He had been in that basement before. He played hundreds of away games and tournaments in the Hed arena while he was growing up, and no one is better than Benji at finding quiet corners in rinks where you can smoke a bit of dope in peace.

So he knows you can use the basement to get all the way from one standing area to the other. To appear in the midst of the enemy. Like a bomb.

* * *

Teemu stops halfway through the basement. The men around him stop, too. Woody and Spider are ahead of the others on one side of Teemu, and his younger brother, Vidar, is on the other. Teemu stares at the eighteen-year-old blocking the narrow corridor and gives him a single chance. “Get out of the way, Benji.”

Benji slowly shakes his head. He’s wearing battered shoes, gray tracksuit pants, and a white T-shirt. He looks small. “No.”

Teemu’s voice is implacable: “I’m not going to tell you again . . .”

Benji’s voice is trembling; they’ve never heard it do that before. “I’m the one you want to beat the crap out of. No one else. So get going. Here I am. Some of you will get past me, I know that. But some of you won’t.”

The silence that follows has sharp claws. Teemu’s voice sounds momentarily muffled, then he snarls, “We treated you like one of us, Benji. You’re a fucking . . . liar . . .”

Benji replies, moist-eyed, “I’m a fucking fag! Say it like it is! If you want to beat someone up, here I am! If you go up into the Hed stands, the ref will call off the game and Hed will win. Don’t you see that’s what they want? If you want to beat the crap out of a fag, here I am! Hit me!”

Teemu’s knuckles are white when he replies, “Get out of the way. Don’t force me to—”

Benji’s voice breaks. “What? Fight if you want to fight! There are eight of you, so the odds are pretty much even! But if you go up into the Hed stand, the game is over, and we can’t beat these bastards. Don’t you get it? But I can beat them!”

Benji isn’t staring at Teemu now. He’s staring at Vidar. They played together a few years ago, but Kevin was Benji’s best friend back then, and Kevin never liked Vidar, because Vidar was unreliable. Kevin demanded a goalie who obeyed orders, and Vidar never did that, and even if Benji was probably more like Vidar than anyone else on the team, his first loyalty was always to Kevin. Vidar in turn was always loyal to his brother and the Pack. They never spoke about it, never became friends, but perhaps they respected each other. So now Benji says, “You hear me, Vidar? If the two of us play the third period, we can beat these bastards. Go up and fight in the stands if you want to, but we can take these bastards if we go out and play. Knock my teeth out if it feels better, I can play without my damn teeth. But I want . . . I really want . . . I just want to win! Screw you, screw the lot of you, I’ll leave town tomorrow if that’s what you want. I’ll leave the club now if you . . .”

Benji tails off. But the other men don’t reply. None of them so much as moves. So Benji beats his chest with his fists and yells in desperation, “I’m standing right here! The doors are locked, so if you want to do something, just get it over with so I can go out there and play! Because I can beat these bastards!”

* * *

People talk about silences where you can hear a pin drop. You could have heard a blade of straw land on cotton in that corridor. This story will hardly ever be retold by anyone in either Beartown or Hed. But the men who were there will always know that there were eight of them and Benji was alone, and he was the one who had locked the doors.

* * *

A minute passes. Unless perhaps it was ten. God knows.

* * *

“Okay,” Teemu says slowly.

But he doesn’t say it to Benji. He says it to his brother.

“Okay?” Vidar whispers.

Teemu roars, “What are you standing here for? The third period’s about to start, run and get changed, you idiot!”

Vidar’s face cracks into a smile. He casts a last glance at Benji and nods, and Benji nods back. Then Vidar walks along the corridor toward the Beartown locker room. A few seconds later two members of the Pack turn and walk slowly after him. Then two more.

Only Spider and Woody are left standing with Teemu. Benji doesn’t move. Teemu takes a long, furious breath through his nostrils and whispers, “For fuck’s sake. You went drinking with me. You fought alongside me . . .”

Benji doesn’t try to wipe his tears. “Go to hell, Teemu.”

