“Yes. He just needs—” David begins, but Zackell interrupts, “Don’t let him go up into the stands again. Don’t let him get dragged into the politics.”

David nods in agreement. He and Zackell really are the same sort. They know that Filip has the potential to become the best but also that he has nothing to gain by picking fights with the supporters. Elite sports doesn’t tolerate that sort of distraction. Players should just play. Hockey should just be hockey.

“He was a bit slower than normal tonight, but he’s probably a bit stiff after the preseason training,” David says.

“He’s got a pain in his hip,” Zackell says without any trace of doubt.

“Sorry?”

“His right hip. He’s overcompensating; look at his back when he’s standing, and you’ll see it’s not straight. He hasn’t mentioned it to you because he’s worried about letting you down.”

“How do you know that?” David wonders.

“I did the same thing when I was his age.”

David hesitates for a long time before asking “Who was your coach?”

“My dad.”

Zackell’s expression doesn’t change at all as she says this. Taken aback, David scratches his neck. “Thanks. I’ll talk to Filip . . .”

Zackell pulls a piece of paper from her pocket and scribbles down a phone number.

“This is the number of a physiotherapist. He’s the best when it comes to this sort of injury. Take Filip to see him, say hi from me.”

Then she walks out of the room. David calls after her, “I’ll call you when I get a job at one of the elite teams! You can be my assistant coach!”

The woman’s response from the corridor is as obvious as it is confident: “You can be my assistant coach!”

* * *

The following morning, David takes Filip to see the physiotherapist. Driving there and back takes all day, and in a few years’ time Filip will talk in interviews about how David used to drive him there once a week for the rest of the season. “Best coach I’ve ever had! Saved my career!” The physiotherapist works for one of the biggest hockey teams in the country, and the following year it recruits Filip. David gets a coaching job there at the same time.

* * *

Elisabeth Zackell will apply for the same job but won’t get it.

* * *

Always fair. Always unfair.

* * *

It’s late when David’s doorbell rings. His pregnant girlfriend answers. Benji is standing outside.

* * *

When David comes down the stairs, he loses his breath for a single moment, and the whole of the boy’s childhood flickers past: Benji and Kevin, best friends, the wild boy and the genius. God, how David loved those two. Will he ever feel like he did as their coach again?

“Come in!” David says delightedly, but Benji shakes his head.

He’s eighteen now. A man. When he and Kevin were children, David used a hundred different ways to motivate them, and perhaps none was more unusual than the fact that he used to let them borrow his watch. He had been given it by his father and the boys used to admire it, so when one of them had a particularly good game, he was allowed to borrow it. Benji holds the watch out to him now.

“Give it to your kid. It doesn’t really suit me.”

Back in the spring, just after David left Beartown Ice Hockey, he saw Benji kiss another boy. There was so much the coach wanted to say at the time but no way he could think of saying it. So he left his dad’s watch on Benji’s dad’s grave, along with a puck on which he had written, “Still the bravest bastard I know.”

“I—” David whispers, but nothing else comes out.

Benji puts the watch into his hand, and David’s fingers close tightly around the metal. His girlfriend is crying quietly for him.

“I’ll keep the puck, that’s enough,” Benji says.

David feels like hugging him. It’s odd that you can forget how to do that. “I’m sorry for everything you’ve had to go through,” he whispers honestly.

Benji bites his cheek. “You’re the best coach I’ve ever had,” he replies with equal honesty.

“Coach.” He doesn’t say “person” or “friend.” Just “coach.” That will never stop hurting David.

“There’ll always be a jersey with the number sixteen on it, on all my teams,” David promises.

He knows what Benji’s response will be before he says it: “There’s only one team for me.”

* * *

Then the boy disappears into the darkness. As usual.

* * *

A couple of days later, Beartown plays its next game. It’s another away game, but the green jerseys and black jackets make the trip, and the same stubborn chant rings out throughout the game: “We’ll stand tall if you stand tall! We’ll stand tall if you stand tall! We’ll stand tall if you stand tall!”

Beartown wins the game 5–0. Amat is a whirlwind, Bobo fights as though it’s the last game of his life, Benji is the best player on the ice. At one point toward the end of the game, Vidar comes close to fighting one of the opponents, but Benji skates across the ice as fast as he can to hold the goalie back, stopping him from throwing the punch.

“If you fight, you’ll be suspended! We need you!” Benji yells.

“He’s talking shit!” Vidar yells back, pointing to the other player.

“What’s he saying?” Benji asks.

“That you’re a fag!”

Benji gives him a long stare. “I am a fag, Vidar.”

Vidar hits the bear on his chest. “But you’re our fag!”

Benji looks down at the ice and lets out a long sigh. That’s the most dysfunctional compliment he’s ever received. “Can we just play hockey now?” he begs.

“Okay,” Vidar mutters.

So they play. Benji scores twice. Vidar doesn’t let a single goal in. When Benji gets to the Bearskin that evening, there’s a beer waiting for him on the bar. He drinks it, with Vidar and Teemu standing beside him. They manage to make it feel almost like normal. Perhaps it will be, one day.

42

They Take It by Storm

In Beartown we bury our dead under our most beautiful trees. We grieve silently, we talk quietly, and we often seem to find it easier to do something rather than say something. Perhaps because there are both good and bad people living here, and that makes us complicated, because it isn’t always so damn easy to see the difference. Sometimes we’re both at the same time.

* * *

Bobo is trying to knot his tie; he’s never really managed to learn how to, it always seems to end up either too long or too short. One attempt fails so badly that his little brother and sister start to laugh. Today, of all days, he manages to make them laugh. Ann-Katrin would have been proud of him for that.

They’re so different, her three children. Bobo has never really figured how three siblings can end up like that. The same genes, the same upbringing, the same home. Yet still utterly different people. He wonders if his mom thought the same or if she saw equal amounts of herself in each of the children. There are so many things Bobo ought to have asked her. Death does that to us, it’s like a phone call, you always remember exactly what you should have said the moment you hang up. Now there’s just an answering machine full of memories at the other end, fragments of a voice that are getting weaker and weaker.

Hog comes into the room and tries to help Bobo with his tie, but it doesn’t end up much better. It was always Ann-Katrin who knotted their ties, both her husband’s and her son’s, whenever the family had to go to a funeral. So Bobo ties it around his head like a headband instead, and his brother and sister burst out laughing. He wears it like that all the way to the funeral, just because it makes them laugh.

The priest talks; no one in the family really hears what’s being said, even though they’re sitting at the front, as close to one another as they can get. Ann-Katrin always liked that, the fact that her family was a little flock that sought warmth from each other. She used to say, “A bigger house? Why would we want a bigger house? We’re always all in the same room anyway!”

People come up to Hog afterward, trying to sum her up. It’s impossible, she was too many things: a talented nurse at the hospital, a much-loved colleague who was always willing to help, a loyal and cherished friend. The great love of one man’s life and the only mother three very different children will ever have.

There’s only one person being buried, but she was many more women than that for those left behind.

All the people in the church wish they had asked her more questions. Death does that to us.

* * *