“As I said,” Richard Theo said quietly, “it’s my job to know things. I have friends at the hospital. I’d like to be your friend, too.” Then, very calmly and methodically, he went through his offer to Peter: the new owners of the factory would require political investment in order to rebuild the factory.

Theo could arrange that. But the owners also recognized that they “needed to have the support of local residents,” so he had persuaded them that “the quickest way to these people’s hearts is through hockey.”

Peter squirmed and did his best to hold his voice steady as he replied, “From what I’ve heard, the other parties don’t want to work with you. What reason do I have to believe that you can actually achieve all this?”

Theo replied serenely, “Yesterday the ice rink had a large, unpaid electricity bill, Peter. If you’d care to phone and check, you’ll find that it’s been paid. It that enough proof?”

Peter felt very uneasy. “Why our club? Why not approach Hed Hockey instead?” The politician smiled again. “Beartown is famous for being hardworking. And what you achieved twenty years ago, when the whole town lined up behind the club, there’s a lot of symbolic power in that. What was it you used to say? ‘Beartown against everyone else’?”

Peter grunted defensively. “I didn’t think you liked hockey.” Theo adjusted his cufflinks and replied, “My political stance will always be that taxpayers’ money should go to health care and jobs, Peter, rather than sports.”

Peter scratched his head and did his best not to look impressed when he said, “So you’ll let taxpayers’ money go to the factory instead, in return for the new owners’ sponsoring the hockey club? And that way you get to be the politician who saved both jobs and hockey in Beartown. As well as appearing to save taxpayers’ money . . . which can be spent on health care services instead . . . bloody hell. You’d win the next election on the back of that.”

Theo put his hands into his pockets, but without radiating any sense of smugness. “You know, we have a lot in common, Peter. We just play different games. And in order for me to play mine, I need to win the next election. In order for you to play yours, you need a club.”

* * *

William is eighteen years old and probably weighs twice as much as the twelve-year-old boy standing in front of him. But Leo isn’t backing down. He meets William’s gaze with eyes that seem to think they have nothing left to lose.

The whole beach is watching, and even if William hadn’t wanted to beat up a boy six years younger than him, there’s no way he can back down now. His hand grabs Leo by the neck to hold the little bastard’s head steady, but something happens to the twelve-year-old then: the strangulation prompts panic, his mouth opens instinctively as William’s fingernails dig into the flesh beneath his chin. Leo starts to retch, and tears spring to his eyes. There are only two natural responses: desperately clutch at his attacker’s hands or hit out furiously as hard as he can, directly upward.

Leo’s first blow finds nothing but air, but he takes another wild swing and hits William’s ear. No one tells you before the first time you get into a fight, but being hit on the ear is bloody painful. William’s grip loosens for a fraction of a second, and Leo seizes his chance. He strikes out as hard as he can, hitting William under his chin, and hears the eighteen-year-old’s teeth crunch together hard. William must have bit his tongue, because when he throws himself at Leo, blood is pouring from his mouth, and then it’s all over. William is too big for the twelve-year-old to stand a chance.

* * *

Peter shook his head again at Richard Theo, but not as defiantly this time. “You and I have nothing in common. You’re only interested in power.” The politician laughed at that, for the first time in the conversation. “Do you really think you’re any less political than me, Peter? This spring, when your daughter accused Kevin Erdahl of rape and the sponsors tried to get you dismissed as general manager, you won that vote of confidence because this . . . ‘Pack’ . . . took your side. That’s right, isn’t it?”

Tiny, cold drops of sweat let go of the hairs on the back of Peter’s head and made their way down his spine. “That wasn’t . . . I had no influence . . . I never asked . . . ,” he stammered, but Theo dismissed his objections: “Everything is political. Everyone needs allies.”

Peter’s pulse was ringing in his ears when he asked, “What do you want from me?” The politician replied frankly, “When everything becomes official, you take part in a press conference. Just smile for the cameras and shake hands with the new owners. In return, you’ll get an injection of capital and complete control over the club. No one will interfere with your job. You’ll get the chance to build a winning team. All I want is your . . . friendship. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

He smiled again, and before Peter could answer, the politician moved on to his most important point: “And one last thing: the new owners obviously don’t want to be associated with any form of violence. So when you stand at that press conference, you have to distance yourself from the Pack. And say that you’re going to get rid of the standing areas in the rink.”

Peter couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Theo seemed to have expected that. He helpfully clarified a few more things, and after he left, Peter just stood there, he didn’t know for how long.

When Peter eventually got back into his car and drove off into the night, one thought kept drumming through his head: Control of the club? With a decent budget? He had often been accused of seeing himself as slightly “morally superior,” and perhaps there’s been some justification for that. He considers a hockey club to be more than just sports: it should be an incorruptible force that is never governed by money or politics.

But how many of his ideals is he prepared to sacrifice? What enemies is he prepared to leave himself with? If he gets the power. If he gets to win.

* * *

He’s on his way to finding out the answers.

* * *

Richard Theo got into his car and drove all night, all the way to a small airport where a friend had just landed. Theo shook hands with his friend, who said irritably, “This better be worth my time.”

Theo offered his apologies. “Some things are best not discussed over the phone.”

“Well, then,” his friend nodded.

Theo went on, “I can guarantee our friends in London all the political investment in the land and factory that they require. But I need a number of things in return. There’s a violent gang of hooligans that’s spoiling the club. One councillor can’t do much to stop them, but a big new sponsor could . . . well, you understand. Exert a degree of influence.”

His friend nodded. “The hockey club again? Why is that so important to you?”

Theo smiled. “It’s symbolic.”

“So what do you want?” his friend asked.

“The new owners need to set a precondition for their sponsorship agreement: that the general manager of Beartown Ice Hockey speaks out publicly and distances himself from violent fans, and that he gets rid of the standing areas in the rink.”

“That doesn’t sound like a big deal.”

“It isn’t. But it’s important that it comes directly from the owners, not from me.”

His friend gave him his word. They shook hands. The friend got on board a plane.

* * *

Richard Theo got into his car and all the way back thought that only someone who had never set foot in Beartown could say that what they had just discussed wasn’t “a big deal.” That’s why Theo was always one step ahead of everyone else. Nobody bothered to do any research anymore.

* * *

“William! William!” one of the guys on the team hisses somewhere. Leo is too dizzy to hear where the voice is coming from; he’s lying on his back and can’t see anything through the punches raining down on him.

William raises his arm one last time, but another teammate grabs hold of him and repeats, “William!”

From the corner of his eye William sees his friend nod toward the road behind the beach. A car has stopped there. Two men in black jackets have gotten out. They’re not walking toward the beach; they don’t have to. The Pack has never gotten involved in the activities of the town’s teenagers: there’s always been a dividing line between the seriousness of A-team hockey and the games of the junior team. But William is no longer a junior, and this is no longer just hockey.

William lets go of Leo. Gets up hesitantly. The men in black jackets don’t move. William spits blood, and red saliva dribbles onto his T-shirt. “That’s enough,” he mutters quietly, so that no one will hear his voice shaking.