The Worst Insult
The hotel's alarm clock rang through the room like a siren for an air raid drill. Mumbling incoherently under his breath, Mark opened his eyes blearily, feeling as if some trickster had replaced the lids with concrete overnight. With a massive yawn he was surprised he had the energy for, he wiped the sleep out of his eyes and tried to bully himself into pushing off his covers and turning off that infernal alarm clock.
In the opposite bed, Rob, too, was stirring. From a tangle of blankets, Rob's hand stretched out toward the nightstand and fumbled around until it found the alarm clock's off button.
"Shit," Rob muttered into the echoing silence that followed the alarm clock being switched off. He used this profanity every morning when he glanced at the clock and wished to register his discontent that it was still continuing to run when he wanted nothing more than to roll over and drift back to dreamland. Mark understood the sentiment, though he wouldn't have employed the same language. "It's four-thirty already."
"It's breakfast time, then." Mark forced himself to leave his warm bed and pour himself a bowl of Cheerios and a glass of orange juice from their limited food selections. As he took his first bites of cereal, he told himself to strive for upbeat and cheerful this morning, although, at this obnoxiously early hour, he would probably end up settling for not being a complete grouch.
"I'm not sure I can eat," grumbled Rob, emerging from his bed with obvious reluctance. "My stomach isn't awake yet."
"In an hour and a half it will be," Mark pointed out, emphasizing this with a wave of his spoon. "If you don't eat, you'll get all faint on me halfway through practice, and do you want our teammates talking about how our line has no staying power?"
"Of course not." Motivated, as Mark knew he would be, by this threat of people gossiping about his lack of strength and skill, Rob poured himself a bowl of Cheerios and a cup of juice with far more vigor than he had displayed doing anything else since the alarm clock had rudely awakened both of them. "We can't go losing our place on top of the dung heap now. I just hate getting up this early, you know."
"Yeah, I know." Nodding emphatically, Mark sipped his juice. "Only a vampire wouldn't mind being up at this time."
"You read too many horror books." Rob rolled his eyes. In his opinion, reading any horror book that wasn't as classic as Dracula was a waste of time and brainpower. "Anyway, you know what this country needs instead of Daylight Savings Time which nobody really understands?"
"It's for the farmers," explained Mark, unable to provide any more specifics as he chewed at his cereal. "We have to keep our farmers happy. We'd starve without them."
"I didn't ask you to explain Daylight Savings Time to me." Rob shook his head. "You didn't answer my question at all, Magic. I asked if you knew what this country needed instead of Daylight Savings Time."
"A siesta around lunch like in Italy and Spain," suggested Mark, shrugging. "Why should little children be the only ones who get to nap when they don't appreciate it and actually mope about it a lot?"
"Very continental, but that wasn't what I was thinking." Rob paused to munch on his Cheerios, and then went on dryly, "I was thinking that this country would really benefit from a concept called Weekday Morning Time whereby at four-thirty a.m. every weekday we go into a space-launch-style hold for three hours, during which it just remains four-thirty. This way we could all wake up via a gradual, civilized process of yawning and stretching, and it would still be only four-thirty when we were ready to emerge from our beds, but instead we are stuck with this tyrannical system in which the clock keeps marching on."
"You are the one who decided that we should arrive at practice an hour early so that we would have time to prepare for our pranks," Mark reminded him, grinning.
"Sure, but Herb is the one who scheduled practice at six in the morning," protested Rob, raising his palms defensively and dropping his spoon into his bowl with a clatter. "I mean, of all the twenty-four hours in a day for him to pick from, he chooses six a.m."
"Practice is good for you, McClanahan," Mark rapped out in his best imitation of Herb's bark. "An early morning won't kill you, but I will if you don't stop whining."
"Sleep is good for me, too." Smiling slightly, Rob tossed his empty bowl, cup, and spoon into the trash before heading into the bathroom. "And too many six in the morning practices will be the death of me. The sun isn't even up yet, so why should I be?"
"Let's just try to survive today, then, shall we?" Mark chuckled as he threw out his own used breakfast dishes and pulled out clothes from the dresser.
By the time Mark had finished dressing, Rob had completed his daily manic grooming regimen, so Mark disappeared into the bathroom to brush his teeth and hair while Rob changed. Less than five minutes later, they were exiting the room with their bulky hockey bags slung over their shoulders, gloves on their hands, hats over their heads, and down jackets on their backs.
