Hockey Is My Boyfriend: Part Three (21 page)

I
was sitting
in on the production meeting for the week’s upcoming Canucks games. Literally sitting in, because I had nothing to contribute and I never got assigned any work. But it was my way of getting stealth training. If nobody was going to help me, I’d have to help myself. I had to find out what was going on here, so I started coming to all the regular meetings. I always brought a box of doughnuts, so my presence was tolerated.

“Okay, I’m looking at the holiday schedule here,” Bob Berndhardt blew out a spray of powdered sugar as he spoke. “What total asshole gave all the reporters time off at the same time?”

“That would be Mr. Potato Head,” replied Smokey, who managed the technical crew. He using their private nickname for Brendan Williams, whose bald head did have a resemblance to a certain children’s toy.

Bernie sighed. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with the Boxing Day broadcast? I’ve got a bare minimum crew to cover. Everything is okay, until the end when I’ve got one reporter on the ice and nobody in the dressing room. Any of you guys actually in town that day?”

Everyone shook their heads and muttered things about Toronto, Calgary, or the Gulf Islands.

“Then who’s our on-call—” He shuffled through some papers and finally found the right one. “Oh shit.”

His eyes met mine. “You ready for prime time, Tanaka?”

C
oaches call it turkey legs
. The effect on hockey players of having a few days away from the rink to relax and eat too much holiday food. Whatever it was, the Canucks came out sluggishly and while they slowly climbed back into competitive play it was too little, too late, and they lost 3-2 to the Edmonton Oilers.

While I was hovering around the C2C broadcast team, I didn’t have to do anything until the game was over so I watched the whole game. I was already relaxed working with Zack, and although it would be my first time interviewing live, I felt pretty good. Unfortunately, after a loss nobody would be in a good mood, and I’d have to work hard to get anything decent.

Mike Province, the director, spoke to me from the truck. “Okay, sweetheart, I need you to get post-game from Haines.”

Peter Haines. Shit. Why did it have to be him?

If I had only heeded the Tanaka Scale and watched him play before I went out with him. To be fair, when he played with the Manitoba Moose, he was the best puck-moving d-man out there. He was a slick skater and had a sizzling slapshot. But when he got called up to the Canucks, it was another story. He got brain cramps and coughed up the puck in his own zone. Or he’d pinch too deep and cause an odd man rush. The faster speed and intensity of the NHL game gave him less time to figure out the best play. Due to injuries, he was going up and down between the Canucks and the Moose like a 6’5” yo-yo. And he called me whenever he was back in Vancouver, but I never called him back.

In tonight’s game, he’d played well. He’d scored the second goal with a seeing-eye shot from the point. And as someone new, he was tagged as the player to interview.

“Babe? You still there?” I was pretty sure that Mike called me all these endearments because he had no clue what my name was.

“Yes, Mike.”

“Okay, get Zack to hook your audio up, and keep the earpiece on. I need you to be in position and ready for the feed in ten.”

I briefed Zack and he sauntered off, not totally panicked as I was. I wished I could work stoned too. I waited outside the closed doors of the dressing room with the rest of the media gang. The crowd was a third the size of normal scrums since most were still on holiday. It was a game of low importance at the worst time of the year.

The Canucks media guy, Doug Fleischman, looked me over when I handed him my interview request. “I don’t think we’ve seen you before, have we?”

I shook my head. “It’s my first time.”

“Oh boy. A virgin reporter. It must be the holidays.” He shook his head. “I don’t think Hainsey was expecting to talk to anyone. He went straight to the showers.”

“Shoot. Will he be out in—” I looked at my watch. “Seven minutes?”

Doug smiled. “I’ll tell him a pretty lady wants to talk to him. I’m sure he’ll be ready.

Oh crap. Don’t tell him that. Don’t tell him my name either. I’d be the last person he’d hurry out of the shower to see.

Zack finally returned and got me all wired up. Mike was already swearing at me.

“Fuck! Did I not tell you to get your earpiece right away on so I could talk to you? Communication is key, and the sooner you learn that the better.”

I didn’t want to throw Zack under the bus, so I apologized and told him the doors had just opened and everything was lined up with Peter Haines.

Mike calmed down a little. “Okay, darling. Ready to go in five.”

