This one goes out to Quimby for reasons untold:
~~Jesse's POV~~
"Damnit, Terry. Move your ass! We're gonna be late," I called as I struggled to cram the last of our gear into the oversized duffel bad Dad had brought back from the hotel where he worked as a security guard and general handyman. It was navy blue, with its name and motto--The Executive Inn--we take your comfort personally--splayed across it in gold lamé lettering. Aside from duffel bags, we had t-shirts, housecoats, lighters, pens, fridge magnets and countless other trinkets, all similarly emblazoned. When I was a kid, I used to love the name's shiny allure, but now, all I felt was a slight pang of bitterness when I thought of all the money the company paid for advertising and image formation, money that could be going to my father to pay him a decent wage for the long, back- breaking hours he worked at that place, had worked for over twenty years, and where he would likely continue to work until he died.
Using my foot to mash in the final glove and anchor the bag while I yanked the zipper shut, I tried calling my brother again. No response. I started down the hall toward mine and Terry's room. The game was on for eleven; it was almost quarter to, and we still had to get down to the rink. I could feel that familiar sense of nervous anticipation begin to well up inside me, what so often manifested itself in bravura-soaked sarcasm and belligerence.
"I swear, Ter, if you're in bed--" I began as I threw open the door to our room. My brother was there, alright, but he wasn't hiding under the covers this time, but rather, was perched on the edge of his bed, rubbing his hands together anxiously. He looked up when I entered, and I could see the tension in his body, from his shifting eyes and whitened knuckles, to the hard line of his clenched jaw. He looked so ancient, like an old man trapped in a kid's body. What kind of chance was there for him, or me, or any of my friends? We were born trapped, and unless you won the lottery or something, there was little hope of ever getting out.
I'd been living with this knowledge for years, so you think I'd be used to it by now. But you know what? Most days, it was still enough to make me want to scream.
But screaming got you nowhere. The best we could do was to smash those cake- eaters' heads in, to beat them at a hockey match. It wasn't much, but it was something. "Come on, Terry," I said softly. "We gotta go."
He looked up at me. "Jesse, man, I don't know if I can--" he began, but I cut him off.
"Don't be stupid, bro, of course you can. It'll be just like playing on the pond."
He shot me that 'don't bullshit me' look, and I had to laugh. People always seemed to forget--and I guess, at times, I was among them--that, for all his problems and fragilities, Terry was no dummy.
"Okay, maybe not exactly like playing on the pond," I conceded. "But it won't be like D5, I promise. No one's going to give you any shit."
Terry sighed, put his hands on his knees, and stood up slowly, like he was trying to summon his strength, and for a moment, I remembered how he used to be, before Mom left and everything went to hell. That Terry was a ghost, now, and this other Terry, a frightened, depressed, confused version of my little brother, had taken his place.
My father thought that home-schooling might help, after the shrinks and pills had eaten up all his savings, and in a way, it did. It took Terry away from a lot of the things that were making him crazy, but it also imprisoned him with the rest of them, and lately, in the battle between Terry and his demons, the demons had been coming out on top.
"Do I have to?" His voice wasn't plaintive or petulant, merely tired. Exhausted.
"Come on, Ter, this is our chance to show those fuckheads that we're just as good as they are."
"They're your friends we're playing with, Jesse, and your enemies we're playing against. I don't care what the Hawks think of me, or you, or anybody else. I don't care about them, period. I'll do this thing because I said I'd do it, and because I know how much it means to you, but I don't have anything to prove."
That was good enough for me. I swung my arm around his shoulders, and we left our apartment without incident. Since my mom left, my brother and sister and I haven't had to worry about curfews--not that Terry ever took advantage of this freedom, mind you--Dad was always too worn out from work to try to keep track of us, or to be roused by anything short of a full- scale missile attack.
Charlie and Guy were waiting for us down the street in Charlie's mom's old wood-panelled station wagon. "We were just about to go in and get you," Charlie stated in typical Charlie-fashion.
"Hey, Terry, how you doing?" Guy countered gently, in equally typical Guy- fashion. "Feeling ready?"
"Hard to be anything but, when Jesse's dragged me out to the pond every night for the past week," Terry muttered.
Good. That meant he was comfortable, at least to an extent, with Charlie and Guy. But they've been my friends for forever, and I wondered what effect some of the others--Portman, especially--might have on him.
'No sense worrying about it now, though,' I thought as we pulled into the parking lot in front of the rink. A shiny silver SUV roared in behind us, parking on a diagonal so as to stretch itself across several spaces, and began vomiting Hawks from its cushy leather interior. Four, five, six of them filed out in front of us, among them Tracy McGillis, whose brainchild this social caste hockey death match had been in the first place.
We were late. I could see the other players gathered in front of the rink, a discarded mound of Zamboni snow separating one side from the other, not to mention dozens of investment portfolios, a penthouse or two, and about $100,000 in average annual income.
I turned to Charlie as we started towards them; I couldn't remember the last time I was this excited. "So, we finally get to see who you managed to weasel into playing tonight."
"Let's hope it's another goalie," Guy muttered.
"It's not, so just shut up," Charlie said with a sniff. "We're lucky Liam even agreed to suit up."
"Liam couldn't stop a puck if I threw it at him," I couldn't resist putting in.
Charlie sighed. "I know. We're gonna need an iron-tight blue line and some serious firepower to make up for it."
"And do we have that?" Terry asked curiously.
Charlie flashed him his best teen idol smile. "You'll see."
~~Guy's POV~~
"Hey, Germaine! Nice shoes; you get your food from dumpsters, as well as your clothes?"
"You're dead, traitor."