"Let's review," said Rob in an undertone as they passed the rooms of their probably still sleeping teammates and arrived at the elevator bank, where Mark pressed the down arrow. "We get into the locker room and change. Probably nobody else will be there yet, so we can see who arrives in what order. If Silky and Rizzo come in before anyone else—"
"They probably were going to write another one of their questionably helpful hints on the blackboard," finished Mark, who had heard Rob reiterate this point at least a dozen times last night. The elevator halted at the floor with a ding. Boarding and pushing the button for the lobby, Mark couldn't resist adding with a wry twist of his lips, "I do remember you mentioning that once or twice a minute last night."
"Sorry." Contrary to his word, Rob sounded distinctly unrepentant, as the elevator plunged toward the lobby. "I'm a bit obsessive. You should realize that by now."
"I do." Mark's eyes widened. "Believe me, I do."
"Wonderful." Rob cracked his left knuckles against his right palm with a noise like nut shells bursting open. "Anyhow, if Silky and Rizzo are the first to arrive, that would be another piece of evidence that they stole our tree, because if they were the ones writing the hints, they were most likely the ones who took our tree, too."
"Oddly enough, I'm still getting déjà vu of last night listening to you," Mark observed, all innocence, as the elevator stopped in the lobby with a loud ding, and they stepped out of it, wending a path through upholstered furniture to the doors that led out to the cold, gray winter dawn.
"Repetition is good for the mind." Rob nudged Mark in the ribs as they headed down the sidewalk toward the rink, the wind off Mirror Lake tearing at their hair and cheeks. "Especially when the mind is as small as yours. To continue, once Rizzo and Silky arrive, one of us will have to divert them, while the other one of us tapes their skates and drops the pamphlets in their lockers."
"When you say one of us has to tape their skates and drop the pamphlets in their lockers, you mean me." Mark shot Rob a keen glance. "Just wanted you to know I noticed."
"It's the beauty of our partnership, Magic." Rob folded his hands together angelically. "I lure the opponents away, and you sneak in to ruin their day. It hasn't failed us yet, has it?"
Mark compressed his lips. "That depends on your point of view, Mac."
"Fine." Rob scowled. "Then you can be the bait this time."
"That makes no sense." Rapidly, Mark shook his head as they entered the arena and made their way down the corridor to the locker room. "We play to our separate strengths. You're the talkative one; I'm the quiet one."
"I knew you'd listen to reason." Rob couldn't restrain a cocky smirk. "You've always been better at evasion than I have. I prefer more straightforward, brash tactics."
"Master of the understatement, you are." Mark chuckled as they walked into the empty locker room.
"No obnoxious notes on the blackboard." Rob pumped his fists in the air by way of celebration. "I could get used to life without the mystery pretty quickly."
"I could get used to all this extra room." Laughing, Mark waved his arms around as he dumped his bag in his stall and began to slip into his equipment. "What are we going to do with all this space, huh, Robbie?"
"Take up sculpting," answered Rob from the stall where he was donning his own equipment.
They had just finished changing when the door swung open, and Silky, still half asleep, stumbled in alongside Rizzo, who appeared as vivacious and ready to chat the ear off a deaf man as ever.
"Hey, guys!" Rizzo exclaimed, his voice almost obscenely loud given the absurdly early hour, and, if he was unhappy to see Rob and Mark in the locker room, he did a stellar job of concealing it. "Ready for practice?"
"They're awake and dressed," remarked Silky snidely before Rob or Mark could respond. "What more can anyone expect before six in the morning?"
Rizzo opened his mouth to reply but was distracted by the appearance of Buzz, Bah, and Pav.
"Good morning, boys!" Rizzo shouted merrily, while Mark decided that he was louder than the hotel alarm clock. More pleasant, but definitely louder.
Buzz and Bah returned the greeting politely before resuming their conversation, and Pav merely nodded before ducking into his stall.
"Rizzo and Silky, come over here." Rob gestured for Rizzo and Silky to join him near his locker. "I want to show you something."
Understanding that this was the beginning of Rob's distraction, Mark pulled the brochures from the self-storage shop out of his bag. Then, checking swiftly over his shoulder that Rizzo and Silky were facing in the opposite direction, watching Rob, who was demonstrating how he could organize a deck of cards by suit and number in less than two minutes, Mark slid one pamphlet onto the top shelf of first Rizzo's and then Silky's locker.
