The Tournament Page 2

  Today, he felt impatient and agitated. Alex got dressed and left his building to go to a nearby supermarket. When he stepped outside, the bright sun felt like an assault. He squinted and shuffled quickly to the market where he purchased a few bottles of water, four large bags of potato chips, a box of tangerines and a bag of onions. He then rushed back to his building and quietly cursed himself for not wearing sunglasses.

  Alex lived on the ninth floor of a twelve-storey building. He did not want to wait for the elevator and sprinted up the stairs instead. As he neared the ninth floor, he had to slow down and catch his breath. He used to be in such good shape, but not anymore.

  After entering his apartment, Alex threw off his jacket and turned the TV back on. Grabbing a sharp knife from a set atop the kitchen counter, he ripped the mesh bag open and began slicing an onion. He hadn’t cried since his mother died and decided this was not normal. Crying was a natural part of the grieving process. He just needed a trigger and his emotions would take over.

  Alex planned to lower himself to the floor and bawl like a baby for as long as he could.

  His mother’s favourite daytime soap was about to start. He used to give her a hard time about that show when she was alive. Why did she watch this crap? The actors just changed clothes every few days and had the same conversations in the same rooms. His mother had laughed at his criticisms.

  Alex kept cutting away and was soon on his third onion.

  The first scene on the television showed a rich male executive looking for his son by the family swimming pool. Instead, he finds his beautiful young daughter-in-law coming out of the pool in her bikini. The two of them would spend the next two weeks dealing with a sexual tension they both found inappropriate yet irresistible, and in three or four months they would end up in bed together. Perhaps a year later his son would discover the affair and all hell would break loose.

  Alex could not believe he still put this on every day.

  The entire kitchen smelled of onions now and he was nowhere closer to crying. He had tried sad music; he’d stared at photos of his mother and then at photos of Diana. None of it worked. He just could not do it and became numb again. He leaned against a counter and let himself gradually slide down to the floor while wondering how much lower he could go.

  He wasn’t sure he wanted to stick around long enough to find out.

  4.

  Greg Sloane reached out to the usual media outlets and expected a dozen or so reporters to show up for Freddy’s apology. Apologies from professional athletes had become so contrived, but Sloane knew it was a necessary part of Freddy’s road to redemption. He would say sorry and ask forgiveness and virtually no one would believe he was sincere, but if Freddy the Flash just behaved himself and said the right things this would all go away in a few weeks.

  Sloane called the press conference in the arena where Freddy played and much to his surprise, the media response was bigger than he expected. Between reporters, photographers and camera operators, there had to be nearly thirty people crammed into a small room.

  Sloane pulled out his phone and checked the time. Freddy was almost ten minutes late and not responding to messages. Sloane hastily fired off another text. Where the hell r u?

  A moment later Freddy burst through the door, dressed in jeans with an untucked sports shirt and no tie on, completely contrary to Sloane’s instructions. His eyes were darting all over the place. He made loud sniffing noises and wiped at his nose.

  “Hey,” he announced, “I’m here.”

  “Great,” Sloane replied with no effort to hide his sarcasm.

  Sloane approached Freddy and studied his bloodshot eyes.

  “Did you take something?”

  “What? No. Come on, let’s get this over with.”

  Sloane sighed and gave Freddy a piece of paper with a brief paragraph typed on it.

  “After I welcome the media and thank them for coming, you’ll read every word on that paper. No improvising. After you’re done, we’ll do five minutes of questions,” Sloane instructed. “Keep your answers short.”

  “Got it.”

  Freddy snatched the paper without looking at it. Sloane shook his head and prepared for the worst.

  5.

  Since being promoted to senior partner in his law firm, Corey Peters had spared no expense making his office more extravagant. He brought in expensive new furniture and added a leather couch that was so comfortable it seemed impossible for someone to sit on it and not fall asleep. It was on this couch that he semi-regularly had sex with an attractive and ambitious associate lawyer.

  The sex never lasted very long and they both cleaned up quickly in the spacious bathroom in Corey’s office. Within half an hour the Associate Lawyer was walking back to her cubicle downstairs as though nothing ever happened. She was confident, professionally determined, Asian (fulfilling Corey’s secret fetish for Asian women) and attractive in an understated way; dressing conservatively and tying her hair back while wearing glasses that punctuated the nerdy lawyer look.