"Double zero, it's not just his number, it's his way of life."
Though I had long since grown accustomed to being taunted by the Hawks, I looked up to see who had delivered that last line. At least it was original, which was more than I could say for most of their material. The smirking face of the goalie, Harper Mason, met my gaze. Man, I hated that guy.
I sized up the group of kids that comprised our team. The Swordfish were there, minus a couple of chickens, but it didn't look as if Charlie had made any real improvements. Lester Averman, Peter Mark, CJ Patkin, and a short, round kid named David Karp looked like the only new additions; I didn't even see Portman anywhere. They had all played hockey with us at some point, either as Swordfish, or back when we were still D5. They were nice guys and decent players, but hardly enough to keep us from getting thoroughly schooled by my former teammates.
And then I saw her. She was leaning against one of the concrete pillars in front of the rink, smoking a cigarette, a battered sports bag at her feet. She was wearing a denim miniskirt that was far too skimpy for the weather, and there was a run up the back of her nylons, but she still looked the same as ever.
Connie Moreau.
I knew her from school and around the neighbourhood; she used to live on my block until my parents split up, and we had to move. Barely five-five and slight in build, she didn't look like she belonged anywhere near a hockey rink, but I knew better. She used to play for D5 until we were twelve, and was always our best D-man. She left when puberty kicked in, pucks and pads giving way to lip gloss and imitation leather boots. I'd had something of a crush on her, to tell you the truth; we used to hang out together after games and practices. But that all changed when she quit the team. She changed.
Just kids growing up, I suppose, but I remembered how shocked I'd been-- shocked and hurt--when I saw her walking down the hall with Jay Danson's arm around her waist. The next week, it had been Mark Whalley, and the week after that, Michael Kane. I soon lost track of the guys, and eventually, of Connie herself.
She had quite a reputation, but I always took what I heard with a grain of salt. It was strange, seeing her now, when she wasn't pissed drunk and making out with some guy at a party. She was talking with some friends of hers who had come along to watch, by the look of it: Tammy Duncan and May- Hui Chong, and I was reminded of the child I'd once known. And loved, I suppose. She had been my first... crush, or whatever.
I walked behind her as we all filed into the rink once Tracy had unlocked the front doors. I couldn't seem to keep my eyes from that run in her stockings.
There was only one locker room per team, but Connie wasn't shy; she immediately stripped down to her underwear and started putting on her gear without so much as a flush of embarrassment. Once fully changed, she sat down on the bench to wait for the others, and, after a moment's hesitation, I took a seat beside her.
"Hey, Connie."
She looked over at me and smiled, and I felt my heart speed up a bit the way it used to when her hand brushed against mine as we were walking.
"Hey, Guy."
"Did Charlie get you to come? I didn't know you still played hockey."
"Affirmative on both counts. My brothers all have NHL aspirations, and need me to help them practice. I couldn't quit if I wanted to."
"If you could, would you want to?"
She shook her head, eyes twinkling, the eyes of a girl who loved hockey more than almost anyone I knew, and that was saying something. "Not in a million."
The door to the locker room swung open just then, revealing a fully dressed Portman. "You boys ready to kick some upper class ass?" he roared, and the room broke out in cheers.
Win or lose, at least the game promised entertainment, and a degree of safety, now that Portman was here. The real surprise came when his entrance was followed by none other than Fulton Reed, who tottered in on his skates to stand against the far wall, eyes lowered.
Connie was looking at the newly arrived pair with all the amazement I felt. She turned to me. "How did Charlie get Fulton to play?"
I shrugged. "Beats me. Maybe he's got something on him."
Connie giggled. "Like blackmail? I bet he does."
First Terry, Jesse's talented but disturbed younger brother, agreed to play, then Connie, and now Fulton. It was like all the East End kids coming together; was it really just to give it to the Hawks? I've been told I'm an idealist, so I'm probably imagining things, but as I skated out onto the ice, I could taste something lingering in the air, something stale, but not yet dead. I think it was hope. Not foolish hope, but hope tempered with a lifetime of reality. But hope for what? That things might turn out all right for us in the end, and I didn't mean the end of the game? Hope that, for once, things might change for the better, instead of getting worse?
I positioned myself at centre ice, flanked by Jesse and Terry, Fulton and Connie the pointmen. "What's this, the Oreo line?" David Price sneered, laughing and dodging when Jesse made a lunge at him.
There were only four Hawks on the ice; we waited while Adam Banks did up his skates on the bench, Price keeping us filled in on his in-depth analysis of our team's weaknesses.
"I like your choice of defence, Germaine," he chuckled. "A girl and the missing link. Think they'll be enough to cover your sorry ass?"
By this time, Adam was just getting into position, and Brett Sharp, whose job it was to drop the puck, grinned broadly. "Hey, I know her. I fuc--"
"Just drop the puck, asshole," I snapped.
He did, and the game was on.
~~Adam's POV~~
I was sitting at the kitchen table doing my homework, when the cell-phone I was carrying in the pocket of my khakis went off. My stomach dropped when I saw the number on the call display. It was McGillis, calling to make sure I was on my way to the rink. I had forgotten all about the game, the culmination of years' worth of antagonism between a handful of kids from the East End, and my friends and I. Or something like that, anyway. It had been going on since we were old enough to tell the difference between Nike's and Chuck Taylor's, and you know what? I was sick of the whole fucking thing.
Frankly, I had better things to do than to go sneaking off at night to cream some poor kids at hockey. Maybe I shouldn't say "poor." Underprivileged, is that better? Either way, their utter lack of resources, rink time, and decent coaching (these last two obviously direct result of the first) marked them for a quick death at the hands of my team. Why was I bothering to show up? Yet even as this thought appeared in my mind, I was putting away my algebra text, and by the time I'd showered and packed up my gear, it was gone altogether.
