Across the Line (In The Zone) (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

It was eleven in the morning and Calder was playing one-touch soccer in the corridor with some of the guys in an attempt to burn off energy. He was jittery and not only because they were playing the Sharks in a couple of hours. The early hour meant Becca could watch it live. That put some extra pressure on him. In addition, Marshall Dillabaugh had jumped at the chance to prank Fischer, and any minute now someone was going to—

“Hey, guys, Coach wants to talk to us,” Mike Primavera said. “Whole team in the coach’s room.”

Go time.

It was a tight squeeze, but they got everyone inside for a conference call with the great Kurt Wolfheim. The room was meant for about ten people. They’d crammed in about thirty, with overflow into the hallway.

“Yeah, is everybody there?” Wolfheim’s gravelly voice came out through the phone speaker loud and clear.

Calder experienced a wave of awe. Wolfheim was a legend.

“Yes, Wolf, the entire team,” Dillabaugh replied.

“That rookie Fischer there?” Wolfheim asked.

“Yes, sir,” Fischer said. “I’m here.”

“Call me Wolfy. You wear the tie today, Fischer?”

“Yes, Wolfy, sir, I did.”

“Good boy. Did they tell you you have to sleep with it the night before the games?”

Fischer’s eyes widened. He glanced around the room at the rest of the team. Calder looked at Mac and then at Dillabaugh. Both men shook their heads almost imperceptibly.

“Judging by the silence, I’m guessing they didn’t. Look, Fischer, the deal is you have to sleep with the tie under your pillow the night before every game and wear it to and from the arena. That’s the ritual. No wonder the ’Cudas didn’t get past the fucking quarterfinals the past couple of years. Jesus Christ, do I have to come all the way over there and explain it in person?”

“Booth MacDonald here, Wolfy. I apologize. We’ve got it right now. Fischer’ll do you proud. Watch and see.”

“He’d better or I’ll come pound his chubby little face in.”

Fischer looked pale as Wolfheim hung up. Some of the guys reiterated the team mojo was up to him and everyone was counting on him. As Calder moved to leave, Fischer grabbed his arm.

“I didn’t sleep with it last night,” Fischer confessed in a whisper, as if Wolfheim was still listening somehow.

“Better make sure we win, then,” Calder said.

Much to Calder’s surprise, Fischer did exactly as he was told. He’d performed adequately during the preseason games, but tonight...fuck. With only twelve minutes on the ice, the kid got a goal himself and two assists. His stick work and skating were sure to end up on the highlights. They won 4–3.

Calder, on the other hand, had sucked. His eighteen minutes on the ice had included a couple of turnovers, both of which resulted in goals, and a multitude of other little shitty moves and failures. He wanted to blame Hart. About ten minutes into the first period, his brother started shouting at him when he was on the ice. For the most part, he was able to block it out, but when they were on the bench together, Hart leaned forward and said, “Why do you keep letting Larovsky take the puck from you? Get in his fucking face. You’re bigger than he is.”

Calder gave him a pointed stare and then ignored him and tried to watch the play on the ice, but he was intensely aware his teammates had taken note of the exchange. He was also aware that Hart was right. Larovsky was kicking his ass, and that pissed him off even more.

The next period, it was much of the same. Calder, for the most part, kept screwing up and Hart kept calling him on it. Eventually, Calder started chirping back. He couldn’t help it. Damned if he was going to keep taking shit from his brother and not defend himself. He knew they were getting looks from the coaches, but after two entire periods, he was sick of Hart’s never-ending commentary on his play. A respite occurred near the end of the period when the Barracudas swung the momentum in their favor. Tim Hollander scored. Then, not two minutes later, Calder finally wrested the puck from Larovsky, passed it to Rutherford, who knocked it in the net to tie the game. Fuck, he’d needed that. At least he wouldn’t finish the game pointless. Sure, it was only an assist, but a point was a point.

Second intermission, Marchand put an end to it. Guys were sitting in their stalls in various stages of undress. Some removed their helmets and gloves, others the jersey only, but a couple guys showered between periods. Scattered conversations could be heard here and there. Locke was pulling all the old tape off his stick so he could re-tape it, which he did during every intermission. Calder took off his jersey and shoulder and elbow pads and thought about what he needed to do in the third period. Alex sat to his left, and then it was Hart.

The door opened and the coach strode in. He stopped, scanned and spotted Calder, then pointed. “You. What team do you play on?” Marchand asked, coming closer.

