The mother with the young children demonstratively takes them by the hand, goes off to the steps, and sits down farther away. Out on the ice, Filip is chasing an opponent all the way across the ice, throwing himself forward to block a pass, and getting him off balance. Benji sets off toward them.

One sponsor higher up in the stands turns to Tails, nods toward the mother with the children, and snarls:

“Have we got the fucking morality police in today? What’s she doing here?”

The third period has only just started. Tails’s reply gets drowned out by the roar of the crowd when number sixteen steals the puck in the neutral zone, fakes out two opponents with a technique no one knew he had mastered, and slams a shot into the net that the goalie gets nowhere near.

Benji brushes aside the other players when they try to hug him, gets the puck from the net, and goes straight over to the Beartown parents. He stops by the boards a short distance away and waves to two ecstatic little children, then throws the puck to their mother.

The sponsor turns to Tails and asks: “Who . . . who’s that, did you say?”

“That’s Benji’s sister, Gaby. And those children’s uncle has just made it 3–2 for us,” Tails replies.

33

When Maya was little she always used to go to bed when she was sad. She always slept her way through anything that upset her. When she was eighteen months old her mom was driving a rental car with her in the backseat through the center of Toronto when it broke down at one of the city’s biggest intersections. There were buses blowing their horns, taxi drivers swearing, while Kira swore at some poor receptionist at the car-rental company on the phone. In the meantime the toddler looked around calmly, gave a big yawn, and fell asleep, and continued to sleep soundly until they got back home six hours later.

Kira is now standing in the hall of their house looking through the doorway at her daughter in her bed. Fifteen years old, she still sleeps whenever she’s in pain. Ana is lying next to her under the covers. Perhaps it’s different when you’ve had to bury one of your own children, or perhaps all parents feel this way, but the only thing Kira has ever wanted for her kids was health, safety, and a best friend.

You can get through anything then. Almost.

*

David will always remember this game. He will talk about the final minutes to his girlfriend throughout whole nights, tapping her stomach and whispering: “Don’t fall asleep! I haven’t got to the best bit yet!” Over and over again he will relate the story of how Amat threw himself down and blocked so many shots with his helmet that the referee eventually forced him off the ice to investigate whether it had been cracked. How Lyt played more minutes than anyone, and in the minutes he wasn’t on the ice he was a colossus on the bench: no one slapped more backs, shouted more encouragement, or lifted the spirits of more exhausted teammates. When a shattered Bobo stumbled over the step on his way off the rink and collapsed facedown, it was Lyt who caught him and fetched his water bottle. Meanwhile Filip played like an experienced senior out there, no mistakes at all. And Benji? Benji was everywhere. David saw him use the side of his skate to block one shot that was so hard his assistant coach, Lars, clutched his own foot on the bench and yelped:

“Shit, I felt that!”

Benji played through the pain; the whole team hit the wall and smashed through it with their foreheads and just carried on. Every one of them overperformed. Every one of them was the very best version of themselves. They gave their all. No coach could possibly have asked for more. They did their absolute, absolute, absolute best.

*

It wasn’t enough.

*

When the other team makes it 3–3 with under a minute to go, a team falls to the ice, two dozen parents collapse in the stands, and so does a town in the forest. In the break before overtime three players throw up. Another two barely make it back to the ice because their muscles are cramping. Their jerseys are soaked through, every cell in their bodies drained. But it still takes more than fifteen extra minutes for the opposing team to break them down one last time. They play around, around, around, and in the end Benji can’t get there in time, Filip loses his man for the first time, Lyt’s stick is too short, Amat is a fraction too late down onto the ice to block the shot.

*

The entire Beartown Ice Hockey team is lying on the ice while their opponents dance around them, when their parents and friends storm in to celebrate. Only when the winners’ shouting and singing have moved to the locker room do Filip, Bobo, Lyt, and Amat begin to head toward theirs, inconsolable. Grown men and women are still sitting in the stands with their heads in their hands. Two children are crying uncontrollably in their mother’s arms.

*

This planet knows no greater silence than two dozen hearts after a loss. David steps into the locker room to see the players lying bruised and battered on the floor and benches, most of them so tired they don’t even have the energy to take their equipment off. Lars is standing alongside, waiting for the coach to say something, but David just turns around and disappears.

“Where’s he going?” one parent asks.

“We’re bad losers, because a good loser is someone who loses a lot,” Lars mutters.

*

It’s the captain of the opposing team who finally holds his hand out. He’s freshly showered and changed, but his jersey is covered with champagne stains. Beartown’s number sixteen is still lying on his back on the ice with his skates on. The stands are almost empty.

“Good match, man. If you ever want to change teams, you’d be welcome to come and play with us,” the captain says.

“If you ever want to change teams, you’re welcome to come and play with ME,” Benji replies.

The captain laughs and helps him up, then sees Benji grimace.

“Are you okay?”

Benji nods distantly, but lets his opponent support him all the way into the corridor.

“Sorry I . . . you know . . . ,” Benji says, making a slight gesture toward the broken lights in the ceiling.

The captain laughs loudly.

“Really? I wish we’d thought of doing something like that to you guys. You’re a hard bastard. You need some serious help, man, but you’re a hard bastard.”

They part with a firm handshake. Benji creeps into the locker room and lies down on the floor, without making the slightest effort to take his skates off.

*

Gaby is walking through the corridor with her two children, past all the other adults in green scarves and jerseys with bears on them, nodding to some, ignoring others. She hears one father call the referee “mentally retarded.” Then another mutters that “the bastard really needs to put his handbag down.” She takes the children straight to the car instead of waiting for Benji. She doesn’t want them to hear that sort of thing, and she knows what she’ll get called if she protests.