It was futile to think like that, when I knew I'd never act on the thoughts. I didn't hate Charlie Conway and his friends, didn't have a thing against them, really, but my friends did, and I had a tendency to go along with them, even when I didn't agree, because it was so much easier than the alternative. That sounded awful, I know, but everyone did it to some extent, did't they? Going against my friends would mean giving them up, and that was more aggravation than I needed right now. So I kept my mouth shut when they made fun of the Swordfish, and sometimes even played along. Not the high road, certainly, but not the low one, either. The story of my life: Adam Banks, man on the meridian.
I felt bad about it, sometimes, but what could I do? Standing up for them wouldn't change a thing, just get me ostracised as well, and no way would any of them appreciate it. I was just another rich boy to them, a Hawk. That was fine with me; I'd be out of here in a few months, anyway. I'd already been drafted by the New Jersey Devils; they wanted me for the World Junior Championship in March, and after I graduated, I'd play juniors full- time, until they called me up.
I was nobody special; I'd be the first to admit that. I wasn't that smart; I made straight A's only through massive amounts of studying, and I was too much of a wimp to stand up to my so-called friends, let alone my father. But I could do one thing right, and I wasn't about to let that get away from me. Those kids from the Swordfish might be doomed to lives unwanted, but not me. Hockey was my ticket out of this place, and after years of waiting and preparing, it was finally beginning to loom...
Looming or not, though, it wasn't the future yet, but the present, and in the present I had to deal with stupid hockey showdowns, so I grabbed my bag, told the maid not to wait up, got into my Jeep, and took off for the rink.
***
'Who would have thought these kids could actually play?' I thought groggily as I drew myself to my feet for the umpteenth time after another solid check by one of their goons--Fulton, it must have been, I'd seen Portman sandwich McGillis against the boards right before I went down.
Portman had the puck, and passed it to some short fat kid who promptly gave it up to one of our defencemen, but Portman knocked him down, and took possession again. Before I could make it back into our zone, he dropped the puck back to Fulton, who'd come up into the play again, and was just inside the blue line. He wound up, and let off another slapshot. Again, the defence scattered and this time the puck tore over Mason's shoulder and out the back of the net.
"He's on steroids," Harjit was muttering, as we skated over to the bench.
"How do you know?"
He snorted. "Are you kidding, Banks? Look at him! The kid's the size of a fucking Mack truck."
"He sure can shoot." Talk about understatements. I'd been playing hockey since I was three, and I'd never seen a puck move so fast, not even in the NHL. And from that weird, psycho punk kid, too. Go figure.
Harjit laughed. "Yeah, maybe we should ask him to join our team. What do you think?"
I laughed back, but it felt weak and forced. This wasn't the way I'd expected things to turn out, at all. We were ahead, but the best chances kept going to the Swordfish; our goalie was all that stopped them from taking over the game, and theirs had the same detrimental effect, by letting in goals that any decent net-minder would have smothered instantly.
On top of it all, quite a crowd of kids had gathered to watch all this go down, and most of them were cheering for the Fish. I had to admit they deserved it. As a coach, Conway put his playing skills to shame. Their top forward line was on fire, and I thought I recognised the left-winger as one of the Hall brothers, the one who'd suddenly disappeared from school a couple years back. Portman had upped his game quite a bit since leaving our team, and I marvelled at the level of energy he managed to sustain, all the while pulling double shifts and smashing anyone in sight. The defensive pair of Fulton and Connie proved practically unbeatable. Even with Fulton coming up into the play all the time, Connie provided ample back-up, and twice stopped a two-on-one from producing a goal. The best part about those plays was the way Portman went nuts afterwards; watching him toss a fully geared hockey player into the air again and again, even one as small as Connie, was something to behold. When Fulton scored his first goal, Portman charged him down, pinned him in a corner, and pummelled him playfully, all the while yelling at the top of his lungs. He skated up to our bench, dragging Fulton behind him.
"Where's your D-man? He have to go home?" he asked teasingly, referring to Freddy Olson, who'd made the mistake of trying to block one of Fulton's lethal shots. He ended up on the bench for almost three weeks after that. "Told you Fulton'd take all you pussies to town."
As I learned when he played with us, Portman was an expert at getting under his opponents' skin, while remaining practically impervious to taunts and trash talk, himself. His antics had all the Hawks grumbling, but this only fired the Swordfish more. The way they supported one another, and cheered each other on, I was surprised to find myself a bit envious of their team, and the way they played; fast and loose, like they had nothing to lose, which I guess they didn't.
I wanted to tell them that it didn't matter. None of this did. If we won, that was to be expected, and everything would stay the same, only they'd just get hassled a little more than before. And if they somehow managed to come out on top, well, they'd have bragging rights for a few weeks, and what would that change? Absolutely nothing, it was a joke. My friends would make excuses for the loss, and go right on teasing them when they felt like it, and ignoring them the rest of the time. They'd still go home to their trailers and three-room apartments, and go right on being young and disadvantaged and we'd go home to our Tudors and acreages, and go right on being rich, and lucky, and happy. The biggest punch line of all.
~~Charlie's POV~~
We lost. Of course we lost. Talent and desire will get you far, but not as far as money will buy. The final score was 7-6. Jesse managed to tie it up with only a few seconds left, but Banks scored in overtime to take it home. I felt more than a little responsible for the outcome; if I'd found us a better goalie, I think we'd have won, for sure. We had ten times the raw talent of the Hawks, even if it was all crammed into our first two lines.
