKenzie. That’s all that matters.”

  I thought he wanted to get his life together because he had met a girl. Probably on one of those Internet dating sites he hung out on.

  The next day was the cut. Practice got going with some on-ice skill exercises, but it was mostly an informal skate, more informative than anything else. What was left to evaluate? I didn’t know. Everything had been said and demonstrated over the previous days. Maybe they wanted a last chance to evaluate the character of some unidentified prospects who had shown perseverance and hard work. So these guys who never quit could be called up in case there were too many injuries over the season.

  One by one, we met with the coach in his office. I went first. While I was pretty sure I’d made it, especially after what Larry told me, nothing was one hundred percent sure. Rookie camp, apart from some rough spots with Tommy, had seemed almost too easy. As I entered the coach’s office, I suddenly wondered if perhaps I had been wrong all along. Maybe the coaches hadn’t said anything to me during camp because I really sucked. Larry, who’d been a little weird for a while, could say just about anything. And I was well aware that my gut feelings, my convictions, didn’t count for much. Since, in general, nothing ever happened the way I expected.

  My evaluation was positive, except that I was criticized for playing the pass too often and not supporting my teammates enough on defence. I demonstrated good conditioning aptitudes, but I had a tendency to fall asleep when the tempo of the game slowed. I had to stay alert. I admit that I often play the long pass. That had been my role in recent years. And I had wanted to show them that I could score goals, which I did. Larry had given me more than my share of lectures over the past year on the same subject: my lack of heart.

  The coach, who had been a star in the NHL, congratulated me in any case and said he saw no problem in my making the team. But he wanted more intensity. And if he didn’t get it, he wouldn’t hesitate to send me down to midgets. I immediately replied that he could count on me, which was what he wanted to hear.

  “The problem with talented guys like you is that you tend to forget that you have a lot to learn before you move up. Next week you’ll start skating with guys who are older and stronger. Guys who’ve been with us for one, two and even three years. Guys who have one thing in mind: not getting beat out by someone younger. It’ll be, I think, the first real test in your young career. What you’ll learn during the coming weeks will serve you the rest of your life.”

  “Got it.”

  “So we’ll see you next week.”

  We shook hands, as if we were signing a contract. The “Larry” years were already behind me. It was a new beginning, one that filled me with optimism.

  Big tall Danny from Rouyn-Noranda came after me. Then, a defenceman named Michaud, a guy who liked making noises
with his mouth and who stood six feet four inches tall. Then came Tommy and the rest.

  I passed by them, saying nothing, and continued my way down the corridor with my hands in my pockets. I didn’t meet anybody’s eye, I didn’t smile. I might have even looked worried. I know it worried them. If I— who had been hands down the best player in the camp —was leaving my evaluation with a look like that on my face, what was in store for them?

  Tommy had to suffer through some long minutes of waiting. He sat on the bench, body leaning forward, elbows on his thighs. He remained motionless, his eyes on the black rubber carpet at his feet. He muttered as if he was praying, begging God to give him his chance. He was drenched in sweat. His ears and neck were red, just like during the first day of camp. Tommy, unable to rely on his talent, had decided to rely on his tough guy capabilities, and he had every reason to be anxious.

  When I stepped into the locker room, a reporter came up to me, asking me how I felt. I was surprised that the team had informed him about my selection before they’d spoken to me. When I asked him, he said it was just a hunch. In his years covering hockey, he’d seen a lot of guys get cut. And he just had a feeling I wasn’t going to be one of them. I replied that I was very happy, relieved even. But I had my work cut out for me. I definitely had to keep at it because the hardest part was still ahead. The important thing was to do my best and take advantage of every opportunity that came along.

  It was like I’d rehearsed my answers. All the hockey interviews I’d watched over the years must have conditioned me to give stock answers.

  In a good mood and without a care in the world, I thought I’d pull on my skates and hit the ice. That seemed like the perfect way to enjoy this moment of intense happiness. I stepped onto the ice in my street clothes, equipped only with my skates, gloves and stick. The ice was empty and the stands were completely deserted. The big lights that hung from the Colisée’s roof were turned down low, and the ice was dark and grey.

  “You’ve got to get off in an hour,” I was told by the equipment manager. “The crew’s showing up at one o’clock. They have to put up a great big stage, there’s a concert in two days.”