Enforcer (6 page)

“Asshole,” Halderman said in a low voice as the linesman turned back to the two players waiting at the dot for the face-off. Connor grinned at him, getting a grin in return that was missing at least four teeth. “So you want to go or not?”

“Sure, why not. Tell Janakowski he’s going to have to go as well before the game is over,” Connor said, agreeing to the fight.

“No problem,” Halderman said as the linesman dropped the puck on the dot.

Within two seconds, Connor and his opponent had dropped their gloves and removed their helmets. Part of
The Code
was no fighting with helmets, since everyone had to have a visor attached to their helmet in the minor leagues. Not all players adhered to
The Code
, but the tough guys, enforcers like Connor, almost always did. He’d fought a kid from Rimouski when he’d done a stint in the Quebec Major Junior Hockey League years ago, and had needed fourteen stitches in his hand after cutting it open on the edge of the kid’s visor.

Connor circled Halderman for a few seconds, fists up, waiting to see if his opponent would make the first move or give him an opening. The crowd roared. Fighting was one of the most popular aspects of hockey for a lot of fans, mostly fans who didn’t understand the game beyond
skate fast, shoot the puck, punch the other guy in the face
. Neither player heard the crowd beyond a dull background noise, tuning everything else out beyond each other.

“Come on,” Halderman said, dipping his fist slightly.

Connor came on, getting a grip on Halderman’s jersey with his left hand, taking a right cross to the cheek for his efforts. Halderman grabbed a fistful of Connor’s jersey and the two traded punches for fifteen seconds before Connor caught the man square in the nose. The blow stunned Halderman, and he staggered on his feet just long enough for Connor to clip his jaw twice more.

Halderman’s legs buckled, causing him to go down on his knees, losing his grip on Connor’s jersey. Connor’s right hand reared back for another punch, but as soon as the other player went to his knees, he held it in check. Halderman lifted his right hand in a gesture that let Connor know he’d had enough just as one of the linesmen and the referee stepped between them to make sure no more punches were thrown.

“Good fight,” Connor said into Halderman’s ear, giving the man a pat on his shoulder pads before the referee separated them and marched him off to the penalty box. Halderman’s nose bled a torrent, soaking his jersey as well as leaving fat blotches on the ice. He gave Connor a rude gesture as the linesman led him back to the benches to go to the locker room for repairs. The crowd roared again, their hometown hero having pummeled another hated enemy. Connor smiled to himself as he sat down in the penalty box and reached for a ice pack, knowing the gesture from Halderman was more for the crowd than it was for him.

As the teams changed lines and got ready for another face-off, Janakowski skated by the penalty box. Connor stood up from his seat, banging his stick on the inside of the glass to catch Janakowski’s attention long enough to shout a warning and a threat.

*****

Connor walked down the endless, black hallway toward the dim light in the distance. The light never got any closer, and the awkwardness of walking down the corridor while wearing skates made Connor’s ankles ache. He was about to pass the opposing team’s locker room for the fourth time when he noticed Niklas Laarkonen standing in front of the door.

Connor stopped, surprised to see the young man. Niklas was dressed in his Swedish national team uniform, his jersey a bright yellow that seemed to make the corridor glow for ten yards in either direction. The two players stared at each other.

“You’re dead,” Connor told him.

“So are you,” Niklas replied, banging the blade of his stick on the floor.

“I’m alive,” Connor said.

“So am I,” Niklas said, this time smiling at Connor.

“No, you died. You’re dead.”

“As long as you are alive, I’m alive,” Niklas said, raising his stick toward Connor’s head. Connor screamed when he realized that the hockey stick was actually a long, curved blade with blood dripping from the end.

Connor woke, a scream trapped in his throat like always. He sat up, feeling the sweat trickle down the sides of his face. He took two deep breaths before reaching for the bottle of water he kept on the nightstand. He wasn’t sure which dreams were worse, the ones where he watched his leg being sliced open in slow motion, or the ones where Niklas Laarkonen was alive yet not alive, haunting him as he wandered through the tunnels below the arena, trying to find his way to the ice.

Six months after nearly dying on the ice, he’d finally watched the replays. He’d had the accident described to him by most of his teammates and a few of the doctors who could speak English fluently. Watching it actually happen was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do. One of the nurses at his physical therapy session sat in the chair next to him, holding his hand while he watched it on a laptop she’d set up on the table. His physical therapist had told him it would help with the nightmares. Watching the beautiful double-deke and the little puck-flip over the goalie stick before shooting it into the net always made him proud.

Watching the next thirty seconds always made Connor want to puke his guts out. The slow motion high-definition footage from three different angles showed the defenseman’s skate shift at the last second, hitting the inside of Connor’s knee before sliding up into his pants. If the defenseman hadn’t shifted his skates at the last second, Connor would probably be dead, or horribly disfigured, as the skates would have hit him somewhere near the neck or face. Connor had been too stunned by his incredible goal, and then his incredible good fortune to not have dislocated a knee or shoulder with the force he’d rammed into the boards with, to put his arms up to guard his face.

Niklas Laarkonen, the defenseman who had crashed into him, hung up his skates for two years until Connor had a talk with him over Skype. The young man had fallen into a dark depression, and no matter how many times he had been told it was an accident, it wasn’t intentional, Niklas would spiral a little further each day. He had almost killed someone. He had watched the blood pour out of Connor as if someone had turned on a fire hose. Except Niklas would watch the replay multiple times per day. He couldn’t help himself.

Brian Carson from the CBC heard about the Swede’s plight, and asked Connor to give him a video call. Connor had obliged. He’d never had had the chance to talk to Niklas after the event. Connor wanted to tell him that there was nothing to forgive, that it was an accident, just the way the cards fell in a brutal, fast-paced sport like hockey. Brian helped connect the two young men, and the two former players had spent three hours on Skype.