After that, he removed their skates from their bags as unobtrusively as possible, grabbed a roll of transparent tape from his own bag, and sat, his back to the cluster around Rob's locker, in his stall, quickly winding tape around one of Rizzo's blades.
"I bet you two can't organize a deck of cards faster than me." Rob was taunting Silky and Rizzo as Mark finished taping one of Rizzo's skates and began wrap up the other one. "If you can't do it faster than me, you both have to buy me a bag of licorice."
"What if we win?" demanded Silky, as Mark continued to work on Rizzo's second skate blade.
"You won't have to worry about that." Mark could hear Rob's snicker even if he couldn't see it. "You won't be winning anything against me, Silky, but if either of you achieve the impossible and beat me at this, I'll buy you both a beer."
Pav noticed what Mark was doing and arched an eyebrow. Putting on his most innocuous smile, Mark held a finger to his lips in a gesture that meant tell no one and hoped that Pav wouldn't break his usual silence to spoil Mark's prank. When Pav, eyes agleam with amusement, plopped down on the bench across from Mark, pulled a roll of clear tape from his pocket, and began taping Silky's skate blades, Mark expelled the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Not only was his secret safe, but he was going to receive help from one of the locker room's best practical jokers.
"You don't want beers instead of licorice, Robbie?" asked Rizzo heartily over Silky's mutterings as he tried to organize the card deck faster than Rob.
"Nah, licorice tastes better—most beers taste like what I imagine bat urine would—and sugar high is a more enjoyable state than drunkenness," Rob replied, while Mark finished taping Rizzo's second skate.
Moving as stealthily as possible over to Rizzo's bag, Mark slipped the skates back inside as Silky's fingers somehow fumbled their hold on the deck, sending a cascade of cards to the floor. A stream of expletives burst from Silky's lips as he bent to pick up the now completely out of order cards.
"Geez, Silky." Rob shook his head in reproach as Mark returned to his locker, where Pav, grinning, shoved Silky's newly taped skates into his hands before disappearing to his own stall. "It's not fifty-two card pickup."
"Oh, shut it," snapped Silky, while Mark crossed over to Silky's bag and placed the skates back inside it.
As he made his way back to his stall and sat down, Mark watched Silky shove the gathered deck at Rizzo, grunting, "Do you want to take a crack at giving Rob the beating he deserves?"
"I guess not." Guffawing, Rizzo dumped the deck back into Rob's outstretched palm. "I've never been a great organizer. I'm a very no-structure type of guy. It's why I was awful with punctuation in school."
"Giving up means losing the bet." Rob's tone and eyes were radiant with triumph. "That means two bags of licorice for me. Ha. I won't have to pay for any licorice for the flight back to Minnesota."
"You're a very strange person." Snorting, Silky shook his head. "You're made happy by the weirdest things, and you have no sense of proportion."
"It isn't nice to gloat, either," added Rizzo, wagging a finger in reprimand. "Just because you're more organized than us, Mac, you don't need to rub our noses in it."
"Only sore losers accuse others of gloating." Haughtily, Rob tilted his nose in the air. "Besides, I was celebrating my glorious victory, not your ignominious defeat. There's a difference."
Ten minutes later, the entire team left the locker room to assemble on ice for practice. The instant that their taped blades made contact with the frozen surface, Rizzo and Silky skidded to an abrupt halt, overbalanced, and plummeted onto the ice, barely getting their hands up in time to prevent their faces from hitting first.
"What the heck?" snarled Silky, trying to lift his skates and furrowing his forehead when they refused to budge.
Forming a circle around the fallen Rizzo and Silky, several players stifled laughter or made noises of astonishment.
"There's tape on my blades," Rizzo yelped, yanking off a wad.
An explosion of unfettered laughter from various team members greeted this revelation of a typical locker room prank as the two victims began tugging the tape off their blades in a frenzy.
Rizzo and Silky had just tossed the last of the tape into the garbage can by the locker room when Herb, wearing his usual glower that could make anyone feel as welcome as a dose of cod-liver oil, skated onto the rink with Coach Patrick at his heels.
"Right!" Herb's call to order was as sharp as a shutter banging closed. "Before we begin practice I have an announcement I want to make about colds. Doc has reported an alarming increase in the number of players seeking a non-existent cure for the common cold from him. Are you strong young men or delicate daisies? The common cold is not going to kill any of you. I, on the other hand, might kill you if you keep wasting Doc's precious time with whining requests that he do the impossible and cure your common cold."
