During the time that I was reading, I switched off my phone and sent my house phone to the answering service. Reading the manuscript took me eighteen hours.

My first pass was always quick. It was designed to get a feel for the book, to see what sort of pace it had, to see if there were areas which needed speeding up. I used the time to tell if there was a story or just statistics…that was easily done in sports biographies.

In some chapters, Derek's autobiography was no exception, but some chapters took my breath away. I'd been so divorced from his life I missed all his highs and lows. And because I still cared so deeply about him, both affected me. His description of that week, in particular, gnawed at me.

"The biggest week of my life was the one when I realised the chance of making it big in hockey was more than just a pipe dream.

It was a magical week, the kind of week when nothing can go wrong. I had everything I wanted lying at my feet. Moments like that don't come along very often.

The big game, the one where I was "discovered" was actually a very small one. My home town was several hours drive away, so none of my family was present, although they wanted to be. I had friends watching, so I wasn't unsupported..."

It would be so easy to read between the lines. Magical Week – yes it was. We spent every waking moment together, and Derek had almost faked an illness so that he could miss that game and spend the time with me. I wouldn't let him, but I watched the game from the Girlfriend Pen.

So his description was interesting, because he said none of his family saw it; which meant he didn't see me as family. But then, how could he?

But if I wasn't family, then I had no place in his life anymore.

In all my confusion over his words, I could still feel the sadness of that thought.

When I had finished the first pass, I rang Cathy.

"I've read it."

"Great! What do you think?"

"There's a good backbone there. It needs work though. Parts of it read like a sports almanac."

She laughed. "What did you like about it?"

The fact that he didn't mention any of his girlfriends at all?

"It was well paced. But, I'm worried it might be a little short. Its starts with his hockey career and being realistic, people like to read about the early stuff. It's their anchor to normality, the idea that someone ordinary can make it big."

"Yes. I get you. You think he should write about his childhood."

I sat up. "God no! Don't say that to him. He'll think I want to be immortalised in his book."

Cathy laughed.

"What I mean is, the book isn't long enough and it doesn't have enough early stuff. He doesn't cover why he plays hockey, did any of his family? When was his first hockey game, early hockey pictures…et cetera."

"I understand. You do realise this would be easier if you explained it to him."
"Cathy. Derek and I did well not to punch the crap out of each other last week."

"Are things really that bad between you?" She sounded concerned.

"Worse."

"Why?"
"Hasn't he told you?"

"No. We're good friends but…the first time I had ever heard of you was the phone call from Archie."

"It's a long story. Maybe I'll tell you it next time you've got five hours."

"I can pencil you in next Christmas."

We both laughed.

I sighed. "Tell Derek we need to talk about the 'script. It's up to him when and where or," I only half-joked, "if he wants to bring legal representation."


There ought to be a law against Derek Venturi.

There probably are several.

He turned up at 7am the following morning at my apartment and when I sleepily opened the door a crack, he pushed his way in.

"Come in, why don't you?" I said, sarcastically. "Oh. You already did."

"Why are you complaining? You said you wanted to talk. I've got practice all day. It's two hours now or never."

Give me NEVER, please.

"This is in retaliation, isn't it?" I said, narrowing my eyes.

He was scoping my apartment. Fortunately, no panties hanging from the light fittings.

Chance would be a fine thing…

"Retaliation for what?" He said, opening drawers and inspecting the contents. I bit my tongue so that I didn't rise to his provocation.

"Every time I woke you up early."

He stopped. "Casey. I'm 34. Not fucking 15. I grew up."

Yeah right, moron. What was all that about in my office?

I sighed. "Let me get dressed."

"Don't take too long. Just throw some clothes on, you don't need to impress anyone."

Do not react. Do not react. Do not react.

Fuck him. (You did. It was unbe…)

Let's not go down that route, please.

"Fine." I said, my tone short. "Help yourself to coffee."


Dressed, I grabbed my notepad and fountain pen and sat at the kitchen table.

"Can't you use a biro?" He said dragging a chair out and throwing himself into it.

I ignored him.

"Right. The book's good. It's obvious you wrote it."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean? The English not good enough for you?"

I sagged in the chair. Was it all going to be this confrontational?

"The English is fine, Derek, better than most I see actually, what I meant was because I know you, when I read it I could hear you speaking the words. But it does need work." I glanced down at my notes. "The hockey games and stuff are great; a couple of areas where some of the stuff is a bit repetitive…"

"Yeah well, that's just my life."

I bit back a retort.

"It's not disastrous, we can do stuff with that and it will give us some room to play with the length. If we cut down on the repeats," I held a hand up to hold off his complaint "using a couple of tricks of the trade which mean the events are still there, just not as monotonous…"

"Great. First I was repetitive, now I'm monotonous."

