Things get scrappier during the second period. Our team gets some good shots on goal, but they’re answered by some brilliant defense. And then our star center puts one in, and my smile is really wide for the first time in weeks.
My hands are in tense fists as the game grinds on. The opponent steps on the gas, bringing everything they’ve got. Dunlop has his hands full for a little while. But he doesn’t choke. I’m so proud of him I could burst. Then our team draws a penalty and I’m holding my breath for two minutes, hoping Dunlop doesn’t fall apart.
But he is a rock. He saves two during the PK. And he holds the line for the entire third period.
When the buzzer goes off, the score is still 1-0, and Dunlop has shut the other team out. I’m limp with relief. It’s great to see them win.
And then? All the happiness drains out of me again. Just like it always does now.
Below me, Danton and Gilles gather my guys together. They are a clot of happy victory, patting each others’ shoulder pads and smiling, their faces red and sweaty. I feel like Scrooge when the ghosts of Christmas make him watch scenes from his own life. I should be down there, congratulating kids and giving a post-game wrap-up. But another coach has taken my place, and now they’rewinning. Dunlop looks about a hundred times happier than after my last few games with him.
Why the hell did I come here? This was the worst idea ever.
I need to leave. But the stands have emptied out, and my team is still visible. So I sit there a few awful minutes longer, waiting for them to hit the showers so I can make my exit unnoticed. I don’t even know what I’d say to those kids right now.Nice game. Glad I got pneumonia so you could win a few.
The truth clobbers me.I’m unnecessary, and I’ll probably be fired. If that happens, there won’t be any more job for me in Toronto.
Then what?
Suddenly I can’t be in the building any longer. I stand up and jog down the bleachers, heading for the door. There’s nobody in the hallway, and it seems like I have a clear path to freedom. But then somebody shouts my name.
“Canning!”
I spin around on instinct, and it’s Danton jogging toward me. He skids to a halt. “Hey.” His face is red.
“Hey.”I have nothing to say to you.
“Listen. You shoulda come to me.”
“What?” I look into his angry, beady eyes and almostlaugh. He can’t mean that I should haveconfidedin him. We arenotfriends.
“You had a problem with me, you shoulda spoken to me about it. Now I got Braddock on my ass. You went behind my back to him. And I didn’t meanshitby anything I said. It was just smack talk about the other team. Youknewthat. I never calledyoua faggot.”
My blood pressure spikes hard. I’ve never felt anything like it. All of me is shaking. “Doesn’t matter who you say it to. It’s still wrong.”
“But I didn’t treat you bad! I’m not like that. I wouldn’t have been an ass to you if I knew you had a boyfriend.”
That’s it. That’s all the bullshit logic I can take in one day. I grab Danton by the shoulders and shove him roughly up against the wall. “You stupid asshole. Don’t mistake me for someone who cares what you think of me.”
His eyes widen in shock, but I’m not even half finished. I give him another shove and the back of his head actually bounces against the cinder blocks. “That shit that falls out of your mouth? The kids hear everything you say. You’re an authority figure. Now they think it’s okay to call someone a faggot just as long as you don’t actually know them. And it’s. Not. Okay.” I am practically spitting in his narrow little rat face.
There’s movement at the edges of my vision, and to my horror, I see Bill Braddock coming down the hall.
Oh my fucking god.
I yank my hands off of Danton. Yeah, it’s bad to say “faggot” to your team. But it’s also a dealbreaker to slam your co-coach up against the wall and scream in his face. There’s a page in the employee handbook which specifically forbids the laying on of hands.
See how easy it will be to fire me now?
The door is only ten yards away, and suddenly I’m striding toward it. Bill Braddock yells my name, but I don’t stop. I beat it out the door and then jog down the sidewalk. I run a hundred yards or so before my lungs are burning. My pace falters and I stop. Then my chest is wracked with coughing.
Fuck. I can’t even run. I’m useless, even to myself.
When I’m able, I walk to the subway. And nobody follows me.
TWENTY-FOUR
WES