The weird thing was the way it didn't feel like a loss. We'd made a shitload of killer plays, and had shown real defence, too. Fulton and Portman had teamed up into some sort of forward-defensive superhuman wreaking unit; getting hit by one of them was bad enough, but imagine both, and at the same time. We had three injured Hawks to smile about, as a result.
In the weeks and months that followed, I thought about that game a lot. The showdown with the Hawks hadn't been perfect, but it had been closer than I'd ever come to something magical. I wasn't the only one who noticed, either. I talked about it with Guy at length, how each great play had been like a ripple effect, stirring something deep inside, how our combined talent had far outstripped our individual prowess, and more than all that, how *good* it had felt, how much fun it had been. There had been more than a few fights, and one all-out brawl, which we won hands down, so while the Hawks emerged victorious that night, they were also bruised, bleeding, and minus a few players.
Life was like a complicated math equation, a juggling of many factors, and if you missed just one or fucked up a tiny bit, then everything went to shit. Depressing, I know, but the thing was that every once in a while, it worked the other way, too.
After the game, everyone was too excited to go home. Connie invited us over to her place to celebrate, and as we walked through the dark, moonless night, the familiar streets of our neighbourhood reached out to envelop us, and for once it felt like an embrace, instead of a smothering chokehold. I wondered what the repercussions of the game would be, and how big the ripple would grow. The answer was pretty damn big, and terribly damn unexpected, because as it turned out, the night was far from over.
Notes:
So, I figured I'd tack this on at the end, given how long I've been on hiatus. It wasn't even a hiatus, but a kind of exam-enforced abstinence from fanfiction. I wrote this chapter in mid-December, and haven't been able to get it typed up until now. Wish I could say I wrote another chapter in the mean time, but holidays and a heavy work schedule kept me away. Now that school's started again, I have to get organised, or you'll never hear from me again. I got a personal planner for Christmas, and will try to get a chapter out every other week, like clockwork. Will it work? Only time will tell.
I don't like it when people make excuses for their work, but I have to write this: this chapter was written in a horrible way. With no time to sit down and write, this was pieced together from little bits I scrawled down between lectures, or while on the bus to work or school. Putting it together was something of a nightmare, but I've learned not to doubt my results on this basis alone. The first casualty of this half-assed writing style is humour, I'm afraid. I wanted more in-jokes and Duck details, but those require a bit of planning, usually, and I churned this out, instead. I think it works okay despite that, but I have higher hopes for the next few chapters, which will finally see some pay-off for my blue-balled Bash brothers.
So, a few responses, or thank you's:
bunny: Thanks, dear, your email made a particularly icky day more bearable. Glad you like my stories.
RockAndRoll: I am the original swing kid. I was into Christian Bale for years before I discovered Elden's talent, and I maintain that he's the only actor of similar age who can hold a candle to my boy. American Psycho... great book, good movie, amazing performance. You don't need to be a good movie to be a good movie, if you know what I mean (huh?). And scared me with your movie knowledge, are you kidding? One of my only talents in life is playing Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. So far, I am unbeaten. I won this contest at my school for getting Barbara Streisand in three moves:
Barbara Streisand in "The Mirror has Two Faces" with Pierce Brosnan, who was with Denise Richards in "The World Is Not Enough" who was in "Wild Things" with Kevin Bacon.
Ta-dah! I won copies of The Doom Generation and Sorority Babes at the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama for that. Impressed? I thought so.
Pixie: Hey, thanks for the review. It was great to learn you were reading and enjoying. I'll try to catch up on my reviews for you tomorrow, okay? Until then, no Jubilee-powers on your bio teacher!
anne918: Yeah, for my money, you just can't beat the Bash brothers in love (I don't mean my story, of course). And I just like the sound of "moo goo gai pan," don't you?
QteCuttlfish: I'm terribly sorry about the delay, I hope you didn't blame the deity... but I did see a cuttlefish on the discovery channel last week. Thought of you.
KShyne99: Thanks! I just LOVE those virgin reviewers! I got so many this time, I'm all aflutter.
huggles**bunny: Crazy, is it? I sure hope so... glad you think I'm staying within character, as well.
spanishgoddess86: Hey, you even read Wolfsbane... I love you. I'll try to update that one, soon.
denverhockeygirl: Family in Vancouver, huh? If I was at all school- spirited, I'd say "Go SFU!" But I'm not, so I won't. I'll say "Go Canucks!" though, more times than you'd like to hear, I'm sure. A Canadian living in Denver? Who's your team? I'll even forgive you if you say Colorado, because you left a nice review.
Checkmate: Thanks, hon! Lovely name you have. Do you like chess? I always wanted to play.
Solis: At the risk of sounding repetitive: UPDATE, YOU CHICKENSHIT MOTHERFUCKER! Kidding, I'm in no position to ask for anything. And yeah, that dirty-ass mouth gets me into a lot of trouble. Latin by way of necrophilia... I like it. And a rock through a senator's window... that's even better than spay-painting your school, especially if he was in the office at the time (forgive me a cruel chuckle). I'll have to try it. And yes, anyone who eats well-done steak deserves nothing but a slow death. And maybe a scorching case of herpes, while I'm at it.
StalkyStar: It's been too long, my dear. I'll drop you a line on LJ tomorrow, okay? I still need to hear your Elden raves.
Schiz: Do you hate me yet? Typing took too long, and now I leave you without an email yet again. And after I forgot to tell you about my LJ, too... If I don't talk to you tomorrow, may lightning strike me dead. By the way, your review made me feel all too good about myself, and you may be happy to know that I have a little more Johnny coming soon.