  Corey knew she would never ask him to leave his wife or trap him by getting pregnant because a baby would stall her career. However, the intimacy could not be entirely without strings. The Associate Lawyer had not asked for anything, but Corey knew there would have to be a payoff for her somewhere down the line. She was a good lawyer and upwardly mobile. The only thing he wondered was how long she would wait before pursuing a promotion. Something about her gave Corey the impression that she would not wait long.

  As she came out of the bathroom and began gathering her things, Corey was already mostly dressed and turning on his huge flat-screen television, which he kept in a cabinet near his desk.

  “TV now?” she asked.

  “I got a text from Helen saying I should watch the news,” Corey replied.

  The Associate Lawyer studied him for a moment as he flipped channels.

  “Why don’t you ever smile?”

  “What?”

  “When we’re together, you never smile.”

  Corey frowned and kept flipping channels. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

  She finished dressing and walked over to him. “I’ve heard that some openings are coming up for junior partner soon.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s not really a secret. I want my name brought up at the next meeting.”

  Corey could stop wondering when she would push. She was pushing now. He turned his attention back to the TV. What was so important? Why was Helen wasting his time?

  “You know there are no guarantees,” he told her. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

  She planted a kiss on Corey’s cheek. “I know you will.”

  The Associate Lawyer went to the door and opened it. “Say hi to Helen for me.”

  As the door closed behind her, Corey frowned. Veiled threats. That was a new element she was adding to their completely physical relationship. Corey would eventually have to give this some thought. Not right now, though. He put the remote down and laughed at what he saw on the television.

  6.

  Greg Sloane said goodbye to a few reporters after providing them with parting comments on how remorseful his client, Freddy “The Flash” Rozelli, was about the “club-money thing.” Sloane cringed every time he recalled the images of drunk people in their twenties crawling around the sticky floors of a nightclub trying to retrieve Freddy’s blown-away cash.

  The press conference itself had gone well enough. Sloane made sure the environment was very controlled, with Freddy reading from his script and Sloane limiting the number of questions reporters could ask. He also made a point of avoiding the more aggressive reporters, who might trap Freddy with an open-ended question that he wouldn’t be able to handle – like Brooks Edwards, a freelance scribe known for busting everyone’s chops with his questions. The average person sitting at home would never understand how orchestrated this “apology” really was.

  Freddy surprised Sloane by putting
on a pretty good performance. He appeared genuinely sorry for being so obnoxious at the club that night. Sloane figured if Freddy’s demeanour during the press conference impressed him then it probably served its purpose with the public. Despite all the negative media coverage and YouTube playbacks, this would be old news soon.

  Freddy just had to behave himself.

  Sloane was pulling out his phone to send Freddy a quick text commending him on doing a good job when he heard a noise outside in the receiving area. That was where Freddy had parked to avoid reporters. Sloane tucked his phone away and went quickly to the door. He thought he heard someone shout the word “punk.” After stepping outside, it took him a second to comprehend what he was witnessing.

  The driver-side door of Freddy’s blue Corvette was wide open, and a small crowd had gathered around it. There were a few reporters, some arena employees and at least five or six civilians armed with cellphones. They were holding their phones high to take pictures and video of whatever was going on. Sloane saw a little boy standing to one side holding an old hockey program with Freddy on the cover. He was yelling and crying. Freddy was rolling around the ground with another man, who Sloane guessed was the boy’s father based on the fact the boy was begging them to stop in between sobs.

  The average-sized man was putting up a pretty good fight, but Freddy soon pinned him on the ground. Freddy drew his right arm back to throw a punch, but Sloane ran over and pulled Freddy off with the help of an arena security guard before any punches could land. More security guards and a police officer flowed steadily out from the back exit.

  Once Freddy and the boy’s father were separated, Sloane looked around at the scene. Security was trying to push everyone back, but camera flashes seemed to be going off in every direction.

  Sloane stood there shocked. What the hell happened?

  Brooks Edwards, freelance reporter, came running over clutching his tablet. “Hey Sloane, let me show you something.”

  Sloane and Brooks went back inside for a private viewing of Brooks’ tablet. The video started with Freddy coming outside and walking over to his car. Brooks and a few other reporters were already in the receiving area when Freddy appeared.

