Hard Knocks

by Ruby Lang

  With Adam.

  “Mom, you’ve done a lot of work, and I wanted to say thank you for always being there,” she said quickly, almost trying to slip it in, almost hoping that her mother wouldn’t understand the mumbled phrase.

  May Yin paused. “It’s my job,” she said, almost gently.

  There was a long silence, and Helen understood that her mother knew what she was trying to say.

  She took a deep breath.

  Now would probably be a good time to bring up the lead on the drug she’d found. They could talk about how her dad was doing on his new treatment plan, if he was sleeping, if he was eating. But that wasn’t what they needed to do. For now, this moment was for them.

  “Maybe I can come up next month,” she said instead. “Visit your new apartment and just hang out?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Adam got back home from his road trip late in the night and was up early for a morning show appearance. He half hoped Helen would be at the apartment waiting for him when he arrived so that he would get to savor one moment with her, even if she were just asleep in his bed. But she was working early in the morning, and Janel had stepped up his schedule, gearing up for the anti-arena rally this weekend and the upcoming vote. And—almost as an afterthought—he had a game tonight.

  He wouldn’t have a moment from the time his alarm went off. So he didn’t leave a key for her, he didn’t ask her to come over, and he tried not to think of how far away she felt, even though they were in the same city for the first time in a week.

  Meanwhile, on the way to the morning show, Janel was giving him notes on his appearance. She told him to lose the suits, to be more animated, but not to shout. She wanted him to smile more. She said he should grow out his hair, and he reminded her that there wasn’t that much time before the vote. She wanted him to be around her a lot more than he wanted.

  He usually listened to about half of the things that Janel told him to do. To distract her from the other half, he usually sent Serge to flirt with her, and that worked fairly well. Too bad he wasn’t here. Adam closed his eyes, but Janel seemed to pick up on his thoughts. “His accent is so cute,” she was musing. “It’s too bad it would sound terrible on TV. Otherwise, he’d be great.”

  “His accent is hardly noticeable,” Adam said. “Or do microphones add ten pounds to his tongue?”

  Janel rolled her eyes at him. “Americans don’t like accents,” she said.

  “You like him.”

  “Well. I’m more worldly,” Janel said.

  Somehow, despite the power boots and the lipstick and the smartphone, he highly doubted that. Whenever she said Yevgeny’s name, she sighed like an old mattress. And when she got a text from him, or more likely, one of his assistants, she jabbed at her phone so eagerly that he feared for its delicate carapace. She clearly liked accents more than she knew.

  She romanticized Yevgeny, and that worried Adam a little bit. Despite her bossiness and her nosiness, and the fact that he knew that she was feeding information into the Molotov grid, he’d started feeling brotherly toward her. That’s how little sisters were, after all, always tagging along, always in your business.

  He nodded absently as Janel continued to talk, and he dozed the rest of the way in the car.

  Tonight after the press and the practice and the game, he’d see Helen, he thought.

  He fake-smiled his way through the morning show. He grimaced through training and through a series of nutritionally balanced meals. Janel had brought in photographers to document a day in the life of the Wolves.

  At last, the day was almost over. All he had to do was get through this stupid evening and another gauntlet of postgame press. They were just filing out of the room after looking at some game tape when Serge nudged him. “Your girlfriend is waiting for you,” Serge said.

  Adam whipped his head up. Helen was here in the practice facility? But of course, Serge meant Janel again who was hovering at the door, tapping furiously at her phone, no doubt with another list of tasks for him.

  “She’s definitely not my girlfriend,” Adam said.

  “Why not? After Dr. Frobisher proved too difficult, I thought you’d like someone peppier.”

  “Janel’s peppy like a nursery school teacher, and she treats me like a toddler.”

  He was as grumpy as a two-year-old who’d just woken from a nap. From here, he could see that Janel looked excited. She kept glancing at her phone and pacing. When he approached, she practically leaped into the air, as if electrified.

  Great.

