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Holy shit!
I don't think I've ever seen Vance take a guy out with a body check, let alone fight a guy. Much less fight someone Burky's size.
I mean, we're talking ... cajones the size of watermelons. I wouldn't fuck with Burkhardt – that's for goddamn sure. Not after the years I spent watching him destroying guy's faces – and I mean guys whose sole job in the NHL is to fight for a living. Yeah. Those guys are play toys to Burky.
But you know what? ... It sure wasn't pretty ... but Vance held his own against him.
All of us on the bench couldn't believe it. Burky passed that puck off, but Vance kept skating straight at him, picking up speed.
“The fucks he doing?” somebody muttered.
And then, “holy shit!”
Everyone stood up and watched, slack-jawed, as Vance threw his gloves to the ice and grabbed Burky. He took hold of Burky's jersey and started throwing rights like his life depended on it. (Which, let's be real, it totally did, haha ...)
Burky socked him with a couple good ones, yeah, but mostly – surprisingly – the big man seemed overwhelmed. He's used to fighting guys that rely on technique, strategy, and years of experience. Guys who approach a fight like it's a chess match.
But Vance doesn't have any of that. He's running on pure adrenaline and concentrated power of will. And he doesn't have to win the fight against Burky, necessarily.
All he has to accomplish with his fight is to inspire his team. Lead the way, make an example. And did he ever.
I felt bad when I saw his face. His eye's already puffy, a cut on his cheekbone, with blood running down his cheek. Damn it. I wish I could've fought in his place. After seeing him do that, I sure as hell wish I had.
When Vance got taken back into the room for stitches, only a few minutes left in the game remained. I turned to the bench.
“C'mon, boys, let's get one for Vance, yeah? Make him proud.”
Everyone grumbles and agrees.
We might have played like shit all game long, but at least we were able to end on a good note – after Vance's fight, we played the rest of the period in the Jets' zone, making them chase us as we cycled the puck. Emerson managed to shovel a rebound goal in to make it 4-1, and that was the score when the game ended.
***
AFTER THE LOSS, WE march our way back to the dressing room. There's Vance, freshly stitched, a rust-orange smear of iodine slathered over his sutured wound. The boys come in and smack his butt and congratulate him.
“We got one for ya out there, captain.”
He nods stoically. But he's not in the mood to celebrate. Neither is anyone else, but at least there's a feeling that we've ended on a better note. Not letting them get the shutout was key if we want to have any hope of winning Game 2.
“We gotta figure it out, boys. I didn't come this close to the Cup to let it slip through my fingers again,” Vance says.
But the whole time he's trying to rally us up, he's staring right at me. I feel like he's looking deeply into my heart, my soul. But what the hell does he expect me to do? I dunno what to do ...
Then it's media time. The reporters come in and fill me in on all the details I've been purposely avoiding: Jason has told them everything. When and where we met, how we fucked all night, that I stayed the night, even the fact that he stole my money right out of my wallet(!) in the morning, and how he'd planned to extort me for a million dollars when he showed me apartments in the city.
Which I'm now learning, by the way, is a detail that cost Jason his job. Apparently his company didn't appreciate that part of his story.
I shrug after the reporters give me the run down. “I'm still only here to talk about hockey.”
“So no comments?”
“Nope. None.”
“What do your teammates think?”
Shrug. “I think they wanna play hockey and not be bothered with this stuff. It's stupid.”
“Well, you can't deny it's starting to sound like ...”
Groan. On and on they go. At last the media is shown the door and we can finally shower up. I head to the shower, keeping my eye out for Vance. I haven't seen him anywhere in a while.
After I get cleaned up and dressed, I still haven't seen him. His clothes are still in his stall so I know he hasn't gone anywhere. But where could he be?
“Anybody seen Vance?” I ask. I'm answered by shrugs, butt scratches and I dunno's.
“Huh.”
The boys head out for the bus, but still no sign of Vance. I leave the dressing room and head out to the ice – and that's where I find him. Running up and down the stairs.
“Oh no,” I mumble under my breath. “C'mon Vance, not this. Not tonight.”