~~Jesse's POV~~
"Damnit, Terry. Move your ass! We're gonna be late," I called as I struggled to cram the last of our gear into the oversized duffel bad Dad had brought back from the hotel where he worked as a security guard and general handyman. It was navy blue, with its name and motto--The Executive Inn--we take your comfort personally--splayed across it in gold lamé lettering. Aside from duffel bags, we had t-shirts, housecoats, lighters, pens, fridge magnets and countless other trinkets, all similarly emblazoned. When I was a kid, I used to love the name's shiny allure, but now, all I felt was a slight pang of bitterness when I thought of all the money the company paid for advertising and image formation, money that could be going to my father to pay him a decent wage for the long, back- breaking hours he worked at that place, had worked for over twenty years, and where he would likely continue to work until he died.
Using my foot to mash in the final glove and anchor the bag while I yanked the zipper shut, I tried calling my brother again. No response. I started down the hall toward mine and Terry's room. The game was on for eleven; it was almost quarter to, and we still had to get down to the rink. I could feel that familiar sense of nervous anticipation begin to well up inside me, what so often manifested itself in bravura-soaked sarcasm and belligerence.
"I swear, Ter, if you're in bed--" I began as I threw open the door to our room. My brother was there, alright, but he wasn't hiding under the covers this time, but rather, was perched on the edge of his bed, rubbing his hands together anxiously. He looked up when I entered, and I could see the tension in his body, from his shifting eyes and whitened knuckles, to the hard line of his clenched jaw. He looked so ancient, like an old man trapped in a kid's body. What kind of chance was there for him, or me, or any of my friends? We were born trapped, and unless you won the lottery or something, there was little hope of ever getting out.
I'd been living with this knowledge for years, so you think I'd be used to it by now. But you know what? Most days, it was still enough to make me want to scream.
But screaming got you nowhere. The best we could do was to smash those cake- eaters' heads in, to beat them at a hockey match. It wasn't much, but it was something. "Come on, Terry," I said softly. "We gotta go."
He looked up at me. "Jesse, man, I don't know if I can--" he began, but I cut him off.
"Don't be stupid, bro, of course you can. It'll be just like playing on the pond."
He shot me that 'don't bullshit me' look, and I had to laugh. People always seemed to forget--and I guess, at times, I was among them--that, for all his problems and fragilities, Terry was no dummy.
"Okay, maybe not exactly like playing on the pond," I conceded. "But it won't be like D5, I promise. No one's going to give you any shit."
Terry sighed, put his hands on his knees, and stood up slowly, like he was trying to summon his strength, and for a moment, I remembered how he used to be, before Mom left and everything went to hell. That Terry was a ghost, now, and this other Terry, a frightened, depressed, confused version of my little brother, had taken his place.
My father thought that home-schooling might help, after the shrinks and pills had eaten up all his savings, and in a way, it did. It took Terry away from a lot of the things that were making him crazy, but it also imprisoned him with the rest of them, and lately, in the battle between Terry and his demons, the demons had been coming out on top.
"Do I have to?" His voice wasn't plaintive or petulant, merely tired. Exhausted.
"Come on, Ter, this is our chance to show those fuckheads that we're just as good as they are."
"They're your friends we're playing with, Jesse, and your enemies we're playing against. I don't care what the Hawks think of me, or you, or anybody else. I don't care about them, period. I'll do this thing because I said I'd do it, and because I know how much it means to you, but I don't have anything to prove."
That was good enough for me. I swung my arm around his shoulders, and we left our apartment without incident. Since my mom left, my brother and sister and I haven't had to worry about curfews--not that Terry ever took advantage of this freedom, mind you--Dad was always too worn out from work to try to keep track of us, or to be roused by anything short of a full- scale missile attack.
Charlie and Guy were waiting for us down the street in Charlie's mom's old wood-panelled station wagon. "We were just about to go in and get you," Charlie stated in typical Charlie-fashion.
"Hey, Terry, how you doing?" Guy countered gently, in equally typical Guy- fashion. "Feeling ready?"
"Hard to be anything but, when Jesse's dragged me out to the pond every night for the past week," Terry muttered.
Good. That meant he was comfortable, at least to an extent, with Charlie and Guy. But they've been my friends for forever, and I wondered what effect some of the others--Portman, especially--might have on him.
'No sense worrying about it now, though,' I thought as we pulled into the parking lot in front of the rink. A shiny silver SUV roared in behind us, parking on a diagonal so as to stretch itself across several spaces, and began vomiting Hawks from its cushy leather interior. Four, five, six of them filed out in front of us, among them Tracy McGillis, whose brainchild this social caste hockey death match had been in the first place.
We were late. I could see the other players gathered in front of the rink, a discarded mound of Zamboni snow separating one side from the other, not to mention dozens of investment portfolios, a penthouse or two, and about $100,000 in average annual income.
I turned to Charlie as we started towards them; I couldn't remember the last time I was this excited. "So, we finally get to see who you managed to weasel into playing tonight."
"Let's hope it's another goalie," Guy muttered.
"It's not, so just shut up," Charlie said with a sniff. "We're lucky Liam even agreed to suit up."
"Liam couldn't stop a puck if I threw it at him," I couldn't resist putting in.
Charlie sighed. "I know. We're gonna need an iron-tight blue line and some serious firepower to make up for it."
"And do we have that?" Terry asked curiously.
Charlie flashed him his best teen idol smile. "You'll see."
~~Guy's POV~~
"Hey, Germaine! Nice shoes; you get your food from dumpsters, as well as your clothes?"
"You're dead, traitor."