  She grabbed him, pulling him through the halls and outside into the crisp Portland air. A huge Hummer limo waited for them. It was black, for discretion, Adam supposed.

  Janel was practically dancing. She paused only to let Adam help her into the monster vehicle, and she was glowing with happiness by the time he clambered inside.

  Yevgeny Molotov was sprawled back against the middle seat. His bodyguard was scrunched into a corner. The rest of the entourage was scattered over the rest of the Hummer. If they weren’t staring at smartphones, they were staring at Molotov. There were a lot of people. Maybe the Hummer was practical, after all. “Adam,” he said, not bothering to offer his hand. “Thanks for agreeing to meet me. Would you care for a Perrier or perhaps a Fresca?”

  He motioned at Janel with two fingers. She presented Adam with a bottle as if she were a sommelier. Adam shook his head.

  What was it about men like him, Adam wondered, not for the first time. Janel was glowing. Every bit of attention Molotov gave her made her open wider and turn, like a sunflower following the light. Money probably helped, although Adam wasn’t cynical enough to believe that it was everything. The illusion of power was probably a big part of it. The confidence. The grooming, the expensive suits.

  But was it just that, or did Molotov just have some sort of ineffable quality? Some vitality, some life spark, or even some dark gloriousness that made people glom to him like peanuts to caramel? Okay, so he was good looking in a louche European way, the kind of good looking that could slide into weediness, potbellies, and comb overs late in life. Janel laughed at all of Molotov’s jokes, but as far as Adam could tell, though, Molotov wasn’t particularly witty. Did he just have a giant dick? If acting like one were a true indication of size, then, probably, yes.

  Or maybe it was a certain type of woman who flocked to Molotov. Or a certain type that Molotov allowed to surround him. Janel seemed made of sturdier stuff, but then ...

  He wondered how Helen would fare against the billionaire. Would she be starstruck? He didn’t think so, but they would never ever meet, Adam decided. He should at least spare her that.

  “What brings you to Portland, Yevgeny?”

  “I’m here to see some hockey,” Yevgeny said, matching his tone.

  “We’d like you to step up your campaign for the final push. We’ve been doing quite well,” Janel interjected as she pulled an iPad out of her purse. The case, Adam noted, matched the one for her iPhone. “The sports blog HeavyRinker.com had an in-depth look at the team’s roster yesterday and didn’t once mention the arena. The sports call-in shows have been concentrating on the new players, and you, of course. The wins have been helping.”

  Yevgeny looked a little bored. Adam wondered if they’d bothered glancing at the document he’d e-mailed them earlier this week.

  “The arena is going before the state legislature Wednesday, so we’re going to have you write a few more blog posts and do more interviews. There’s also a rally scheduled in Portland this weekend.”

  Yevgeny closed his eyes. “Too bad we can’t dig up that little doctor again. Where has she been hiding? Janel, do you think we could arrange that? Have Adam meet her somewhere public where there’s a lot of press?” He waved his hand dismissively. “If you can make her cry, Adam, I’ll give you another little bonus.”

  “Intimidation is my job on ice, but it’s not what I do in real life,” Adam said sharply. “I don’t think it’s good PR to make
a person cry, and I certainly don’t want to confront someone in public.”

  “Come on, where is your sense of sport, Adam? What if I sweeten the pot? I’ll let you have a go at Janel here. Or maybe one of the other women in the organization.”

  Janel sucked in a breath, and Adam felt his stomach turn. “That is—” he began.

  But Janel cut him off. “Yevgeny, sit back and be quiet.”

  There was a moment of silence in the Hummer.

  Amazingly, Yevgeny did seem to retreat in face of Janel’s justified fury. It was very clear how Janel had risen through the ranks. Underneath all the nice was steel. When she spoke again, her voice was low. “Crap like this is exactly why you hired me, and crap like this is also why you don’t get to be the face of the organization here. You need to get some respect for your people and fast. As for you, Adam, I never thought I’d have to say this, but you unclench that fist and calm down right now. He’s using me to yank your chain.”