The only other people in the arena are the night crew as they clean up. It's always struck me as eerie to be in a place this big, which is usually teeming with so much life and energy and excitement – and then be in it when it's not. When it's more like a ghost town. And all you can hear is the droning of the rink's powerful lights, the bristles of the janitor's brooms as they sweep trash from the floor, and the soft patter of Vance's jogging shoes going up and down the endless stairs.
I'd heard the rumors – that when Vance was so unhappy with one of his performances, he'd jog up and down the arena stairs long after everyone else had left. Call it some kind of twisted self-punishment he picked up along the way. I just wasn't sure I believed it ... yet, here he is. When he's the only guy who looked like he cared tonight.
I cup my hands to my mouth. “Vance! Vance!”
He doesn't stop. He's shirtless, and even from this far away, his muscle definition is impressive.
“Vance!”
Can he not hear me? Or is he ignoring me?
“Ugh, fine,” I mutter.
I hustle up the stairs until I'm side by side with him. My leather loafers aren't made for running, though, and I'd really rather not run in a suit.
“Hey, Tyler! You really doing this tonight?”
He doesn't look at me. He just huffs and puffs as he pushes himself to work harder. His manly chest hair is damp and plastered to his skin.
“C'mon, Ty. The bus is about to head out, dude. It's gonna leave without us if we don't hurry back.”
Huff, puff.
“Are you really not gonna talk to me?”
“I'm ... just ... huff ... doing what I gotta ... to get over it.”
“We played shitty, but it wasn't your fault. It's crazy to punish yourself like this when you were the only guy who showed up tonight.”
“Huff ... I don't mean the game... puff ... I don't care about the game.”
“Then what?”
He stops running. His hands go to his knees, and he bends over at the waist. I put my hand on his back. He's as hot as a freakin' blast furnace and his back is slick with sweat.
“Well?” I ask.
“I said I don't care about the game and I mean it. At all. I don't care if we lose the Cup, Cal. I lost it before and I can lose it again. Won't kill me.”
I make a sour face. “You don't sound like yourself at all.”
“If we have to keep running around in secret, pretending like we're something we're not ... this shit isn't worth it to me, Cal. It actually pisses me the fuck off. If I can't be with you, then winning a Cup doesn't mean a goddamn thing to me.”
What.
He doesn't waste any time. He trots right off, sprinting up the stairs again. Speechless, I watch him run off.
He can't be serious.
I look at my watch. Time's running out, and the bus will leave without us any minute. But I can't leave Tyler. He could be here all night if someone doesn't stop him.
“Vance!” I yell. “Come back! Vance!”
But he waves me off and keeps running.
“Motherfucker,” I whisper under my breath.
But then I get an idea. I take the concourse exit and make my way up to the hockey ops offices upstairs. I try Carol's box-office door – the arena organist here in Winnipeg. Thankfully, it's unlocked. I step in and sit at her bench.
Carol's trunk is under the keyboard. I open it and find all her sheet music.
“C'mon, Carol ... c'mon ... have what I'm looking for!” I say as I flip through her thousands of alphabetized books. And at last I find what I'm looking for. “Mozart! Fuck yeah.”
Vance's favorite – Gran Partita, or Serenade No. 10, was written for wind instruments and won't sound nearly as full on a piano – but he'll get the idea if I don't butcher it too badly.
I power the keyboard on and hit all the PA power switches. With a crack of my knuckles and a furious palm-rubbing, I'm as ready as I'll ever be.
“Fuck it. Here goes nothing.”
I watch out the window as my music blares over the arena's speaker system. Tyler jogs up the stairs, his sweaty back glistening. But he hears the music and stops jogging. Slowly he turns, with his fists pinned to his hips, and scans the windows.
At last he spots me in my box. I wave.
I can see his smile. Even from here. That coy, amused, disbelieving and missing-a-tooth smile.
I don't hear the security guy rush in behind me. He pulls the plug on my keyboard and powers the PA system off.
“Hey, man!” I yell. “The hell! I was doing good! You know how long it's been since I played?”
“You can't be here – wait, is that you, Callan?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, rising from the bench.
“Sorry Mr. Jones, but you can't be in here right now. We're closing down. You gotta go.”
“Alriiight.”