Tradition

by Brendan Kiely

  Ms. Taggart leaned forward and placed her hands on the edge of his desk. “Mr. Patterson.”

  But before she could say more, he continued. “If you’ll allow me to say this again. I’m deeply concerned.” He stared at his hands as he went on. “We are diligent in our Title IX compliance. We take this very seriously. There’s no room for mistreating people here.”

  I nodded along, taking it all in. He spoke slowly and methodically, choosing his words carefully. I actually appreciated it—I basically wanted to say as little as I had to too. I didn’t want to say anything. I just wanted to be brave enough to look him in the eye once and hope that that conveyed everything—or enough.

  “These are delicate situations, and I want to handle it appropriately.”

  “We understand that,” Ms. Taggart said. She tapped the edge of his desk. “I think we need to start talking about Ethan.”

  “Yes, of course.” Mr. Patterson gathered himself. “Exactly. And we know how these things sometimes are. Relationships are always tricky.”

  Ms. Taggart took a breath, but he continued.

  “Now, let’s just start at the beginning.” He pushed on, adjusting himself in his seat. “You and Ethan. Has he been bothering you?”

  “Bothering me?”

  “Yes. Is this the first time he”—he paused—“pursued you?”

  “No. I mean, we dated all last year.”

  “Oh,” he said. “And this ended, or is it still going on?”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “This was in your dorm? Where are you? Mary Lyon?”

  “No, by the river. In the woods.”

  “Oh,” he said. The moment hung there. “Off campus. Was this a party?”

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head. “There was alcohol, I assume.”

  “Everybody was drinking.”

  “Everybody?”

  “Mr. Patterson,” Ms. Taggart said. “Let’s discuss—”

  “No, no,” he said, holding up his hand. “Of course. I’m only trying to better understand.” He sat back. “These kinds of situations—I need to take all the appropriate steps. Ms. Taggart, you’ll help us with this, each and every part of the process?”

  “Of course,” she said. “I’m here for Jules in every way.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “We’ll take a look at the protocol and proceed accordingly.” He leaned toward me. I could feel him without looking at him. “Julianna?”

  “Yes?”

  His hand appeared on the desk in front of me—where I’d been staring. I looked up. He smiled and sighed through his nose. “We’re going to take care of this.” There was a long moment of silence. “Julianna?” he said again.

  “Thank you.” I could barely get it out. I realized I was trembling. I wanted to throw my glass of water across the room. I just wanted it all to end. I also wanted to know he was going after Ethan. He’d seemed to say he was.

  “Let’s agree to not speak about this widely.” Mr. Patterson must have assumed the conversation was ending soon. His voice lilted as if he was in summary mode. “Plan to meet to begin a step-by-step investigation, a community support program, and bring in the legal team, and see what the next steps are.”

  His chair squeaked, and he gestured to the door.

  “I’m glad,” Ms. Taggart said. “And if I hear you correctly, we’re moving on this immediately.”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “Yes. And we’ll be sure we follow every single step of the protocol. We take this very seriously,” he said again, stepping around the desk.

  I found myself standing. I found his hand on my back. I couldn’t tell if he was holding me in a kind of one-handed hug, or giving me a gentle nudge out the door. I didn’t want his hand anywhere near me, but it was stuck there, glued to the spot where wings would sprout if I had them—I wanted them.

  “Julianna,” he said again. “I want you to know we’ll look into all of this.” He said it so sincerely, I thought, so certainly, so assuredly, that I believed him. Before I knew it, I was out the door, back in the lobby, following the ribboning patterns in the carpeting as they led me toward the front door. I tried to breathe, stared up at the vaulted ceiling, the fluted grooves in the richly stained molding, hoping nobody would speak to me more—make me speak.

  But like she had back in her office, Ms. Taggart gathered herself. “Okay, Jules,” she said. “We’re just getting started. We’ve alerted him. Now we’re going to push and pressure him.”