  She was right. He was ready to punch the man.

  Molotov looked smug. He’d done it on purpose—although who he was trying to rattle, Adam wasn’t sure. Adam tried to relax and found that it wasn’t really working. “How can you work for him when he says stuff like that?”

  “I refuse to be a pawn for him forever,” Janel said, steel in her voice. “Yevgeny, we need to stop wasting time and get down to business.”

  Yevgeny wrinkled his nose. “All my employees are spiky today,” he said, mock-petulantly.

  Adam felt another wave of helpless fury wash over him. He didn’t know how Janel was managing to ignore her boss’s needling.

  “We’re prepping the final push of a major PR campaign. I wanted you both here to talk about the document you sent over last week.”

  “Adam’s little demands,” Yevgeny said.

  “If they’re little, then I’m sure you won’t have trouble accommodating them,” Adam said.

  “The team has won a few games. They’re getting some attention. That doesn’t put you in a position to ask for money or a title. All you Americans are alike. Your reputation is business, business, business, but when it comes to money, you want it all on paper. And then, then when it’s finally all written down, you don’t want to sign anything until you get your sister and brother and grandmother to read it. In other countries, the men I usually deal with say, ‘I’m going to give you two million dollars and a Siberian tiger,’ and they shake your hand, and the deal is closed. No zoning permits, no plumbing permits, no naive concerns over things like sanitation or adequate ventilation or child labor laws. Children need to learn early that life is very difficult.” Molotov jabbed the air with a manicured finger. “They need skills, like masonry and roofing. The next day, you have a new building and the hosts have invited you to have tiger barbecue. Done. Done.”

  “Adam has been doing interviews. We’ve had him write a few press releases because he’s actually pretty good at it. Asking for a title and compensation for this work might be unorthodox, but it’s fair,” Janel snapped. “And this isn’t all on Adam. You have to be better at this, too, Yevgeny. You have to be better overall. That remark earlier, that was uncalled for. You’re alienating me, your staff, and the people who are supposed to endear you to Portlanders. You are your own worst enemy.”

  Adam hooked a glance over at her. She was again the only person of color and the only woman trapped in a stupid vehicle with a bunch of white men who were being assholes.

  And although he wanted to smash Molotov’s smug face, he needed to step back and take his cues from Janel. It was not his place, and it wasn’t his battle. Or so Janel had indicated.

  Adam took a deep breath. He thought of Helen and his hopes for the future and tried to strive for a reasonable tone. “Listen, I’ve worked hard for the last couple of months. Yes, I’m representing the team and that’s part of the deal, it’s part of my existing playing contract. My point is we had talked about this before, and I want some of my experience acknowledged. We’ve had some tangible success. People actually know who the team is. We’ve seen an uptick in sales. We’ve seen some change in opinion.”

  “What makes you think it’s due to you?”

  “If you thought it wasn’t working, you wouldn’t be here meeting with me,” Adam said.

  “Janel made me.” Molotov closed his eyes. “Titles are not important at Molotov International.”

  “Humor us.”

  Molotov closed his eyes. Twitching one finger in Janel’s direction, he said, “Fine. Make him an assistant in charge of special projects for the Portland Wolves or whatever it is Adam suggested—”

  “Oregon Wolves,” Adam said.

  Yevgeny ignored him. “Reporting to you, Janel. He’s your responsibility. We don’t need to see each other again.”

  “And I wanted my bonus doubled.”

  Yevgeny waggled his finger Adam-ward and said, “You can take it up with Janel.”

  Janel gave Adam a terse nod.

  Adam resisted his violent urge to pry Yevgeny’s eyes open. And at this moment, he hated his team, his organization, and most of all himself. But instead of doing anything about it, he opened the door and slid out of the vehicle. “Thanks, Janel,” he said with no real warmth in his voice.

  To Molotov, he said nothing.