Glancing around at his assembled players, Herb seemed to determine that they were significantly subdued by this pronouncement, for he continued tersely, "Now, today's tactical talk is on the subject of positioning. First of all, does anyone not know what positioning is?"
When, unsurprisingly, nobody raised a hand to request a definition for this basic vocabulary word, Herb went on tersely, "Excellent. Then we should make some progress today. Some coaches might tell you to skate toward the net when a teammate has the puck behind the opposition goal line or wide and deep on the boards, and to move away from the net when your team has a puck in shooting position. These coaches have boiled cabbage for brains. Don't listen to them or your play will be even more pathetic than it is now."
Here, Herb paused for effect. It was obvious he had memorized this little rant by heart. Suddenly, he snapped back to life again. Illustrating his words on the glass with a black marker, he explained, "Move away from the net when a teammate has the puck behind the opposition goal line or wide and deep on the boards. Move toward the net when your team has a puck in a shooting position. Move out when the puck is inside, and move in when the puck is outside. Up close is where most of the congestion and high-coverage is, so a high slot position will result in more opportunities for clear shots."
At this inopportune moment, Bill Baker, one of the players suffering from a bout of the cold, coughed. Herb scowled at Bill as if he were to blame for a physiological instinct almost as involuntary as blinking, and then barked, "Any questions?"
There was no response. His audience, plainly wondering why he could not have imparted this wisdom upon them when they were awake yesterday, was barely propping its collective eyelids open. A blanket of boredom had settled over the entire team.
Herb's frigid stare traveled over the nodding heads, and his glower intensified to nuclear level. "I take it you're all experts on the subject, are you? You'll know exactly what to do if a situation like this crops up in the game against the Soviets tomorrow, will you?"
"I certainly will." Rob leaned over to whisper this insightful tidbit into Mark's ear. "I'll skate like a bat out of hell in the opposite direction."
"Good. Then perhaps you can answer a few questions." Herb cast around for a victim for a second and then settled on one. "McClanahan!"
Oh, no, Mark thought. I bet Herb saw Rob whisper to me, and now the chickens will really come back to roost.
"Yes, Coach?" Rob said, clearly hoping for an easy follow-up question.
"When would this strategy be most helpful in our game against the Soviets tomorrow?" Herb arched an eyebrow.
Don't start with all the simple questions, Herb, Mark observed inwardly, releasing his need for sarcasm.
"When would it be most helpful, Coach?" repeated Rob, who was obviously stalling for time to devise a reasonably coherent reply.
"That's what I said." Herb's lips thinned in disapprobation. "You'll learn a lot more when you finally figure out how to listen, McClanahan."
"Well, Coach, after careful consideration, I'd have to say that this strategy would be most helpful in our game against the Soviets in situations where it will work." Rob's temper had clearly gotten the better of him again with the net result of him deciding that it was better to aim for smart-mouthed than insightful in his answer.
There were several muffled sniggers at Rob's reply, and Mark, sensing that Herb would be as far from happy about this as the east was from the west, winced preemptively, not wanting to imagine the tongue-lashing his left-winger would be receiving in a handful of seconds. As for Rob, Mark could only hope that he was enjoying his remaining time with his head.
"McClanahan thinks he's funny." Eyes narrowing, Herb skewered his audience with an icy glare. "McClanahan won't find it so amusing when the Soviets are skating circles around him and checking him into boards tomorrow. I'll think it's hilarious, though. It's always quality entertainment when an arrogant fool finds out he's not so clever, after all."
Raising his voice, Herb focused on Rob alone. "That's right, McClanahan. See how far a sense of humor takes you against the Soviets tomorrow, because I've yet to see a Soviet lose laughing."
As Herb shouted for Broten's line to take the first drill, and Mark and Rob drifted toward the bench with all the teammates not involved in the opening exercise, Rob mumbled bitterly, "That's odd, Herb, because I've yet to see a face as funny as yours. If it were a building, it would have been knocked down long ago."
"Quit while you're ahead, even though winners never quit." Patting Rob on the back as they settled on the bench, Mark reflexively glanced over his shoulder to ensure that Herb hadn't overheard this mutinous mutter. Rob didn't need his mouth landing him in any more trouble at the moment.
"I'm not ahead." Rob chomped on his lower lip. "I'm humiliated, and for what? Because I didn't come up with the perfect answer to Herb's pop quiz fast enough to suit him. That's crazy. I don't deserve to be yelled at for that."