"Double zero, it's not just his number, it's his way of life."
Though I had long since grown accustomed to being taunted by the Hawks, I looked up to see who had delivered that last line. At least it was original, which was more than I could say for most of their material. The smirking face of the goalie, Harper Mason, met my gaze. Man, I hated that guy.
I sized up the group of kids that comprised our team. The Swordfish were there, minus a couple of chickens, but it didn't look as if Charlie had made any real improvements. Lester Averman, Peter Mark, CJ Patkin, and a short, round kid named David Karp looked like the only new additions; I didn't even see Portman anywhere. They had all played hockey with us at some point, either as Swordfish, or back when we were still D5. They were nice guys and decent players, but hardly enough to keep us from getting thoroughly schooled by my former teammates.
And then I saw her. She was leaning against one of the concrete pillars in front of the rink, smoking a cigarette, a battered sports bag at her feet. She was wearing a denim miniskirt that was far too skimpy for the weather, and there was a run up the back of her nylons, but she still looked the same as ever.
Connie Moreau.
I knew her from school and around the neighbourhood; she used to live on my block until my parents split up, and we had to move. Barely five-five and slight in build, she didn't look like she belonged anywhere near a hockey rink, but I knew better. She used to play for D5 until we were twelve, and was always our best D-man. She left when puberty kicked in, pucks and pads giving way to lip gloss and imitation leather boots. I'd had something of a crush on her, to tell you the truth; we used to hang out together after games and practices. But that all changed when she quit the team. She changed.
Just kids growing up, I suppose, but I remembered how shocked I'd been-- shocked and hurt--when I saw her walking down the hall with Jay Danson's arm around her waist. The next week, it had been Mark Whalley, and the week after that, Michael Kane. I soon lost track of the guys, and eventually, of Connie herself.
She had quite a reputation, but I always took what I heard with a grain of salt. It was strange, seeing her now, when she wasn't pissed drunk and making out with some guy at a party. She was talking with some friends of hers who had come along to watch, by the look of it: Tammy Duncan and May- Hui Chong, and I was reminded of the child I'd once known. And loved, I suppose. She had been my first... crush, or whatever.
I walked behind her as we all filed into the rink once Tracy had unlocked the front doors. I couldn't seem to keep my eyes from that run in her stockings.
There was only one locker room per team, but Connie wasn't shy; she immediately stripped down to her underwear and started putting on her gear without so much as a flush of embarrassment. Once fully changed, she sat down on the bench to wait for the others, and, after a moment's hesitation, I took a seat beside her.
"Hey, Connie."
She looked over at me and smiled, and I felt my heart speed up a bit the way it used to when her hand brushed against mine as we were walking.
"Hey, Guy."
"Did Charlie get you to come? I didn't know you still played hockey."
"Affirmative on both counts. My brothers all have NHL aspirations, and need me to help them practice. I couldn't quit if I wanted to."
"If you could, would you want to?"
She shook her head, eyes twinkling, the eyes of a girl who loved hockey more than almost anyone I knew, and that was saying something. "Not in a million."
The door to the locker room swung open just then, revealing a fully dressed Portman. "You boys ready to kick some upper class ass?" he roared, and the room broke out in cheers.
Win or lose, at least the game promised entertainment, and a degree of safety, now that Portman was here. The real surprise came when his entrance was followed by none other than Fulton Reed, who tottered in on his skates to stand against the far wall, eyes lowered.
Connie was looking at the newly arrived pair with all the amazement I felt. She turned to me. "How did Charlie get Fulton to play?"
I shrugged. "Beats me. Maybe he's got something on him."
Connie giggled. "Like blackmail? I bet he does."
First Terry, Jesse's talented but disturbed younger brother, agreed to play, then Connie, and now Fulton. It was like all the East End kids coming together; was it really just to give it to the Hawks? I've been told I'm an idealist, so I'm probably imagining things, but as I skated out onto the ice, I could taste something lingering in the air, something stale, but not yet dead. I think it was hope. Not foolish hope, but hope tempered with a lifetime of reality. But hope for what? That things might turn out all right for us in the end, and I didn't mean the end of the game? Hope that, for once, things might change for the better, instead of getting worse?
I positioned myself at centre ice, flanked by Jesse and Terry, Fulton and Connie the pointmen. "What's this, the Oreo line?" David Price sneered, laughing and dodging when Jesse made a lunge at him.
There were only four Hawks on the ice; we waited while Adam Banks did up his skates on the bench, Price keeping us filled in on his in-depth analysis of our team's weaknesses.
"I like your choice of defence, Germaine," he chuckled. "A girl and the missing link. Think they'll be enough to cover your sorry ass?"
By this time, Adam was just getting into position, and Brett Sharp, whose job it was to drop the puck, grinned broadly. "Hey, I know her. I fuc--"
"Just drop the puck, asshole," I snapped.
He did, and the game was on.
~~Adam's POV~~
I was sitting at the kitchen table doing my homework, when the cell-phone I was carrying in the pocket of my khakis went off. My stomach dropped when I saw the number on the call display. It was McGillis, calling to make sure I was on my way to the rink. I had forgotten all about the game, the culmination of years' worth of antagonism between a handful of kids from the East End, and my friends and I. Or something like that, anyway. It had been going on since we were old enough to tell the difference between Nike's and Chuck Taylor's, and you know what? I was sick of the whole fucking thing.
Frankly, I had better things to do than to go sneaking off at night to cream some poor kids at hockey. Maybe I shouldn't say "poor." Underprivileged, is that better? Either way, their utter lack of resources, rink time, and decent coaching (these last two obviously direct result of the first) marked them for a quick death at the hands of my team. Why was I bothering to show up? Yet even as this thought appeared in my mind, I was putting away my algebra text, and by the time I'd showered and packed up my gear, it was gone altogether.