  • • •

  It was her first live professional game! In fact, it was the first time she’d ever been to the Rose Quarter. The arena wasn’t full—but Helen could feel the energy, an energy that she never sensed when she watched on television.

  Okay, so sometimes she watched the games on mute, so that she could study the impacts without the announcers jabbering.

  Petra and Sarah had teased Helen mercilessly about seeing Adam play when she asked them to go to the Wolves game with her. Luckily, Petra’s mom was in town, so Helen was spared another round of bad hockey puns. But Sarah was there with homemade snacks. She was already crunching on dried chickpeas. Helen wanted a hot dog, but she grabbed a few red pepper strips from Sarah’s Ziploc bag.

  She chewed nervously, thinking of what kinds of things she’d tell Adam afterward. “Nice punching!” was probably not something she’d be able to say to him.

  And who knew if there would be any punching, anyway?

  She grabbed the bag from Sarah’s hand. “Hey,” Sarah said, making no move to take the bag. “Bring your own snacks.” Sarah was scanning the ice. “Why are you so antsy?”

  “What if I don’t like the game?”

  “You don’t like it already. Nothing changes.”

  “What if—?”

  Sarah sighed. “Think of it this way: You’ve already gotten your most fundamental incompatibilities out of the way—and in public, too. Now there’s nothing left but sparkles and orgasms. You like him—a lot. I’ve never seen you that way with anyone before. And he looks at you like you’re a lake and he’s parched.”

  “It’s not like you to be so optimistic and laissez faire.”

  “I’m turning over a new leaf.”

  “He doesn’t even know I’m here.”

  “If he knew you were here, he would’ve gotten us better seats. Maybe a private viewing booth with snacks.”

  “You wouldn’t eat them anyway.”

  “Maybe there’d be a handsome man holding a tray. In an ideal world, that’s what handsome men would always be doing—holding out trays, asking if you were satisfied.”

  They stood for the national anthems. Sarah knew the words to “O Canada” and the “Star Spangled Banner,” and she sang them vigorously. Helen couldn’t remember either. Then they sat down.

  The good thing about being there live was that she could yell and other people were yelling with her. When Adam came up, she whooped and she was happy to see that everyone else did, too. The bad thing was that she couldn’t see really see his face.

  The puck dropped and he wasn’t playing yet, so she let her attention drift to the things she didn’t usually pay attention to on television. The sharp rapping
sounds of blades and sticks. The smell of the ice. The players’ graceful turns as they skated around to watch the puck. In ballet, they had tried to move as coolly and smoothly across the floor as they could. In hockey, they actually could glide, and Helen felt a little jealous of how graceful it looked. She laughed softly to herself. She’d told herself to watch the game the way Sarah was: hunched over and almost angry. Instead, she found herself focusing on minutiae.

  Maybe that was enough. She winced when Adam accused her of hating his job. But could she deny his words? Sarah was wrong: She and Adam hadn’t gotten their fundamental incompatibilities out of the way. They knew what they were, yes, but just because they tussled and argued and had sex afterward didn’t mean that talking would make their mismatch go away.

  Midway through the second period, Adam shot onto the ice. Helen took a deep breath and almost couldn’t let it out. He was ... angry? He practically radiated with energy. As he hurtled toward another player, his movements seemed bigger and, well, more furious than she was used to. She blinked. Was it because she was watching it live? Did television somehow blur the sharper movements?

  Then he made his first hit.

  WHUMP! He went hard, skating right into the guy, and she wasn’t even sure why. Sarah yelled something garbled beside her, but she couldn’t even turn and respond. What had the guy done? Had he said something? Did she just not understand hockey? She felt the first tick in her head as she started counting the hits he made—as she always did.

  The crowd was screaming now. Skinny hipsters in layers and layers of ironic t-shirts, out for blood. And Adam was out there cutting across lines, skating hard. His clothes were loose and sloppy, but she could almost imagine spikes of rage protruding under his jersey.