"Of course you don't," Mark soothed. "If this team had a penny for every time Herb yelled at us when we didn't deserve it, we'd all be millionaires instead of broke amateurs."
"Yeah." Rob sighed. "It's just that I can't help but wonder what it is about me that makes me the instant target of every iron-gutted, bladder-brained, loud-mouthed, crater-faced, vicious, soulless, arrogant jerk in the country."
"Easy answer." Mark smiled slightly. "People who meet all those glowing criteria rip into anyone they can. It's nothing personal."
At this point, their conversation was interrupted by Herb shouting, "Johnson's line!" Along with Eric Strobel, they clambered over the boards for the shift change. They ran through the drill, and Mark thought that their performance had been satisfactory though not spectacular—their passes hadn't been sloppy and they had been able to catch rebounds to try to convert them into more scoring opportunities.
However, Herb apparently felt differently, and this time, it was Eric who bore the brunt of his fury. "Strobel," Herb snarled, studying Eric with an expression that suggested the right-winger was something disagreeable—like used gum—stubbornly clinging to his skate blade. "Move out when the puck is inside the goal line, and move in when the puck is outside. It's not rocket science, and it was the whole point of my talk if you had bothered to listen to a word of it."
"Sorry, Coach." Eric's cheeks were cherries, but his tone was calm and unshaken.
"Don't be sorry. Just do better next time." Herb spun away in disgust and yelled at the bench, "Coneheads, you're up. Let's see if your work is less of a train wreck."
Once the three of them had plopped back onto the bench, Rob pounded Eric reassuringly on back, saying, "You were skating really fast out there, Electric, and you put in a great effort. Just keep putting in a great effort, and don't pay attention to Herb. He desperately needs to switch to decaf."
Grateful that today was one of those days where Rob had determined that praise and encouragement were better ways of motivating Eric than insults and criticisms, Mark chuckled, commenting, "I guess we know that it truly is time for someone to relax if you think they're too intense, Robbie."
"Anyone would find Herb too intense." Rob guzzled water from his bottle. "He's stark, raving mad. If he's not the definition of a lunatic, I don't know who is."
They had barely recuperated themselves with their water break before Herb was calling them out onto the ice for another drill. Again, when the exercise was done, Mark felt his line's performance had been nothing less than fine, but, as usual, Herb found fault. This time, it was Rob whom Herb lanced into, demanding caustically, "You think you're fast, McClanahan?"
"Not fast enough to please you." Rob's jaw tightened. "No, I don't."
"Then accept that the puck moves faster than you'll ever be able to skate, and play accordingly," snapped Herb. "Move the puck up ice with passes to line mates who are open ahead of you. Then skate quickly up to join the rush, but skating the puck up the ice is the slower and less desirable alternative to passing, so don't treat it like the faster and more desirable option. Understand?"
"Yes, Coach." Rob gave a short nod.
"I hope this time you do, because I'm tired of repeating myself." Herb's voice made it clear that he doubted very much that Rob had truly absorbed his correction. Then, turning his attention to the bench, he barked, "Coneheads, your turn!"
When he, Mark, and Eric had settled themselves onto the bench again, Rob said, "Guys, I'm sorry that I didn't pass to you when I should have. I guess my high school puck-hogging tendency has reared its ugly head once more."
"Don't worry about it." Mark tapped Rob's helmet in a gesture he intended to be as affectionate as a hug. "Practice is a place for getting mistakes out of your system before a game."
"Everyone messes up sometimes," put in Eric, clapping Rob on the shoulder. "Even if you make a mistake in a game, it's not that big a deal. It won't be the end of the world. Life will go on, and there will be other hockey games."
"It was still a stupid mistake." Rob massaged his temples. "I shouldn't have made it. I'm not an idiot, so I shouldn't have acted like one."
"You were just doing what felt right to you in the moment." Eric squeezed Rob's shoulder. "That's not making a stupid mistake."
"There are no stupid mistakes on this line," agreed Mark firmly. "Hockey is a fast sport, so we're acting and reacting in split seconds. We don't have the leisure time to consider the consequences before we make every decision on ice, so, obviously, hindsight is going to show that we could have made better choices. The important thing is that we always keep trying to improve. We can learn from our mistakes, but we don't need to beat ourselves up for them, okay?"
"Yep." Rob's grin had a wry edge. "I suppose Herb does enough beating us up for our mistakes that we don't have to add insult to injury by tearing into ourselves."