It was futile to think like that, when I knew I'd never act on the thoughts. I didn't hate Charlie Conway and his friends, didn't have a thing against them, really, but my friends did, and I had a tendency to go along with them, even when I didn't agree, because it was so much easier than the alternative. That sounded awful, I know, but everyone did it to some extent, did't they? Going against my friends would mean giving them up, and that was more aggravation than I needed right now. So I kept my mouth shut when they made fun of the Swordfish, and sometimes even played along. Not the high road, certainly, but not the low one, either. The story of my life: Adam Banks, man on the meridian.
I felt bad about it, sometimes, but what could I do? Standing up for them wouldn't change a thing, just get me ostracised as well, and no way would any of them appreciate it. I was just another rich boy to them, a Hawk. That was fine with me; I'd be out of here in a few months, anyway. I'd already been drafted by the New Jersey Devils; they wanted me for the World Junior Championship in March, and after I graduated, I'd play juniors full- time, until they called me up.
I was nobody special; I'd be the first to admit that. I wasn't that smart; I made straight A's only through massive amounts of studying, and I was too much of a wimp to stand up to my so-called friends, let alone my father. But I could do one thing right, and I wasn't about to let that get away from me. Those kids from the Swordfish might be doomed to lives unwanted, but not me. Hockey was my ticket out of this place, and after years of waiting and preparing, it was finally beginning to loom...
Looming or not, though, it wasn't the future yet, but the present, and in the present I had to deal with stupid hockey showdowns, so I grabbed my bag, told the maid not to wait up, got into my Jeep, and took off for the rink.
***
'Who would have thought these kids could actually play?' I thought groggily as I drew myself to my feet for the umpteenth time after another solid check by one of their goons--Fulton, it must have been, I'd seen Portman sandwich McGillis against the boards right before I went down.
Portman had the puck, and passed it to some short fat kid who promptly gave it up to one of our defencemen, but Portman knocked him down, and took possession again. Before I could make it back into our zone, he dropped the puck back to Fulton, who'd come up into the play again, and was just inside the blue line. He wound up, and let off another slapshot. Again, the defence scattered and this time the puck tore over Mason's shoulder and out the back of the net.
"He's on steroids," Harjit was muttering, as we skated over to the bench.
"How do you know?"
He snorted. "Are you kidding, Banks? Look at him! The kid's the size of a fucking Mack truck."
"He sure can shoot." Talk about understatements. I'd been playing hockey since I was three, and I'd never seen a puck move so fast, not even in the NHL. And from that weird, psycho punk kid, too. Go figure.
Harjit laughed. "Yeah, maybe we should ask him to join our team. What do you think?"
I laughed back, but it felt weak and forced. This wasn't the way I'd expected things to turn out, at all. We were ahead, but the best chances kept going to the Swordfish; our goalie was all that stopped them from taking over the game, and theirs had the same detrimental effect, by letting in goals that any decent net-minder would have smothered instantly.
On top of it all, quite a crowd of kids had gathered to watch all this go down, and most of them were cheering for the Fish. I had to admit they deserved it. As a coach, Conway put his playing skills to shame. Their top forward line was on fire, and I thought I recognised the left-winger as one of the Hall brothers, the one who'd suddenly disappeared from school a couple years back. Portman had upped his game quite a bit since leaving our team, and I marvelled at the level of energy he managed to sustain, all the while pulling double shifts and smashing anyone in sight. The defensive pair of Fulton and Connie proved practically unbeatable. Even with Fulton coming up into the play all the time, Connie provided ample back-up, and twice stopped a two-on-one from producing a goal. The best part about those plays was the way Portman went nuts afterwards; watching him toss a fully geared hockey player into the air again and again, even one as small as Connie, was something to behold. When Fulton scored his first goal, Portman charged him down, pinned him in a corner, and pummelled him playfully, all the while yelling at the top of his lungs. He skated up to our bench, dragging Fulton behind him.
"Where's your D-man? He have to go home?" he asked teasingly, referring to Freddy Olson, who'd made the mistake of trying to block one of Fulton's lethal shots. He ended up on the bench for almost three weeks after that. "Told you Fulton'd take all you pussies to town."
As I learned when he played with us, Portman was an expert at getting under his opponents' skin, while remaining practically impervious to taunts and trash talk, himself. His antics had all the Hawks grumbling, but this only fired the Swordfish more. The way they supported one another, and cheered each other on, I was surprised to find myself a bit envious of their team, and the way they played; fast and loose, like they had nothing to lose, which I guess they didn't.
I wanted to tell them that it didn't matter. None of this did. If we won, that was to be expected, and everything would stay the same, only they'd just get hassled a little more than before. And if they somehow managed to come out on top, well, they'd have bragging rights for a few weeks, and what would that change? Absolutely nothing, it was a joke. My friends would make excuses for the loss, and go right on teasing them when they felt like it, and ignoring them the rest of the time. They'd still go home to their trailers and three-room apartments, and go right on being young and disadvantaged and we'd go home to our Tudors and acreages, and go right on being rich, and lucky, and happy. The biggest punch line of all.
~~Charlie's POV~~
We lost. Of course we lost. Talent and desire will get you far, but not as far as money will buy. The final score was 7-6. Jesse managed to tie it up with only a few seconds left, but Banks scored in overtime to take it home. I felt more than a little responsible for the outcome; if I'd found us a better goalie, I think we'd have won, for sure. We had ten times the raw talent of the Hawks, even if it was all crammed into our first two lines.