“The San Diego Barracudas,” he answered, uncertain where this was going.

“And what about you?” Marchand said, this time pointing to Hart. “Are you a Barracuda too? Didn’t you sign a contract with us? I could have sworn you signed a contract with us.”

“I did, Coach.”

“Then maybe you two can tell me why the fuck you’re acting like you’re on different fucking teams out there? There was more fucking chirping between you two than there was between Alex and everyone else on the Sharks combined.”

Alex suddenly found the laces on his skates supremely interesting. A lot of the guys found themselves engrossed in some similar activity.

Calder kept his mouth shut. Marchand wasn’t the type of coach who relished interruptions when he was on a rant.

“Hart, I get that you’re the big brother, but here’s a fucking news flash. Calder’s been playing with the big boys for several years. So keep your thoughts about his play to yourself. He has coaches, you know?” Marchand thumped his chest with two fingers. “There’s me and two other guys whose fucking
job
it is to tell him what to do, how, when, how long and where to do it.”

“Yes, Coach.”

Calder managed to smother a smug smile.
Yeah.
Shut the fuck up
,
bro
,
and let me play.

“And you,” Marchand said, turning back to Calder. “I don’t know where your head is tonight, but it isn’t in the game. Get your shit together before we play Denver.”

“Yes, Coach,” Calder said.

“Now, luckily this is a preseason game, but listen up. I don’t care what kind of fucking baggage you have as brothers. Whatever shit there is between you two better not show up on the ice, in the dressing room or even on the fucking bus anymore. Away from the job, you can harass each other all you want, but when you’re here, you are not brothers. You’re fucking teammates and you will fucking act like teammates. Do you understand?”

They both nodded. “Yes, Coach.”

Marchand headed out the door, his roster still clutched in his hand.

“Well, that was fun,” Hart said.

Calder snorted and put his pads back on. “We wouldn’t have had to go through that if you had kept your mouth shut.”

“Come on, guys,” Alex said.

They ignored him.

“
Someone
had to say something,” Hart went on. “You’re fucking losing the game for us.”

“Fuck you. I got an assist,” Calder said.

“I got an assist and a goal,” Hart shot back.

“Oh, is that how it’s going to be? You’re going to fucking throw your stats in my face every night?”

“It better not,” Alex said angrily. “Were either of you motherfuckers listening to Marchand? Jesus fucking Christ. If we didn’t have to be back on the ice in eight minutes, I’d say go out into the hallway and beat the shit out of each other now. But I actually think that’s too mature of an action for the two of you, because you’re acting like you’re both fucking eight years old. ‘I got an assist.’ ‘
I
got a goal
and
an assist.’ Grow the fuck up.”

No one spoke after that. Calder fumed as he pulled his jersey over his head. With a supreme act of will, he shut out everything but the next twenty minutes of play. He concentrated on the shit he’d gone over at the morning skate. He visualized himself executing more perfect passes, stealing the puck from the Larovsky and breaking away to score a goal himself.

He didn’t end up scoring a goal, but his play improved noticeably. He was able to hold his head up as he left the ice and feel he contributed to the 4–3 win.

After the game, he did his best to avoid making eye contact with the press. It didn’t work. The always smarmy Arty Moore approached him in the dressing room. Arty was a reporter for one of the national networks, but none of the Barracudas could stand him. When in the dressing room, he talked to players using an intimate tone that seemed more appropriate for picking up women in bars.

“Calder, you got a minute?”

Calder put on his dealing-with-the-press expression, the one that said
I
respect you as a hard-hitting reporter even though you ask the most ridiculous questions.
“Sure, Arty.”

In another annoying move, Arty sat next to him, forcing Alex Sullivan on his left to scoot over while he was trying to remove his gear. Alex gave Arty a dirty look that Arty didn’t notice.

“Calder, walk me through that assist at the end of the second period,” Arty crooned.

Typical bullshit question that no one really wanted to hear the answer to.

“Well, I was behind the net with Larovsky. I got the puck from him and sent it to Rutherford, who was in perfect position to score. Textbook.”

“It was touch and go there for a while, though, in the first two periods,” Arty said.

“Yeah, but we pulled it through in the end. That’s all that matters.”

“And what about Fischer’s play?” Moore asked. “First NHL game, a goal and two assists.”

Calder didn’t hesitate. Fischer was a good kid. He’d played well.