Then I turned and saw Peter Haines, fresh out of the shower and looking pretty good—if you were into tall, blond, half-naked men. Only a towel between me and whatever goodies Peter might have on offer. Interviewing him like this might increase our female viewership exponentially.

“Hey, Peter. How are you? Ready to speak to all of Vancouver about your great game tonight?”

“Oh, now you want to talk to me, do you, Kelly?”

Peter sounded less than keen, but I was desperate.

“Yeah, you’ll be on the Canucks postgame show. Now that you’ve been called up again, everyone’s interested. We can talk about what you think you’ll bring to the team. I can go now if you want to get dressed.”

“No, I’m comfortable. Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“Not at all.”

Crap, a half-naked guy was nothing compared to going live on camera for the first time.

Zack came over and got set up.

“Y’know, Kelly, it’s kind of hard to get you both in a tight shot. He’s tall enough that your head is barely higher than his chest.” Was this why female reporters wore heels? I dragged a nearby gym bag over and stood on top of it. “Yeah, that’s better. Okay, your mic is on now, I’ve got the feed started.”

“All right, Peter. You get that we’re live, right? So, no swearing and we can’t edit out anything.” I was babbling, and I knew it. Now everyone in the truck could hear whatever idiotic comments I was making. And any snarky things Peter said.

“I get what ‘live’ means, Kelly.”

He looked down at me and curled his lip. He was clearly pissed.

“Sorry, I’m a little nervous here.” I gave him a full-voltage smile, willing him to relax.

He smiled back at me. Whew, that was easy.

“You’re looking really pretty tonight.”

“Uh, thanks, Peter.” Please don’t go into the dating stuff again.

“It’s funny, eh? You used to be in radio, and now you’re a reporter. And I’ve been promoted too. Now that I’m going to be in Vancouver, maybe we can get together again.” I could hear a male voice going ‘oooohhh’ in my earpiece. Not Mike, it must have been one of the techs.

The thing about live feeds is that while you’re not actually on air because there are commercials on, you can be seen and heard by everyone else in the circuit—like the guys in the control room and possibly even on the closed circuit sets in GM Place. Therefore, it’s better not to say anything at all, and especially not about dates.

“You know, Peter, maybe we can talk about this later.”

“When, Kelly? I’ve called you a bunch of times, and you never call me back.”

The voice in my ear began tsking.

“I know, and I’m really sorry about that. I’ve just been swamped with work, I’m doing ten-hour days and weekends.” Mock pity sounds.

“Yeah well, that’s why now is good. Can you go to dinner tomorrow?” Kissy noises in my earpiece.

“Uh…”

Finally, Mike’s voice in my earpiece, “Hey Angelina, tell Brad to hold onto his dick for now. You’re on in fifteen seconds.”

“Okay Peter, we’re on in fifteen seconds. Let’s talk after the interview.”

The interview went fine, all things considered. Once Zack took all the equipment back, I spoke to Peter frankly.

“Peter, you’re a really nice guy and gorgeous too, but I recently got out of this complicated relationship thing, and I don’t think I’m totally ready to date yet. And I have a new job and tons of work. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s no big deal, Kelly. It just bugged me that you never called me back.”

“I’m really sorry about that. Glad we’re back on track and got things straight. I’ll probably see more of you—professionally I mean—now that you’re up with the Canucks.”

I felt like we were done here, but he kept standing close and staring. Surely he must have been getting cold with just a towel on, but it was pretty warm in here. Or maybe that was just me.

“So, that’s it, right?” I asked him.

“Yup.”

“Why are you still standing here?”

“Kelly, you’re on my gear.”

I looked down at his squished gym bag. “Oh sorry,” I said, and I went to step off the bag.

If I practiced 100 times, I could never duplicate what happened next. I went to get off the bag, my ankle got twisted up in the handle and I started to fall. As I fell, I reached out to right myself, and I grabbed onto Peter’s thigh, and by extension his towel. I ended up pulling off the towel and landing on my knees, my face literally two inches away from his cock. And Peter was hung. Peter could give Phil a run for his money in that department.

At that moment, Marc Latour walked in the dressing room. He saw Peter naked, me on my knees in front of him, said “Holy fuck!” and backed out of the room. Unbelievable.