Connor made a humorous show of the scar that ran down the inside of his leg, and when Niklas broke out in tears at the sight of it, Connor assured him that all was well. He told Nicklas that he was finally back on the ice, had rehabbed the leg to try and make the CHL’s Wichita Thunder roster before opening night. By the end of the chat, Niklas promised Connor that he’d lace up his skates and start playing again. Connor hoped that all of the demons would be driven out of his subconscious, that the dreams would fade away.

That had been eight years ago, and the dreams still haunted him at least once, usually twice or more, per week. Niklas Laarkonen had kept his word, making the Swedish Elite League All-Star Team the next year. He spent the next three seasons with the Buffalo Sabres before being killed in a car accident after a party one night in Toronto.

CHAPTER 6

“You look like shit, kid,” Coach Lamoureux said to him from across the desk.

“I didn’t sleep well,” Connor told him.

“Which one was it this time?” his coach asked.

“The one where he’s alive and I’m wandering in the dark trying to get to the ice.”

“You got to stop beating yourself up over it,” Lamoureux told him. “You didn’t kill him.”

“I feel like I did,” Connor said. “I feel like because of me he had some kind of bad karma attached to him.”

“Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. He probably would have committed suicide in another year or two if you hadn’t talked to him. You got him skating again. Hell, he was a number three defenseman for the Sabres for what… three years?”

“Yeah. I can’t get over feeling like he was just getting his life back when it was taken from him for good.” Connor looked down at the floor.

“Listen, Duns,” Coach said in a soft voice, “That shit happens all the time. You can’t let it own you. I know your life didn’t turn out like it was supposed to, but you didn’t make him cut you open. He didn’t do it on purpose. You didn’t make him get in the car, and you didn’t crash into him and put the steering wheel through his chest.

“You’ve got a good gig here. I like you even though you aren’t anywhere close to the best player on the team. You have your role, and you do it well. All of the boys look up to you. Most of them wanted to be you just as much as they wanted to be Gretzky, Messier, Ovechkin. That they get to play with you is important to them, and important to the team. I need you in the zone, your mind focused on the game, the team.”

“They’re playing with a stranger,” Connor said. “I’m not that kid anymore. I’ll never be the top pick in the draft. I’ll never get out of this league and into a better one.”

“Right. So stop feeling sorry for yourself. You didn’t get picked number one, you didn’t get to play alongside Tavares, Stamkos, or Gaborik. You’ll never win a Stanley Cup. You’ll never be the MVP, never win the scoring trophy. Too fucking bad. But you have twenty-one teammates who count on you for your leadership, for your guts, for your willingness to drop the gloves for any one of them, no matter what.

“You’ve got girls lined up to Sunday after games wanting to go home with you. You get some television commercials and radio ads and even a magazine bit once in a while. The boys, they act like you’re their second captain. You have the ‘A’ on your jersey for a reason. The fans, they love you. You sell tickets. You are the glue that keeps the team together most nights. Just because you’ll never be the star player you were destined to be doesn’t mean your life is over and you should just give up. You have people counting on you. Don’t let them down, Connor. Don’t let me down.”

“Don’t let Mr. Ojacarcu down, you mean,” Connor said bitterly.

“Don’t repeat this, but fuck that guy. I don’t give a shit what Costache wants. This team is nothing but another business to him. Sure he likes to watch the games and pretend he is an active owner, but the truth is, he only cares about you in the sense of what you do for him.”

Connor started to say something but Lamoureux cut him off. “I don’t want to know what you do for him. It’s better that way. Whatever it is, you’re important enough to him to treat you better than anyone else around here. I’m not happy that he pulls you out of games, but he pays me well, and he lets me run the team my way, lets me spend the team budget on players I want.

“He doesn’t give a shit about hockey. I do. Gansy does. Coach Walters does. Even Griff does. We all do. Hockey is our life. It’s in our blood. It’s our legacy, being born Canadian. Just because you can’t beat a D-man down the wing doesn’t mean winning games from the bench isn’t just as important. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah,” Connor said. “Thanks, Coach. The nightmare always messes with me for a day or two is all.”

Lamoureux waved a hand at him. “Don’t sweat it. Just remember, at the end of the day, you’re a hockey player before anything else. Don’t forget that. Now get the hell out of here and go get laid. You’ve got the weekend off. I’ve got this new kid, Barton, playing tonight in your spot. Your hands need to heal, and his hands need to get bloodied so we can see if he’ll fit in.”

Connor gave his coach a questioning look. He wasn’t happy that a new player was suiting up in his spot for the game.

“Don’t even think it,” Lamoureux said. “No one can replace you, Dunzer. You
are
the Boise Bombers. Just take the weekend off and get those hands healed up. We have to play Cheyenne on Wednesday, and I want you ready. I’d like to make the playoffs again this year, if you don’t mind.”

Lamoureux’s smile shut down the anger and the jealousy that had been trying to surface within him. He looked down at his hands. They looked like he’d spent two straight days punching a rough tree trunk full of nails. When he looked up again, Coach was filling out a tryout contract. Connor got up and left the office without another word, and made his way down the corridor toward the exit.

*****

“You are doing well,” Mr. Ojacarcu said to him from across the table. “Our friend, he is getting himself out of debt. I assume he is no trouble?”

Connor shook his head, trying to watch the game below the luxury box while paying attention to his boss’ words. The view was spectacular from this far up. The luxury box seeming to hang out over the ice. As great as the view was, it could never equal the view from the ice, feeling his skates churning, shoulders colliding with other shoulders or the glass, the satisfaction of a pass or shot finding its target.

“How many payments to go?” his boss asked.

“Two more,” Connor said.