They had just enough time to refresh themselves with water from their bottles before Herb was hollering at them to come out on the ice for another drill. Perhaps as a consequence of their frustration with their previous performances, their work during this exercise was nothing to phone home about; when they were near the net, they kept trying to dump it in, and when they were away from the net, they were weaving but not accomplishing much of anything.
Finally, Herb seemed to tire of watching them swarm around the net like confused hornets, for he blew his whistle and bellowed at the decibel of a low-flying aircraft, "Some coaches have first lines who invent new ways to score all the time. I have a first line that can't score even when I give them a how-to guide. Boys, in front of the net, it's a bloody—"
"Nose alley," interjected Rob, plainly not in the mood for a typical Herb Brooks admonishment, chin lifting obstinately. "We know that. And we know not to dump the puck in because that went out with short pants. And we know to throw the puck back and weave, weave, weave, but not to weave just for the sake of weaving. And we know everything else you're bursting to tell us right now."
Bracing himself for the explosion from Herb, Mark devoted himself to examining the ice beneath his blades as if he had never seen frozen water before. Not for the first time that morning, he wished that Rob had more control over his tongue. Herb, like any other coach, had certain stock phrases that he relied upon to convey his messages to his players, and Mark understood that they could get wearying after hearing them for years, but sardonically lobbing those expressions like grenades back into the face of an already irate Herb was about as prudent as holding a lit match to a parched patch of grass. The situation was just guaranteed to go up in flames that would burn everyone.
"You may know, but you obviously don't understand," Herb retorted. "If you understood, then you would do, and I could stop repeating myself."
"Maybe if we're not understanding something you could try to explain it in a different way instead of just repeating yourself over and over," countered Rob, and Mark, lifting his eyes from the ice, saw his left-winger folding his arms across his chest in a manner that usually indicated Rob was making his body a fortress for an upcoming war.
"Nothing I'm saying is complicated." Herb's arms were crossed across his chest, and Mark, head swiveling between Rob and their coach, thought that with their folded arms, clenched jaws, and lifted chins, they bore an uncanny resemblance to one another. Of course, he told himself, that shouldn't have been too shocking a realization. After all, he had long suspected that Rob and Herb didn't clash so often and with such fervor because they were irreconcilably different, but rather because they were intolerably similar. Both of them were strong-willed, smart, disposed toward incisive sarcasm, and liable to get irascible when their high expectations were not met. That meant that they argued frequently and heatedly, but Mark also hoped that it meant they could understand and respect one another more than either would let on, because, whatever their flaws, there was much to be admired in each of them. "If you and your line mates can't understand, it's because either you're stupid, lazy, or both. You boys need to put your brains together to figure out which one it is, so you can fix the problem and do something besides bumble around hopelessly in the next drill."
Before Rob could fire back something that probably questioned Herb's intelligence or work ethic, Herb whirled around and snarled at the bench, "Coneheads, you're up!"
As they returned to the bench, Rob hissed to Mark and Eric, "We're supposedly stupid, but Herb is the one who apparently cut class the day the English teacher explained that 'either' is for two choices, not three. That's rich. I could break a rib laughing at that."
"You're quite the grammar guru," observed Eric as they sat down on the bench. "Well, I guess every line needs one, or else they'd communicate in horribly constructed sentences like 'Me scored,' and 'Give puck to I.'"
"We shouldn't take Herb's corrections personally," Mark said, thinking that while Dad was the type of coach who could point out the single ray of sunshine in the midst of a hurricane with sufficient excitement that you genuinely believed the weather would brighten any moment, Herb was the sort who could find the single cloud in a brilliant blue sky and convince you that an apocalyptic thunderstorm was on the horizon. "He communicates through criticism, and, you know, with him, the worst insult isn't to dismember someone word by word. It's to utterly ignore them. If he rips into somebody, he wants to improve that person's playing technique, but if he just ignores somebody, it's because he has absolutely no use for that person."
"My use is apparently to be his whipping boy," grumbled Rob, gulping water from his bottle. "How illustrious."
"Cheer up." Mark elbowed Rob in the ribs. "It's an old superstition in hockey that a hard practice means an easy game. By that standard, our game against the Soviets tomorrow should be a total walk in the park."
"It's like with plays." Eric nodded sagely. "A lousy dress rehearsal promises an excellent opening night."
Despite their best efforts to keep their collective spirit up as a line, Mark was almost relieved when practice ended, and the torture of running twice up and down that hill he was coming to regard as a blight on Lake Placid's otherwise idyllic landscape was behind him.
