* * *
Far behind the car Benjamin Ovich gets onto his bicycle and sets off in a different direction. Perhaps he’ll be free one day. But not today.
* * *
Just as Hed Hockey makes it 4–0 toward the end of the second period, four boys from Hed sneak across the stand. They’re just schoolkids, that’s why they were given the job, because no one would suspect them. They’re not even wearing red jerseys, so they don’t attract attention. They’re carrying garbage bags, specially smuggled in during a practice of the boys’ team late yesterday evening. They’re going to throw the contents of the bags at the enemy. When the time is right, when the souls of the Beartown fans are at the breaking point, to push them over the edge.
A lot of people in the red part of the rink will say that this is just part of the game, purely symbolic, just hockey. Maybe even “just a joke.” Just the sort of thing you do to hurt your opponents and get under their skin. Conquer. Destroy. Annihilate.
The boys have managed to sneak along the side of the rink, far too close to the Beartown fans’ standing area, before someone finally notices them. But it’s too late by then. The boys pull dildos and other sex toys from the bags, one after the other, hundreds of them. Vibrators rain down on the men in black jackets, hitting their hunched forms like missiles. And from the red stand at the other end of the rink the chanting rings out again, more hateful, more threatening:
* * *
“QUEERS! SLUTS! RAPISTS! QUEERS! SLUTS! RAPISTS!”
* * *
We can say what we like about Teemu Rinnius, because he says whatever he likes about us. In his experience every discussion of violence reveals how hypocritical almost everyone is. If you were to ask him, he’d say that most men and women aren’t violent and that they believe this is because their “morals” stop them. Teemu has one word for them: “Liars.” Would they really not be violent if they could? When other drivers mess around with them? When people mess around with them at work? When people mess around with their wives in the pub or their kids at school or their parents in nursing homes? How many thousands of times does the average mortgage-paying Labrador owner dream of being the sort of person who really doesn’t give a damn? Teemu is convinced that ordinary people’s lack of violence has nothing to do with morals and that they would be only too happy to hurt people if they thought they could get away with it. The only reason they’re not violent is that violence isn’t an option for them.
They can’t fight, they don’t know anyone with the strength or the weight of numbers or the influence. If they did, they’d get out of their cars and lay into the idiot blowing his horn, beat up the dad at the parents’ meeting who insulted their family, push that cocky waiter up against the wall and force him to eat the bill. Teemu is sure of that.
When he and Vidar were young, the brothers learned to hate one phrase more than all the others. They got called plenty of things: “Skint bastards!” “Thieves!” But it was “Whore’s kids” that hit them hardest. And it showed, so all the kids at school used that one more than the others. Teemu and Vidar had the same mother but different fathers, and when one brother is blond and the other dark, it’s an open invitation in every schoolyard. They fought until everyone shut up, but some words never stop echoing inside. Whore’s kids. Whore’s kids. Whore’s kids. Whore. Whore. Whore.
* * *
Now Teemu and Vidar are standing in the rink next to Spider and Woody. Spider, who got whipped in the shower with wet towels and called a “queer” when he was little. Woody, who was prepared to get onto a plane as a teenager to fight anyone he could find in the country where his cousin had been raped, before Teemu dragged him back home.
They’re no saints, they haven’t got hearts of gold, and most of the worst things said about them are true. But when Woody went to Teemu back in the spring to say the Pack should stand up against Kevin Erdahl, the best player their cherished club has ever seen, Teemu agreed with him, because he knew what people were calling Maya Andersson at school.
* * *
And now the red fans at the other end of the rink are chanting “QUEERS! SLUTS! RAPISTS!”
* * *
The Hed fans don’t know any of this. They’re just trying to shout the worst insults they can think of, anything they think will hurt, that will get under the skin of anyone with a bear on his or her chest. They succeed. As soon as the shower of dildos starts to hit the men in black jackets, eight of them set off down the stands. They take their jackets off, and eight other men in white shirts pull the jackets on and take their places. The security guards never notice Teemu, Vidar, Spider, Woody, and four others disappearing into a corridor, through a door, down into the basement.
* * *
Violence isn’t an option for most people. But the Pack aren’t most people.
* * *
Leo Andersson is twelve years old, and he’ll never forget when he heard Teemu Rinnius turn to Spider and say, “Get the guys. Just the hard core.” And how Teemu gave an almost invisible signal with a short nod, and seven men immediately set off behind him. The hard core, the central unit within the Pack, the most dangerous of them all.
Leo saw other men put their black jackets on and block the guards’ view as the hard core left the stand and ran toward a door in a dark corridor beside the janitor’s storeroom. There is a basement beneath the rink in Hed, most people don’t even know it exists, but a couple of weeks ago there was trouble with the lights and a group of electricians was brought in. One of them had to go down into the basement because he said there was a circuit breaker down there. The janitor didn’t think for a moment that there was anything suspicious about that. The electrician was careful not to show his bear tattoo.
* * *
Leo Andersson will never forget how much he wished he could have gone into that basement with them. Some boys dream of becoming professional hockey players. They stand and watch and wish they could be out on the ice. But some boys have other dreams. Other idols.
* * *
They head through the corridor in the basement of the arena. Eight of them. The very toughest of them. Nothing should be able to stop them, but one man does. He’s standing on his own in the middle of their path. He has no friends with him, no weapons, and he’s jammed a broom through the handles of the doors behind him to stop anyone opening them from the other side. Benji has locked himself into a corridor with them of his own volition.
* * *
He didn’t want to come here. There was just nowhere else he’d rather be.
* * *
He cycled from the campsite to the rink in Hed, through the snow with the wind in his eyes. When he crept inside, the game had reached the final minutes of the second period, and all eyes were on the ice. Benji looked up at the scoreboard. 4–0 for Hed. He heard the chanting, saw the red sea of hate on one side and the black jackets on the other. He saw the shower of dildos. While everyone else looked on in shock, Benji just looked around for a way to get down through the stands. As soon as Teemu and Vidar and six others took their jackets off, Benji already knew where they were going.
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 aga
in . . .”
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 ciga
r. 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.
Zackell shrugs. “Sure. Why not? It can hardly get any worse.”
A minute or so after Vidar bounces happily into the locker room to get his goalie gear on, another young man appears in the corridor. He’s walking calmly, not running, and stops in front of Zackell. He asks politely, the way you do if you have sisters, “Do you need another player?”
Zackell frowns. “Are you thinking of having sex with anyone in the locker room?”
Benji tries to figure out if she’s joking. It’s impossible to tell. “No,” he says.
“Okay,” she says.
Any normal coach would have scrubbed Benji from the lineup when he failed to show up for the first period. But Zackell isn’t normal. She made the judgment that even if Benji wasn’t here, he was still better than anyone else. Some people understand that, most don’t. She steps aside, he goes inside the locker room. It was quiet before he arrived, and it’s even quieter now.
His teammates are sitting there, two dozen pairs of eyes staring at the floor, and for the first time Benji doesn’t know what to do in there—where he should sit, how he should start to get changed, not because he’s uncomfortable but because he’s worried someone else might be. He’s different now.