  She nodded. I could feel her bracing herself, forcing the words out. “You stick by me, Jules,” she said. “This isn’t the end.” But her voice was so weak. “We’re going to keep at this,” she added, like an afterthought.

  CHAPTER 29

  * * *

  JAMES BAXTER

  I was surprised how many students came out to watch the first hockey game. It wasn’t even an official game—it was a preseason scrimmage—but the stands around the rink, the three quarters designated for Fullbrook fans, were jam-packed. I got out on the ice and sped around a few times, even in my bulky goalie pads, and then hunkered down in the net as the guys slapped practice shots at me. I swapped out and let Greg, our backup goalie, take a few shots. Puck. Puc. Poc. The air was charged with the smack and whoosh of slapped pucks. Poc, poc, poc. I swapped back in and took a couple dozen more. Freddie was aiming high. One hit me in the grill. Then he snuck one past my shoulder. Another got past me. But those were the only two. Big guys like me move a little slower side to side. We take up more net but can’t adjust as quickly. But I had my eyes and my hands and I used them. Babe Ruth on ice. Everything else I stopped. And when the game began, I was in my zone. I did what I always did. No matter how fast the game moved, and at Fullbrook, the game was moving much faster than I was used to, I slowed my breath. I breathed like I read, slowly, sounding out each word, tasting the vowels, chewing on the consonants. Poc, poc, poc. I stopped them all.

  As the crowd roared, I felt the rumble deep inside. It felt so damn good to be good at something. At the end of the first period, we were up one–nil. Freddie sped over and threw an arm around me. He slammed our face masks together. “Hell, yeah, Buckeye! Hell, yeah!” His voice was hot and wet in the air over the ice. “Kick that Buffalo ass!”

  The Fullbrook fans stomped and clapped as we began the second period, and Freddie took another two shots in the first three minutes. He was spectacular. I’d never seen anyone who could skate as fast, stop as quickly, turn and swivel like he was planting a cleat in the grass, not stabbing the ice with his skate. Buffalo was slower but fierce. They rocked us against the boards. Freddie took an elbow to the back of the head that turned his legs to rubber. He was pulled off the ice, but was back on a few minutes later, and when he was he went straight for Number Four, the big guy who’d knocked him down. Freddie pinned him against the boards twice. He snuck in an uppercut with the nub of his stick and Number Four crashed to his knees. Poc, poc, poc. I kept stopping them. Caught a few hits myself. One of the guys from Buffalo crashed into me, then got locked up in my pads. Whistles blew. “Do it again,” I told him as we untangled. “I’ll knock your teeth into your pants.” He did it again—took a swipe at my leg, clipped me on the back of my calf. A few minutes later he stole the puck and charged toward me, one-on-one. At first I crouched in position. But then I sprang forward and surprised him. Never a good idea, but I risked it, slid out beyond the safety circle, caught the shot, and dove, shoulder first, into the guy’s face mask, taking him out like a linebacker. Eat you for breakfast, I heard in the back of my mind, and it shook me.

  The roar from the crowd was almost deafening. The only other thing I could hear was Freddie barking over my shoulder. “Yes, yes, yes. That’s how we do. That’s how we do, Buckeye.” He held his stick in the air and egged on the crowd again. “Number one!” he shouted. “Number one!” I didn’t know if he meant me, because that was my number, or if he was talking about the team, us making it all the way to State that
year, but he got the crowd going again, and they all chanted along. “Number one! Number one!”

  The guy from Buffalo slumped off the ice. “Please come back,” I whispered.

  Coach pulled me, too. “Take a breather,” he said. “Not a smart move, but one hell of a stop.” He laughed. “You keep doing what you’re doing out there, Buckeye.” He’d picked it up from the guys. He slapped me on my shoulder. “Good work!”

  Freddie scored again and we were up two–nil. The period ended, and Coach wanted to leave Greg in there to get him some more time. Early in the third period, Buffalo scored. It was a scuffle in front of the net and Number Four snuck it through. Buffalo and their small crowd cheered.