And the leader of the Pack lowers his head. Just for a fleeting second. “You’re a hard bastard, Benji, no one can deny that. But we’re not going to let this town go all . . . you know . . . rainbow flags and shit . . .”

Benji sniffs. “I’ve never asked for that.”

Teemu sticks his hands into his pockets. Nods. That’s enough to make Spider and Woody turn and walk away. Benji doesn’t know if they still hate him, but at least they leave him alone with Teemu.

* * *

Teemu’s fists are clenched. So are Benji’s.

* * *

It’s only a hockey game. An ice rink packed with people, two locker rooms full of players, two teams facing each other. Two men in a basement. Why do we care about that sort of thing?

* * *

Perhaps because it clarifies all of our most difficult questions. What makes us shout out loud with joy? What makes us cry? What are our happiest memories, our worst days, our deepest disappointments? Who did we stand alongside? What’s a family? What’s a team?

* * *

How many times in life are we completely happy?

* * *

How many chances do we get to love something that’s almost pointless entirely unconditionally?

* * *

The corridor is deserted, yet the two men still feel as if they’re standing with their backs to the wall. Teemu is still shaking with rage, and Benji is just shaking, for a thousand different reasons. Teemu stares down at the floor, breathing hard, and says, “The papers are writing about you. Reporters are calling people in town, asking about you. Goddamn media assholes with their stupid politics, you know what they want, don’t you? They want to get one of us to say something stupid so they can show that we’re just stupid, bigoted rednecks. So they can go back to the big city on their high horse and feel so morally superior—”

Benji’s cheeks are bleeding on the inside where he’s bitten them. He whispers, “I’m sorry . . .”

Teemu’s knuckles turn slowly red again as the blood courses back into them. He replies, “It’s our club.”

“I know,” Benji replies.

Teemu’s fists slowly unfurl. He rubs his cheeks with the palms of his hands. “You say you can beat these bastards . . . right now we’re 4–0 down. So . . . if you win this game, I’ll buy you a beer afterward.”

Benji’s face is wet, but his eyes are blazing when he replies, “I didn’t think you drank with people like me.”

The sigh that emerges from Teemu’s lungs fills the whole corridor, bounces off the locked doors, and echoes off the low ceiling. “For fuck’s sake, Benji. Do I have to drink with all the damn queers now? Can’t I start with just one?”

40

Always Fair. Always Unfair.

Speaking in front of other people isn’t easy. The best hockey coaches don’t always have a talent for it. Public speaking is an extrovert activity, but tactical understanding and a willingness to submit to nights watching video recordings of old games might appear to require an introverted personality. Of course it’s possible to compensate for this by showing your feelings. But if you’re no good at feelings, either, what the hell do you say?

* * *

Right before the third period starts, Peter gets to his feet. He can’t sit still in the stands, he doesn’t know where he’s going or why, but he makes his way to the only place he really understands: the locker room. Naturally he stops himself in the corridor; he’s the general manager, it isn’t his place to storm in to see the players. That’s the coach’s job. He’s sure Zackell is in there right now, giving an impassioned speech to the players about how they can turn this around. That they’ve got it in them, that they need to tell themselves that it’s still 0–0, that they just need a quick goal to make a game of it again!

But when Peter turns the corner, he sees Zackell standing by the door to the parking lot. She’s on her own, smoking a cigar. The whole team is sitting in the locker room, waiting.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he snaps.

“What do you mean? I’m not allowed to smoke inside!” Zackell says defensively.

“You’re 4–0 down! Aren’t you going to say anything to the team?” Peter demands.

“Do you think they don’t know they’re down 4–0?” Zackell wonders.

“For God’s sake . . . they need . . . you’re a coach! Go in and say something inspirational!” Peter commands.

Zackell finishes her cigar. Shrugs her shoulders. Mutters resignedly, “Okay. Right. Fine.”

* * *

Just as she reaches the locker room, a young man runs toward her from the other direction. Vidar Rinnius.

“Can I play?” he pants.