“Fishy came through in a big way. It’s great to see him make a debut like that. His mom must be proud. It can be tough to transition to the majors.”

“Now tell me about what it was like to play with your brother. You two seemed to have some differences of opinion out there tonight.”

Calder gave a lame chuckle. “Well, you know how it is with brothers. We both play hard. Even though it’s preseason, we’re in it to win it.”

Calder winced inwardly at having actually said “in it to win it.” Fuck, he sounded like a douche bag.

“So are you saying we can look forward to more chirping between you two in the future?”

Calder shrugged. “I don’t know. Tune in next time and find out.”

After a halfhearted laugh, Arty said, “Thanks for your time,” and turned to the camera to send the broadcast back to the guys in the press box.

Alex Sullivan, always blunt, said, “Okay, beat it, Microphone Man. I have a fucking hard-on from the game and if you don’t get out of here, I’m gonna make you my bitch.”

“Ha ha,” Arty said, nodding to his camera guy as they moved toward the door. “Let’s go to the Sharks locker room.”

“Good idea,” Alex called after them. “They’re always looking for someone to gangbang.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Becca’s mood teetered on the edge between happiness that the Barracudas had won and discomfort at having witnessed Calder playing so poorly. She had joined Savannah and her boyfriend, Oliver, at Oliver’s apartment. The three of them had gotten a pizza and a six-pack and watched the game together.

“Didn’t look like his knee was bothering him,” Savannah said. “That’s good.”

“Yeah, that’s good,” Becca echoed.

“But what was that with Hart?” Savannah asked. “It looked like they were arguing.”

“Yeah. The commentators even said something.”

Becca hoped it wasn’t anything serious, but Calder had looked angry. They’d both been on the bench leaning forward so they could see each other and clearly shouting.

“Should I call him?” she asked Oliver. “Will he want to hear from me, or will that just be rubbing salt into the wounds?”

Oliver glanced at Savannah, whose cheeks got pink as she glanced away.

“What?” Becca asked.

“Tell her what you do,” Oliver said, tickle-prodding Savannah in the ribs.

Savannah giggled and pushed his hand away. “I analyze his games.”

“Like a coach. She pulls out plays and goes over what I coulda-shoulda done, ad infinitum.”

Savannah rolled her eyes. “I’m not that bad.”

“Oh yes you are.”

“I point out the good stuff too.”

Oliver nodded. “Like a coach.”

Becca smiled. “So, I shouldn’t pick apart his performance.”

“Hell no.” Oliver shook his head with exaggerated seriousness. “They should teach you that in school, you know, in that class where they separate the boys from the girls to talk about sex and periods and shit.
Never
pick apart a guy’s performance. That can lead to, you know, performance anxiety.”

Becca chuckled. “Oh, that’s actually a horrible idea. Do you know what teenage girls would do with that information?”

After thinking about it, Oliver winced. “Maybe you’re right. But I’m just saying, guys’ minds, contrary to popular belief, can be complicated. And I’m being serious now. I only met Calder the one time, so I don’t know what type of game psychology works for him, but if I were you, I’d just touch base with him and congratulate him on the win.”

“Even if he didn’t really play an active part in that win?”

“He
did
play an active part. He had some solid shifts. I saw plenty of things he did right, especially in the third period. Little stuff the media didn’t showcase.”

“Yeah, what’s with that?” Becca asked. “During the postgame it seemed like they were singling Calder out. Was that because before the game they made a big deal about him coming back?”

“You never know. Shit like that comes with the territory. Being an NHL player—hell, any pro athlete—means if you screw up, you get called out for it. In front of millions of people. But the rewards are just as public when you play well. Hopefully, the good outweighs the bad.”

Becca took her cell phone and went into the kitchen to call Calder.

“Congratulations,” she said when he answered. “I’m here at Savannah’s. I watched the game with her and Oliver and really liked watching you play. It made the game so much more exciting. A couple of times I thought I was going to have a heart attack.”

“Becca. I played like shit.”

“No, you didn’t.”

He made a derisive noise. “You know, I appreciate the attempt to placate me, but I prefer honesty.”

“So, you’d rather I told you you played like shit?” Her voice sounded slightly shrill. She heard a beep that signaled she was getting another call.

He exhaled. “Hell. I don’t know what I want. I haven’t been in a relationship in a long time. I don’t know how we’re supposed to act.”