"What are we going to do with all this free time this afternoon now that we don't have to hunt for our tree?" asked Rob, as they made their way down one of Lake Placid's side streets, a powdery snow falling onto their hats and coats.
"We could go to the movies," Mark suggested, catching sight of the flashing banner advertisements dashing across the overhang of a cinema down the road. "There has to be something decent out around the holiday season."
"Popcorn. Licorice. Soda." Rob's eyes gleamed. "I'm going to raid the snack counter before the movie starts."
"This coming from someone who always read nutrition labels at the grocery store before purchasing anything," teased Mark.
"Practice was terrible." Rob stuck his lower lip out in a distinctly petulant fashion. "We need comfort food."
"If we always eat according to that logic, we'll be behemoths by the time the Olympics rolls around." Mark laughed as the crossed the street to reach the cinema.
"At least we won't look like midgets who got lost on the way to Pee Wee practice anymore." Rob shrugged. "If we resembled beached whales, the whole world would tremble before us and recognize us for the power play juggernauts that we are in no time."
"Yeah, right, and Herb would be delighted that his slight, speedy forwards had morphed into sumo wrestlers." Mark snorted, as they examined the movie options listed on the cinema's overhang. "After the movie, we should go bowling, as long as you are strong enough to withstand me trampling you into the bowling alley dust with all my strikes and spares."
"I'll bet you can't beat me." Competitive as ever, Rob took less than a second to issue this challenge.
"Stakes?" Mark titled his head inquiringly.
"If you win and the universe doesn't implode, I'll buy you a bag of candy canes." Rob pounded his gloved fists together with the exhilaration of a new competition. "If I win, you have to buy me a bag of licorice to further feed my obsession with the candy."
"Deal." Mark smirked. "Unfortunately for you, Robbie, I have no intention of enabling your licorice addiction."
Hours later, having seen Wise Blood and played a round of bowling at the alley, they returned to the hotel with their stomachs full of popcorn, candy, hamburgers, chips, chicken wings, and what had to amount to pitchers of soda. There probably was no more unhealthy combination of cuisine than what could be bought at the cinema and the bowling alley, Mark thought as he boarded the hotel elevator with Rob.
"Thanks for the candy canes." Mark crunched happily into a candy cane from the bag Rob had been compelled to buy him when he won the bowling round by a strike to Rob's spare during their last turn, while the elevator hurtled them up to their floor. "They're delicious."
"Don't tempt me to discover if your teeth shattering when I punch them sounds the same as you biting into a candy cane." Rob wrinkled his nose.
"Have a candy cane." Mark deposited one in Rob's palm. "It'll make everything better."
"It'll taste like bitter defeat," grunted Rob, but he pushed the candy cane out of its wrapper and began to suck on it.
A second later, the elevator stopped at their floor, and, as they stepped out, pandemonium greeted them. Down the hallway, outside Jimmy's door, a knot of their teammates was clustered, drumming on the door and howling in unison, "Jimmy! We want Jimmy!"
"What's going on?" Rob asked OC as he and Mark joined the horde outside Jimmy's door.
"Jimmy's conducting an interview with the press." OC snickered. "That obviously places us in the role of adoring public, Mac."
Mark had no chance to learn whether he and Rob would have been swept up in the madness or have fled from the lunacy, because Coach Patrick marched out of the room across from Jimmy's and actually shouted to make himself heard over the babble, "Now, boys, enough is enough. Lights-out in thirty minutes, because you need to be well-rested for tomorrow's game, and I'm sure you all have to take showers before then."
Reluctantly, the congregation outside Jimmy's door dispersed, vanishing into their hotel rooms. As he walked down the hallway toward his room with Mark and Rob alongside him, OC protested, "Hockey players should be too tough to take showers. If they need to get clean, they should have to stand in the snow because that's definitely what God put it there for. Hot water is for oatmeal, girls, and other soft, wet things."
"No wonder you smell worse than a dead horse." Rob plugged his nose. "I guess we should just be grateful that you don't bathe in a slop bucket."
"That's for pigs. I'm a hockey player, idiot." OC waved as he disappeared into his room. "See you tomorrow when the Soviets are doing the world a favor and slapping you around a bit."
"Nice that Jimmy got his own little press conference," commented Rob as he and Mark continued down the corridor to their room. "Maybe I'd get more interviews if I were goalie."