  Behind me another chant rose up out of the Fullbrook stands. “That’s all right, that’s okay, you’re gonna work for us someday!” They repeated and repeated, drowning out whatever the small group on the other side of the rink said.

  The Fullbrook fans kept chanting and chanting, growing louder and louder, and one of the guys from the other team took his glove off and gave all of us the middle finger. This got Freddie and another guy hopped up and they hit him out of play. Whistles blew, but an all-out brawl started as all the players on the ice went after each other. People in the stands went crazy, screaming and yelling, not in fear, but cheering on the fight like we were watching a boxing match. I couldn’t think straight. I saw the fight slowly breaking up. I heard the crazy things some of the guys on the bench beside me yelled. Even people in the stands behind us shouted monstrous, foamy-mouthed curses at the team in from Buffalo. But what stuck in my head was that chant.

  “That’s all right, that’s okay, you’re gonna work for us someday!”

  I couldn’t believe I was playing for a team that had a chant like that. It didn’t matter that I was on the bench and not yelling along with them all. I was right there in the thick of it—wearing my Red Hawks uniform—if anybody had taken a picture from the ice up into the stands, they’d have assumed I was part of the mob. It made me sick. Fifty thousand dollar kid. Scholarship kid. Sucker.

  Play was about to resume. “Goddamnit,” Coach yelled. He turned to me. “Buckeye, you’re back in. Don’t let them score another one for the rest of the game. Show ’em who’s boss.”

  Something in me broke. I couldn’t find my breath. The game whirled around me. Bodies slammed against the boards. Freddie scored again. Pandemonium in the stands. I stopped two more shots. I stopped a third. Automatic. Caught it in my glove. But that chant rang in my ears. All I could think about was the guys back home, guys I played with, guys who didn’t make it to college, or who did but struggled to make rent while there. The kid with a wheeze all last year because his family didn’t have health care. There were too many of us. Us. Was I still part of that us?

  One of the smallest guys on Buffalo got around the back side of the net, bumped my leg, and I went limp. I just gave it to him. I slumped into the net and let the puck gently follow me over the line. It might have been tapped in by a toe.

  The chant went up again. “That’s all right. That’s okay. You’re gonna work for us someday!” And I almost took off my glove to give the finger to my own school. But the whistle blew, the game was over, and we’d won 3–2.

  Back in the locker room, Freddie bumped me before I’d even gotten my skates off. “What the hell was that? You went dead out there.”

  I shook my head and ignored him.

  “Seriously,” Freddie said. He grabbed my shoulder pad and was about to say something else, but I swung around, ripped out of his grip, and pushed him against the locker. The guys around us froze. I had Freddie pinned face-first into the locker, with one arm twisted behind his back.

  “Hey,” Coach yelled behind me. “Don’t be pissed at him.”

  I let go, and it was Coach’s turn to grip me. He pushed me back onto a bench, held me by my shoulder pads, and growled in my face. “Don’t let me ever see you pull that shit again. You hear me, Buckeye? You folded out there. You think that’s playing? That’s some girlie shit, folding like that. Don’t let me ever see you do that again.”

  I nodded.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing,” I mumbled.

  “I want to see hustle. It’s your first game back, but that’s no excuse. That’s all I want to see all day and all night. Some goddamn hustle.” He still held me by the shoulder pads, but he stood back up and addressed the whole team. “I want to see the guy who gets to the gym early, the guy who jogs to his meeting so he’s five minutes early, not on time, the guy who doesn’t say ‘Are we done for the day?’ but instead, ‘What else do you need me to do?’ ”

  “I got you,” I said.

  “What?” He leaned back down in my face.

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s your voice, Buckeye?”

  “Yes!” I shouted, but not loud enough to be heard over the guys around me shouting louder.

  “You ready for the big league?”

  “YES!”

  He let go and stomped off, and the rest of the team grumbled and peeled off their uniforms, getting ready for the showers. But Freddie remained right next to me. He flexed his arm. I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d held him. He rotated and swung his arm in a circle. “I don’t know,” he said. “Are you actually ready for this? Are you actually as good as they say?”