She pulled the phone away to see the call was from her neighbor. George rarely called her. They were friendly, but usually it was “I’m going on vacation, can you water my plants and get my mail?” She let it go to voice mail.

“I don’t think it’s about acting,” she said. “It’s about what you need from me and what I need from you. Right now
I
need to know how I can support you when you play like shit. If you need me to, I can channel my mother and lecture you about how you disgraced your family and how every one of your Griffin ancestors are suffering in dishonor.”

Calder exhaled. “That won’t be necessary. But I don’t want a cheerleader either.”

“The type that puffs out her bottom lip and talks to you in a baby voice? ‘Oh baby,’” she cooed, “‘I’m sowwy you had a bad game.’”

He groaned. “Right. Do not become that woman. Ever.”

“Hey, I wonder what’s going on,” Oliver said, walking to the window. He opened it and stuck his head out. Becca could hear sirens approaching. Her phone beeped again. George again. She frowned.

“I promise you I will never be that woman,” she said. “I couldn’t. I guess I’ll just tell you not to be too hard on yourself. You haven’t played a full game since November of last year. That’s a long time, but it’ll come back. Your muscles just have to be reminded a little more.”

“I guess,” Calder replied, sounding glum.

She wished she could be there for him in person. He really sounded down on himself and she could picture him holing up in his lonely hotel room and beating himself up mentally.

“Go spend some time with the guys and celebrate the win. And Fischer’s first goal. Get him rip-roaring drunk so he’s completely messed up for practice tomorrow. That ought to cheer you up.”

She heard a soft chuckle. “Usually we’re on the plane right after the game, but this time we’re staying here and flying tomorrow morning. Maybe because the game’s in Edmonton. It’s only an hour time difference. Hey, Sully, come here. Thanks for the idea, Becks. Talk to you tomorrow.”

They hung up and for the thousandth time, she wished they didn’t live so far apart. Then she realized, even if she lived in San Diego, they’d still be apart because he was on the road right now.

“Wow. Must be a fire. Full hook and ladder truck,” Oliver said.

“I wonder where it is,” Savannah said. “Somewhere downtown, looks like.”

Suddenly, Becca’s stomach contracted. A sick feeling rolled through her as she woke her phone up and listened to George’s voice mail.

“
Becca
,
the building’s on fire.
Fuck.
I
pounded on the door
,
so I’m pretty sure you’re not there
,
but call me ASAP so I know for sure you’re okay.
”

She stood there in shock for a moment, not understanding what she’d just heard.

“Becca, what’s wrong?” Savannah asked. “You’re white as a sheet.”

Becca blinked. “I... That was my neighbor George. He said the building’s on fire.”

“What building?
Your
building? The one you live in?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God. Is Cups on fire too?”

Becca was starting to wake up now. Her brain was coming back online. “He didn’t say.” She got her purse and jacket. “I’m going over there.”

Savannah did the same. “Me too.”

“I’ll drive,” Oliver said, grabbing his keys.

When they got to the Commons, it was chaos. People milling around. Emergency vehicles. Firefighters, police, EMTs. Smoke and shouting, people crying. She saw immediately her restaurant was a lost cause. Her apartment too. Smoke rose up into the twilight sky and might have looked oddly beautiful, if not for the fact that it was evidence that everything she owned in the world, except for the clothes she was wearing and her purse and car, were gone.

“Oh my God, Becks,” Savannah said. “Oh my God.”

Becca stood there, numb. She should have been feeling upset or angry, but she felt nothing, as if someone had watered down her emotions. Someone called her name from far away. She turned to see who it was. George came running over.

“Shit, I was so worried about you! Why didn’t you call me?”

She looked at him, feeling like a robot on five percent battery. “I...”

“Never mind,” he said, hugging her fiercely. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“Did they get everyone out of the building?” Oliver asked.

“Yes,” George said. “And the pets too. Luckily it wasn’t in the middle of the night when everyone would have been sleeping. Becca, honey, do you have a place you can stay tonight?”

“She’s staying with me,” Savannah said, then frowned. “Unless you want to stay with your parents...”

At that, Becca revived a little. “I’ll stay with you, thanks.” Savannah lived in the dorm, but she’d rather sleep on the street than at her parents’.

She looked at the building again, what was left of it. There were no more visible flames, but still lots of smoke. She still felt absolutely nothing except a strange surreal relief that she wouldn’t have to try to sell lattes anymore.