The weird thing was the way it didn't feel like a loss. We'd made a shitload of killer plays, and had shown real defence, too. Fulton and Portman had teamed up into some sort of forward-defensive superhuman wreaking unit; getting hit by one of them was bad enough, but imagine both, and at the same time. We had three injured Hawks to smile about, as a result.
In the weeks and months that followed, I thought about that game a lot. The showdown with the Hawks hadn't been perfect, but it had been closer than I'd ever come to something magical. I wasn't the only one who noticed, either. I talked about it with Guy at length, how each great play had been like a ripple effect, stirring something deep inside, how our combined talent had far outstripped our individual prowess, and more than all that, how *good* it had felt, how much fun it had been. There had been more than a few fights, and one all-out brawl, which we won hands down, so while the Hawks emerged victorious that night, they were also bruised, bleeding, and minus a few players.
Life was like a complicated math equation, a juggling of many factors, and if you missed just one or fucked up a tiny bit, then everything went to shit. Depressing, I know, but the thing was that every once in a while, it worked the other way, too.
After the game, everyone was too excited to go home. Connie invited us over to her place to celebrate, and as we walked through the dark, moonless night, the familiar streets of our neighbourhood reached out to envelop us, and for once it felt like an embrace, instead of a smothering chokehold. I wondered what the repercussions of the game would be, and how big the ripple would grow. The answer was pretty damn big, and terribly damn unexpected, because as it turned out, the night was far from over.
Notes:
So, I figured I'd tack this on at the end, given how long I've been on hiatus. It wasn't even a hiatus, but a kind of exam-enforced abstinence from fanfiction. I wrote this chapter in mid-December, and haven't been able to get it typed up until now. Wish I could say I wrote another chapter in the mean time, but holidays and a heavy work schedule kept me away. Now that school's started again, I have to get organised, or you'll never hear from me again. I got a personal planner for Christmas, and will try to get a chapter out every other week, like clockwork. Will it work? Only time will tell.
I don't like it when people make excuses for their work, but I have to write this: this chapter was written in a horrible way. With no time to sit down and write, this was pieced together from little bits I scrawled down between lectures, or while on the bus to work or school. Putting it together was something of a nightmare, but I've learned not to doubt my results on this basis alone. The first casualty of this half-assed writing style is humour, I'm afraid. I wanted more in-jokes and Duck details, but those require a bit of planning, usually, and I churned this out, instead. I think it works okay despite that, but I have higher hopes for the next few chapters, which will finally see some pay-off for my blue-balled Bash brothers.
So, a few responses, or thank you's:
bunny: Thanks, dear, your email made a particularly icky day more bearable. Glad you like my stories.
RockAndRoll: I am the original swing kid. I was into Christian Bale for years before I discovered Elden's talent, and I maintain that he's the only actor of similar age who can hold a candle to my boy. American Psycho... great book, good movie, amazing performance. You don't need to be a good movie to be a good movie, if you know what I mean (huh?). And scared me with your movie knowledge, are you kidding? One of my only talents in life is playing Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. So far, I am unbeaten. I won this contest at my school for getting Barbara Streisand in three moves:
Barbara Streisand in "The Mirror has Two Faces" with Pierce Brosnan, who was with Denise Richards in "The World Is Not Enough" who was in "Wild Things" with Kevin Bacon.
Ta-dah! I won copies of The Doom Generation and Sorority Babes at the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama for that. Impressed? I thought so.
Pixie: Hey, thanks for the review. It was great to learn you were reading and enjoying. I'll try to catch up on my reviews for you tomorrow, okay? Until then, no Jubilee-powers on your bio teacher!
anne918: Yeah, for my money, you just can't beat the Bash brothers in love (I don't mean my story, of course). And I just like the sound of "moo goo gai pan," don't you?
QteCuttlfish: I'm terribly sorry about the delay, I hope you didn't blame the deity... but I did see a cuttlefish on the discovery channel last week. Thought of you.
KShyne99: Thanks! I just LOVE those virgin reviewers! I got so many this time, I'm all aflutter.
huggles**bunny: Crazy, is it? I sure hope so... glad you think I'm staying within character, as well.
spanishgoddess86: Hey, you even read Wolfsbane... I love you. I'll try to update that one, soon.
denverhockeygirl: Family in Vancouver, huh? If I was at all school- spirited, I'd say "Go SFU!" But I'm not, so I won't. I'll say "Go Canucks!" though, more times than you'd like to hear, I'm sure. A Canadian living in Denver? Who's your team? I'll even forgive you if you say Colorado, because you left a nice review.
Checkmate: Thanks, hon! Lovely name you have. Do you like chess? I always wanted to play.
Solis: At the risk of sounding repetitive: UPDATE, YOU CHICKENSHIT MOTHERFUCKER! Kidding, I'm in no position to ask for anything. And yeah, that dirty-ass mouth gets me into a lot of trouble. Latin by way of necrophilia... I like it. And a rock through a senator's window... that's even better than spay-painting your school, especially if he was in the office at the time (forgive me a cruel chuckle). I'll have to try it. And yes, anyone who eats well-done steak deserves nothing but a slow death. And maybe a scorching case of herpes, while I'm at it.
StalkyStar: It's been too long, my dear. I'll drop you a line on LJ tomorrow, okay? I still need to hear your Elden raves.
Schiz: Do you hate me yet? Typing took too long, and now I leave you without an email yet again. And after I forgot to tell you about my LJ, too... If I don't talk to you tomorrow, may lightning strike me dead. By the way, your review made me feel all too good about myself, and you may be happy to know that I have a little more Johnny coming soon.