"I wouldn't if I were goalie." Mark grinned. "I'd be a total sieve if I were goalie. I'd just flop around like a fish out of water, and bury my head in my glove every time the horn sounded when somebody scored on me."
"Come on." Rob nudged him in the shoulder. "Being a goalie can't be that difficult. You've just got to keep the puck out of the net. Easy as eating a slice of apple pie."
"I'm sure goalies believe being a forward is simple," pointed out Mark as they turned into their own hotel room. "I bet they're always thinking that all forwards have to do is get the puck in the net, and what's so hard about that?"
They took turns showering and preparing for bed in the bathroom. Half an hour later, when a knock hit their door, they were both tucked under their covers, engrossed in their respective books.
When Rob demonstrated no intention of getting out of bed to answer the door, Mark, sighing, climbed out from beneath his warm covers and scrambled over to the door, which he opened to reveal Coach Patrick.
"Lights out, boys," ordered Coach Patrick after checking that they were both in the room. "Time for bed."
"What if we're not tired?" Rob looked up from A Tale of Two Cities to offer this piqued inquiry.
"Then close your eyes and count sheep," replied Coach Patrick mildly. "The boredom should put you to sleep in no time."
"That's for five-year-olds," Rob scoffed, slamming his novel shut around his bookmark and throwing it onto the nightstand. "I'm not five anymore."
"Stop having a tantrum just because it's bedtime, then," responded Coach Patrick, his tone sharpening.
Before Rob, who was opening his big mouth again, could retort, Mark flicked off the light switch by the door, leaving the room illuminated only by the dim beams cast by the lamp on the nightstand Rob was still showing no sign of turning off.
"We're turning all our lights off now, Coach," Mark announced, taking control of the situation before Rob's tongue really created trouble. "Good night."
"Good night, boys." Coach Patrick shut the door, and, in the corridor, Mark could hear the sound of his footsteps moving on to ensure that the players in the next room were in bed by curfew.
"I've got one question for you, Robbie." Mark massaged his temples as he crossed the room toward his bed. "Why can't you ever just obey without making much ado about nothing?"
"A question for a question," riposted Rob. "Mark, why do you always have to do what you're told without a fuss?"
"I'll put up a fight if I think someone in authority is doing something immoral or asking me to do something unethical, but if the order is just annoying and not immoral, I figure I should obey without making a scene." Mark switched off the lamp, plunging the room entirely into darkness and wrapped himself back under his blankets. "I assume that most of the time people in authority have a good reason for their orders, even if they don't explain that reason to me, and that good reason probably isn't that they're trying to steam me up. Now, it's your turn in the hot seat, Rob. Why can't you ever just behave?"
"Well, unlike you, I think that people in authority should be able to explain the reasons behind their orders if their logic is so sound," Rob answered, and there was a rustling of covers that indicated he was rolling around, trying to find the most comfortable spot on the mattress. "If they aren't smarter than me and can't prove they're right, I don't see why they should be in charge of me when I have a perfectly functioning brain of my own."
"In other words, you have a problem with authority." Mark plumped his pillow. "You have oppositional defiant disorder or whatever it's called."
"I don't have a problem with authority in theory." Rob's voice cut through the darkness after a thoughtful pause. "Authority is order, and I love order in concept and in execution. Really, it's just improper, dumb uses of authority that raise my hackles."
"A curfew isn't an improper, dumb use of authority, though." Mark sighed. "We need our sleep if we want to perform at our best in games."
"Sure we do, but that doesn't mean it isn't a gigantic insult for coaches to treat us like we're too stupid and irresponsible to set the bedtime we need to be successful without them hovering over us like nannies," scoffed Rob. "It's just as demeaning as if they stood over us at dinner, making certain we ate our veggies, because we can't play well if we aren't healthy, and, obviously, we can't be trusted to feed ourselves properly."
"We did just binge on the greasiest food in the universe, so that argument basically sinks under its own weight." Mark curled up into a snug ball he didn't intend to budge out of until the diabolical alarm clock rang out the next morning. "Now, I'm going to sleep so I can have the energy to score a hat trick tomorrow."
"You might get a hat trick of penalties." Rob snorted loudly enough to be heard across the room. "That's the best you can hope for, I'm afraid, Magic."
"Ah, well, I'll look on the bright side, Mac." Mark burrowed further into his blankets. "If I can't impress Herb as a playmaker, stickhandler, or sharpshooter, I'll at least show him what a dominant goon I can be. Every team needs a good goon, and why can't I be this one's?"