  “I am,” I said, looking at the locker in front of me, staring at my name in the tape.

  “Really?”

  I didn’t answer him.

  Freddie stepped closer, and leaned down next to my ear. “Keep your head in the game, Buckeye. I don’t care what you think about me. You and me? We’re a team. We’re the ones carrying us to State. We’re the ones bringing all the recruiters here. I don’t give a shit what you think about me, you and I are a team. On the ice we’re one.”

  I turned to him and said nothing. Over his shoulder, I could see the graffiti about Aileen etched in the nearby locker. It took everything I had not to pummel him to the floor.

  “You’re lucky to be here,” he said. “If it wasn’t you, it’d be some goalie from Michigan or Maine or Wisconsin or wherever. It didn’t have to be you. Remember how lucky you are to be here.”

  He stepped back and curled around the line of lockers to the next aisle, where his was. I sat there trying not to explode. If I’d taken my glove off and popped one of the guys from Buffalo in the face, torn his mask off and given him a bloody nose, I’d have been a hero that day.

  I hated myself.

  I was the last one in the shower and the last one out, and I let the steam swell and curl around me, hoping I’d sweat and spit and snot all the bitterness out of me, but none of it worked. I was at Fullbrook on scholarship. The fifty thousand dollars they could have gotten from a full-paying student they’d invested in me instead. I was there to work for it. To work for them. It was impossible for me to not think about that all the time. What was I really worth? Was I worth fifty thousand dollars? More? Less? It was a pretty shitty way to think about yourself, especially since fifty grand was chump change for so many of the families who sent their children to Fullbrook. Fifty grand: meaningless.

  Where I came from, fifty thousand dollars was a lot of money. Like the guys from Buffalo we’d been playing against that day. Guys I felt like I knew. Buffalo was only two hundred miles up the coast of Lake Erie from where I grew up, and I knew damn well that fifty thousand dollars meant as much to me as it did to almost any one of those guys sitting on the bus back to Buffalo.

  The previous spring, I’d been on the back porch wondering if I could just move over to Uncle Earl’s when I graduated, when Mom called me into the house. She and Dad were standing by the sink in the kitchen. She clutched a letter from an opened package that sat on the kitchen table. She beamed with delirious mania.

  “It happened,” she whispered, nodding at me.

  “Thank God,” Dad said.

  Coach Drucker had made it sound inevitable, but I st
ill hadn’t believed it was possible. How could a school like that accept me? How could I go there?

  She waved the letter. “You’re in,” she said, her voice quiet and warbling. Dad nodded beside her. He made a face I couldn’t read, a forced smile with squished, sad eyes, as if he felt bad for me. I knew it wasn’t easy for them. The whole year had been one disappointment after another—more so for them than for me, even.

  “You’re going to Fullbrook.”

  That’s what he said. Those were the words, but it sure as hell sounded more like just don’t screw up—please, whatever you do, don’t screw up. He had the weakest smile, like he really didn’t have the strength or the will to break the blank stare and make his face match the words that came out of his mouth.

  “You can do this.”

  But why did it sound like he was saying I couldn’t?

  “Why can’t I just work with Uncle Earl?”

  They made faces at each other. “What kind of son . . .” He paused. “I didn’t work my ass off so you could just throw your hands up and not try to make something of yourself. You have to get out there, son. What the hell are you afraid of? Man up. You’re going.”

  “Honey,” my mother said, leaning closer, wrapping her arms around my shoulders, “we’re all counting on you. This is an opportunity no one gets. We don’t have to pay for it. This is the gift of a lifetime. You have to go.”

  “Oh, stop babying him. He’s nearly an adult.” Dad stepped toward the table and pointed at me. “You’re going.” He paused and rubbed his face like he was exhausted, even though all he ever did was wander around the hardware store, waiting for someone to buy something, or sit around our kitchen and drink coffee. When he looked back down at me, he wasn’t smiling. “This is your only shot at a future. Don’t screw it up.”