I looked up at Peter. He grinned down at me and asked,

“Did you want to reconsider that date now that you know more about me?”

J
ames

T
he Christmas break
ended all too quickly. In December, we had a road trip through Western Canada, which finished in Vancouver. Baller was pretty happy about that because he could slide right into his holiday break. But it was a pain for me since I’d have to fly right across the country to get home.

It was also the first time I’d been back in Vancouver since the summer. I resisted the urge to stop by the radio station or offer to do a random interview. But every time we went out somewhere, I’d find myself searching the crowds and looking for Kelly. It was stupid, and I knew it.

Besides, I had a girlfriend. Before I’d left, I gave her some expensive earrings she’d admired when we were out Christmas shopping for my family. She gave me some big-deal bottle of champagne, which she told me should be opened only for special occasions.

When I got back to Chicago after the holidays, we had a game right away. The next day I did some physio and saw my chiropractor. I’d been having some knee problems that I didn’t want to get any worse. In the evening, I went out for dinner with Astrid. I usually let her choose the place. Tonight she had chosen a French restaurant, which was what I preferred anyway.

“I’ve never eaten here before, but Guy recommended it,” Astrid said. Guy was some friend. She liked to drop a lot of men’s names into the conversation. It was probably to make me jealous, but I wasn’t that kind of person. I assumed we were going out because she preferred me to other guys. Except for that one discussion on getting serious, we weren’t all lovey-dovey or anything. I liked things as they were—sex and no pressure.

“This wine list could use some tweaking. Did you say you’re having the beef?”

I nodded.

“Hmm, well, I think I’ll order a Bordeaux. They have the Chateau Palmer, but unfortunately not the 2005. So, perhaps a St. Emilion.” She frowned at the wine list.

At first, it was pretty cool to date someone who knew so much about wines, but these days it was getting old. It was embarrassing when she sent back wines. Since I was always the one who paid for them, it kind of bugged me that she always wanted to order the very best wine on the menu, and sometimes multiple bottles, which we wouldn’t finish. I knew my mother wouldn’t have approved of spending so much on alcohol, especially wasted alcohol. It was a thrifty way of living that I couldn’t shake, even with all the money I was making.

After a long discussion with the sommelier, Astrid found something she approved of. Our wine was very good, but after a point, it was hard for me to tell the differences. I could tell a cheap wine from a good one, but beyond that they were hard to distinguish. Astrid said my palate was developing, but I wasn’t so sure.

She was in the middle of a convoluted story about her job. “I told him, I am extremely competent at my job, but this is the first time I’ve worked on a project like this. He has to understand that there’s going to be a learning curve.” She flipped her long hair back for emphasis. Tonight, Astrid looked very beautiful in a navy dress. Other men in the restaurant were checking her out.

“To my complete shock, he said he wanted me taken off the project! Can you believe it? I went right to Randy and complained about the lack of respect. He’s going to take care of everything.”

Astrid had lots of drama at work. Sometimes I wondered if she was as good at her job as she claimed, since she seemed to have so many arguments and problems.

Dinner was good, but afterwards I was feeling a little antsy. Sitting and talking about nothing was not my ideal evening. I wanted to head home and do my own thing. I was having more headaches lately, so I figured that I needed more sleep. I wondered how I could let Astrid know this in a diplomatic way. Sometimes, she got upset when we didn’t do what she was expecting.

“James,” she began. I recognized that tone of voice, and I didn’t really want to get into anything serious right now.

“What is it?” I said. Did I sound as irritated as I felt?

“I’ve been talking to a few people, and apparently not every NHL player ever wins the Stanley Cup.”

“Yeah, so?”

“In fact, I Googled this topic and only 15% of all retiring players have ever even won the Cup!”

It wasn’t like Astrid to be doing hockey research. “Really? I knew it was tough, but I didn’t know it was that low.”

“Well, now that you know, does that change your mind?”

“About what?”

“Oh my gosh, about getting married. You said you wouldn’t think about settling down until you win the Cup. But what if you don’t win the Cup?”

