Perhaps no one loved Kevin more than William did, and he did all he could to get that love reciprocated. He was unfailingly loyal, even after the rape; he followed Kevin to Hed Hockey when Kevin’s best friend, Benji, stayed with Beartown. William gathered his guys and beat up both Amat, who had snitched on Kevin, and Bobo, who tried to defend Amat.

When Kevin suddenly disappeared, William stayed at Hed, disappointed but still faithful. He has the same coach he had in Beartown, David: it was he who persuaded William and almost all the other old players to switch clubs. Not by defending Kevin but by using the simplest argument that sports can offer: “We’re only interested in hockey. Not politics. What happens off the ice stays off the ice.”

William believed him, and deep down he hoped that now that Kevin and Benji were both off the team, maybe David would finally recognize William’s loyalty. But there was no show of gratitude, not a single word of encouragement. He is still being ignored.

So when William comes into the locker room today and opens his locker and sees what someone has left in the bottom of it, things happen that no statistics can measure. There’s a cigarette lighter lying there. The same sort that filled William’s mailbox back in the summer, the same sort Leo had on the beach.

At the same time, one of his teammates comes through the door and says, “Hey, Lyt, have you heard about Benji? Beartown’s new coach has made him team captain!”

23

“All It Takes for the Only Thing That Matters”

People say that leadership is about making difficult decisions, unpalatable and unpopular decisions. “Do your job,” leaders are constantly being told. The impossible part of the job is, of course, that a leader can carry on leading only as long as someone follows him, and

people’s reactions to leadership are always the same: if a decision of yours benefits me, you’re fair, and if the same decision harms me, you’re a tyrant. The truth about most people is as simple as it is unbearable: we rarely want what is best for everyone; we mostly want what’s best for ourselves.

* * *

Peter is weighed down by thoughts as he switches his office computer off, puts his files back on their shelves, and walks down the steps toward the ice. He sits down in the standing area at the end of the rink. Fatima is cleaning some distance away. He waves, but she just nods back to him. She doesn’t like to draw attention to herself; she has to finish cleaning before the A-team training session starts, and she doesn’t want Amat to feel ashamed in front of his teammates. As if that boy has ever felt ashamed of his mother, Peter thinks.

Fatima is in many ways a more typical Beartown inhabitant than Peter: soft spoken, proud, hardworking, and with absolutely zero tolerance for bullshit. At the start of the summer, when the club’s bank accounts were empty, Peter realized that Fatima hadn’t been paid, but when he called her she just said, “Don’t worry, Amat and I will manage.” Peter knew that Amat went around collecting cans at the end of each month so he could collect the deposit, so he said, heavy with embarrassment, “You can’t not get paid, the club has a duty to—” But Fatima interrupted him: “The club? It’s my club, too. My boy’s club. And we’ll manage.” It takes a special person to say that, and a special club.

It’s autumn now, and Fatima has been paid. Peter, too. This morning he tried to pay the bills, and because his computer was playing up he phoned the bank. The man at the other end was confused: “Those bills have already been paid.” Not just one. All of them. Richard Theo wasn’t making empty promises; the sponsor has paid some money in, even though the press conference hasn’t taken place yet. Peter will be able to save his club. So why is he so racked with anxiety?

The A-team’s practice starts. Everyone down on the ice takes it for granted that the lights will go on in the rink every day, that wages will be paid, that fans will flock to games. In hockey, money is always something that is just supposed to be there. We never really grow up in this sport; on the ice we remain the same kids who just want to play: a puck, a few friends, lights on! Let’s play!

But Peter knows the cost. He’s sitting on it. It’s just wood and metal, chewing tobacco trodden into the floor, dented railings. But when the men in the black jackets leap into the air in this part of the stand, it bounces, and when they sing they raise the roof: “We are the bears, we are the bears, we are the bears, the bears from Beartown! WE . . . ARE . . . THE . . . BEARS! WE ARE . . .”