"Der-ek!"

I lost my patience. His eyes flashed to mine, and there was a ghost of humour behind them. The humour didn't make it to front of his eyes though, and his mouth remained set.

"…If we cut down on the repeats," I repeated. "Then we can add extra stuff in."

"Like what?"

"We'll talk about that in a minute." I ran my fingers through my hair. "You need to decide what you want this autobiography to achieve."

"I want it to get Cathy off my back about writing my fucking autobiography, is what I want it to achieve." He said gruffly. "She's a nag."

I looked surprised. "She seems really nice."

He smirked. "Yeah. That figures. The only person whoever nagged me worse than Cathy was you."

"You needed it."

"No. You liked the sound of your own voice. Whenever we were in the same room, something about me always made you moan." he locked his eyes on mine. "Never happy unless you were screaming my name."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "You weren't exactly quiet, Derek." I whispered.

Silence. Behold the double entendre!

He smirked again, and this time it went right to his eyes.

"Just trying to be heard." He said.

I blinked.

Coughing slightly, I turned back to my notes. "Anyway, you need to decide what story you are trying to tell. Are you trying to tell a story about your hockey career or your life? Obviously, they are linked, but they aren't the same thing. If you are concentrating on your career, then you will probably not mention too much about your personal life. If you are writing about your whole life, then you will need to talk about the family."

"…and you?" He laughed. "Trying to wangle a mention in the great Derek Venturi's book, Casey?"

"And have people think I'm actually related to you, per-lease!"

He leaned forward. "What's the problem, sis? Whooops! Can't call you that. Might get arrested." His body language and tone were harsh, excessively so. But I didn't cringe away from him. Because his eyes held a softness that he couldn't disguise.

Instead, I continued with the book review. "I've got some colleagues checking the stats for me…"

"…the stats are right, Casey. You seriously think I'd forget my own stats?"

"In view of the amount of alcohol you imbibe at times, yeah, I'd say you could have forgotten."

"You don't know what the hell you are talking about!" He shouted suddenly and stood up, the chair clattering on the floor.

That was an over-reaction. What the hell did I say?

"Derek. Sit down."

"No."

"Derek."

"No."

I rubbed my temples. "D. I'm sorry."

He had opened his mouth to say something, but my words made him stop. He looked at me strangely.

"Whatever I said…" I continued.

"…I don't drink Casey." His voice was softer; not a lot, but some.

"Okay…" I drew the word out, my mind racing.

"I'm an alcoholic." He said it in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he was in a 12-step programme. Hi My name's Derek Venturi, and I'm an alcoholic.

I was stunned and a pain hit me squarely in the chest. Suddenly his refusal of Roswell's invitation to join him in a toast made sense.

"Oh."

He smirked, humourlessly.

"How come I didn't hear about this?" I asked quietly. It wasn't in the book, and no one in the family had ever told me about this. How could they keep this from me? From me? He'd been through something awful, and I hadn't known.

He gave me a look that said I was stupid.

"You really think I'm going to tell Marti or Ed that?"

I wondered how Marti hadn't known. I guessed he was good at hiding it. As if reading my thoughts, which was another thing Derek had always been good at doing, he moved back to the table and sitting down, explained.

"It was a long time ago. I've been on the wagon for nine years. Marti wasn't old enough to understand, and at the time, she was the only person who I saw."

I nodded. For a while after we split up, Derek hardly saw the rest of our family. Ed had once told me it was because Derek had words with Nora and said some things he later regretted.

"What about Mom and George?"

"They know." He said it firmly, as if there was another story behind that.

"Nine years is a hell of an achievement." I said trying to sound supportive.

He snorted. "You're only as good as tomorrow."

We were quiet for a moment and I wondered how we had managed to stop arguing. I even had a vague recollection of me using one of his nicknames in the middle there.

I took a deep breath.

"I think the book could do with looking at your hockey playing at school." I said trying to get us back on track. "People like to hear about your humble beginnings."

"My humble beginnings?" He said and the sarcasm was back.

"Okay. Yes. Your humble beginnings – as a hockey player."

He was taken aback. "I thought you meant…family stuff."

"That's up to you Derek." I said, trying to look business-like by flicking through the papers until I found a safe chapter; one that had absolutely nothing to do with us and our brief stutter of a relationship.

"Okay. Let's look at chapter five."


We managed it; two hours of discussion about his book and not a broken plate in sight. When his cell beeped the alarm that told him it was time to go to practice, it took both of us by surprise. We had migrated to the same place on the kitchen table, our chairs close together as we both studied his manuscript.

We had covered just one chapter of a twenty-four chapter book, but it was a massive achievement.