This was really bugging me. I was already too much of a worrier, and I didn’t need my girlfriend to be casting doubt and negativity on me. Of course I was going to win the Cup—it was one of my goals, and it had been forever. First make the NHL, now I was team captain, and we were winning. You had to stay positive and confident.

“Don’t even think that,” I told her. I signalled the waiter for the bill since I wanted to get out of here.

“You have to be realistic. What would you do if you didn’t win the Cup?”

“I am going to win,” I told her. “Anyway, who cares? I can get married when I retire.”

“Well, women might care. We have biological clocks, you know.”

The bill came and I had a quick look, and then slapped my credit card on it. I was glad my mother wasn’t here to see how much I had paid for an average dinner. It was weird that I could still feel like a hick from Fredericton who was out of his element. My parents had met Astrid before Christmas, and I knew my mother wasn’t very impressed.

“Whatever, Astrid. Let’s go, I’ll take you home now.”

“Why aren’t we going to your place? I don’t think we’re done talking.” We got up and got our coats from the hostess. The valet had already brought my Mercedes to the front door. It was snowing, but not very hard.

I wasn’t a superstitious guy, but I didn’t like all this talk about not winning. “Can’t we drop this subject? I really don’t want to deal in hypothetical crap.”

“It’s not hypothetical, James. It’s real and important to me. The least you could do is focus on what I’m saying and not keep brushing me off.”

“Oh, for crying out loud. Why is winning the Cup so important to you all of a sudden? It’s not like you’ve taken the time to learn about any other parts of the game.”

“That is so untrue. I have spent a lot of time learning about hockey, all because it’s something you care about. Go ahead, ask me a hockey question.”

“Uhhh.” I tried to think of a question that was reasonably hard, but not too expert. “What’s icing?”

She huffed in frustration. “Nobody knows that. At Tuesday’s game, Val said she still doesn’t get icing. And she’s been married to Chico for years.”

Some girls knew what icing was. I turned onto Michigan and didn’t say another word. Was I supposed to keep asking her questions until we found one she could answer? My life was stressful enough without having to argue with my girlfriend about stupid things. Astrid was not usually like this.

“What does the year on a wine label mean?”

“What?”

“I’m asking you a question about my work. You got to ask me a question about your work, and now I’m doing the same thing.”

Was she kidding? She insisted on being quizzed, and all I wanted was to have a relaxing evening. I stepped on the accelerator in order to drop her off sooner. She was still waiting, so I answered, “Uh, it’s the year the wine was bottled.”

“Wrong!” Her high voice echoed through the car. “It’s the year the grapes were harvested. That’s a very common error that….”

I stopped listening to her. I was getting another headache and now I worried that it might be concussion-related. Was it that hit I took in the game two nights ago? Concussions could end your career prematurely, and I’d had one in my last year of college. It was a minor one—but still—any concussion was dangerous. That was a huge worry for me.

Astrid’s sharp voice interrupted my thoughts. “James! You’re not even listening to me. I put up with you talking about hockey for hours, but you can’t even spend two minutes hearing about my area of expertise.”

“Put up with? You told me you loved hockey now.”

She scowled at me. “Well, yes. But I like it as a normal person would. You’re completely obsessed with hockey.”

“Well, look where it’s gotten me. You don’t seem to mind going out and enjoying the benefits of a hockey career.” I pulled up in front of her apartment building.

“Focus on the bigger picture here. We’ve been dating for over four months now—that’s something real and serious. And now I find out that you’re not going to settle down until you win some stupid prize that you may never ever win.”

“It’s not a stupid prize.” The Stanley Cup was everything—every boy who ever played pictured himself winning the final, hoisting the cup, and skating around the arena in victory. Even imagining it gave me this incredible feeling inside—this warmth and hopefulness.

“You know what, James? You’re a child. I’ve been wasting my time here, and I’m not going to waste another minute. We are done.”

She got out and slammed the car door. Stunned, I watched her walk up to the front door. Her posture was as perfect as ever, and her blond hair contrasted with the navy coat. Absentmindedly I noticed that her dress and coat had been perfectly coordinated. Snowflakes drifted down, and she disappeared into the white swirls and her glass lobby.

I should have felt bad about Astrid breaking up with me. But instead I felt relieved. I pulled away from the curb and headed home. I realized that my headache was gone.