That’s a powerful wall to have behind you when things are going well and a terrible force to have against you when they aren’t. Over the years no one in the club has ever criticized the Pack more than Peter. When they fought, he tried to introduce surveillance cameras in the rink; when highly paid players who were underperforming suddenly wanted to tear up their contracts, he tried to prove that they had been threatened by Teemu’s boys. For years men in suits stood in the boardroom arguing with Peter because he was being “needlessly provocative” when in fact they were frightened, too. They allowed the Pack to use violence to rule this town as long as it benefited the suits’ own purposes. So what now? Now Peter has an opportunity to get rid of the Pack, but he’s hesitating. Why? Because he feels he owes them for voting to keep him on in the club? Because he’s a coward? Or is it about Richard Theo? Is Peter just afraid that he’s exchanging the influence of the hooligans for that of politicians? Who are worse: the guys with tattoos on their necks or the suits and ties?

During his first years as general manager Kira used to remind him that “we’re not a family that runs from a fight.” She’s always had thicker skin than he has; the hot-tempered lawyer had more of an appetite for victory than the diplomatic general manager. But now Peter is the one looking for a fight and Kira the one hesitating. Perhaps Richard Theo is right about Peter being naive. The world is complicated, but he wishes it were simple.

When he was playing in Canada, his coach said, “Winning isn’t everything. It’s the only thing!” But Peter lacked the killer instinct. When his team had a big lead during practices he would ease up, because he didn’t want to humiliate his opponents. The coach’s philosophy was “Never take your foot off the enemy’s throat,” but Peter didn’t have it in him. Winning was enough; you didn’t have to crush anyone. Then came a practice when their opponents managed to turn around a 5–0 deficit. “Sort your head out!” the coach yelled. But Peter never quite managed to.

Perhaps that was why he missed that shot in the final twenty years ago, and perhaps that’s why he’s scared of fulfilling his promise to Richard Theo now. There’s a limit to the number of enemies a man can survive. Peter knows he needs to do his job—he’s just not sure which job that is.

* * *

He sees Elisabeth Zackell on the ice. He wishes he were more like her. She doesn’t take her foot off anyone’s throat.

* * *

Elisabeth Zackell divides the players into two teams and ties the teammates together with the ropes. If one player falls, the whole team falls.

“WHAT SORT OF SHITTY WOMAN’S GAME IS THIS?” one of the older players bellows when he’s brought down by an unsteady teammate and hits the ice hard, but Zackell doesn’t care.

They’re made to work until they learn to cooperate and move together, as a single unit. They’re made to sweat and throw up, not for the last time. Only when Amat sinks to his knees does Zackell let them untie the ropes. Then she fetches her paintball gun. One of the older players mutters, “The bloody woman’s had some sort of stroke . . .”

Perhaps Zackell reads his lips—who knows?—but she says, “I understand that there’s a lot of talk of ‘women.’ I can only assume that you’re worried you might start playing like women if you’re coached by one.”

The players squirm. Some of them are still being sick in the buckets. Zackell fires a paint pellet at the crossbar of one of the nets, making the metal sing and the hard little ball explode in a splat of yellow. “I coached a girls’ team once. They were no good at dealing with rebounds in front of the net and didn’t want to block shots; they were frightened it was going to hurt. So I got them to strip off and try to skate from the center line to the net and touch the post while I tried to hit them with a paintball gun. Every time they got there, they earned themselves a beer. You know what they said to me?”

No response, so she answers her own question: “They told me to screw myself. But obviously they were women. So what are you?”

The men on the ice stare, but Zackell waits them out. A minute passes. Some of the men giggle nervously, but she stands motionless with the paintball gun.

“You’re . . . you’re kidding, right?” someone eventually asks.

“I don’t think so. I’ve been told I’m no good at humor,” Zackell informs them.

Then another player stands up. He puts his helmet down on the ice, then pulls off his jersey and pads until his top half is naked.

“Will this do, or do I have to get my cock out as well?” Benji asks.