  The little boy, cute as could be, approached Freddy with the program and asked for an autograph. The boy’s father could be seen smiling in the background.

  “Not today, little man,” Freddy answered as he brushed past the boy.

  The smile disappeared from the face of the boy’s father. He approached Freddy.

  “Hey, Freddy. My son’s a big fan,” the man said. “A quick autograph would mean a lot to him. It’ll just take a second.”

  Freddy opened his door without turning to look or responding. The boy took a few steps toward Freddy and inadvertently blocked the car door.

  “Please sign my program, Freddy. You’re my favourite player.”

  The boy was so cute that he could easily be in commercials.

  “I’m in a hurry,” Freddy said curtly as he swatted the program away.

  The boy’s father grabbed his son and stepped in front of him as though he were now protecting him from Freddy.

  “Who the hell do you think you are, Freddy? You too good to sign an autograph for a little boy? Who do you think got you where you are?”

  Freddy hated people like this, some guy who bought his kid a hockey sweater and acted like Freddy owed him. Freddy made a loud, ugly snorting noise. He needed a hit or a drink or something.

  “Get outta my face,” Freddy snapped.

  Freddy crouched to get in his car and the boy’s father lunged at him.

  “You stupid PUNK!”

  The video showed the boy’s father grab Freddy from behind and pull him to the ground. They started rolling around, and that was when Sloane came in. He didn’t need to see any more and handed the tablet back to Brooks.

  “Brooksie, I don’t suppose I could ask you to delete that,” Sloane asked desperately.

  “You serious?” Brooks laughed. “I already posted it.”

  7.

  Young Alex slept in his crib. His alarm clock read 3:00 a.m. The sounds of a lamp smashing on the floor and the footsteps of several men running into his house woke him up. He sat up in his crib but could not move his legs. He tried again, but still could not. It was like his legs were frozen.

  Alex looked around in the darkness. There was light coming in through the window and it seemed to be getting brighter by the second.

  Why could he not move his legs? And why was he in a crib?

  A piercing shriek from another part of the house. Alex closed his eyes.

  His father.

  Alex tried to call out, but he had no voice. He heard his father again. What an unbearable sound. He started to cry and then…

  His mother’s voice:

  “The window,” she whispered urgently. “Alex, the window!”

  8.

  Alex sat in a chair by his living room window and looked out at the street. It was nearly four-thirty in the morning, and he had not tried to go back to bed since his latest nightmare.

  On one hand, falling into a period of unconsciousness was a welcome relief and Alex looked forward to it just so he could take a break from living, or at least from being awake. On the other hand, every time his head hit the pillow and he closed his eyes he knew that he was in for another round of bad dreams.

  When he returned home after his mother’s funeral, his neighbour’s cat ran past him in the hallway as he stepped off the elevator. Later on that night Alex dreamed this same cat was following him around begging him for help in his mother’s voice. After he woke up from that one, he hoped to never see his neighbour’s cat again.

  It had been a few weeks now and Alex was barely going through the motions. He stayed up late watching talk shows and movies until he felt drowsy enough to fall into bed. That was usually somewhere between 2:00 and 5:00 a.m. Then he slept in until about noon and woke up feeling tired. He had probably lost somewhere between five and ten pounds while nibbling on tangerines or potato chips. Coffee. Water. More coffee. He was not eating well.

  Alex still had a newspaper delivered and he read it in its entirety each afternoon. He was always sad when he finished. Now what would he do with the remaining twelve hours of the day?

  He knew that his habits weren’t healthy and he was spiralling into a vortex of depression and anxiety. When he woke up his palms were usually sweaty and he felt his heart racing. In addition to losing weight, Alex had grown an unflattering beard and could use a haircut.

  His mother had been a fearless woman with no time for self-pity. The tragedy with his father left their family shattered, and she picked up the pieces so she and Alex could survive. Since her death, Alex had not been motivated to do what his mother modelled for him during their life together: always keep going…one foot in front of the other.

  Don’t give up.

  Alex had also lost Diana, the only woman he ever loved, and he knew it was not her fault. Part of him was still angry with her about something, but he wasn’t sure what. It was almost like she’d held something back when they were together, but he could not figure it out. He loved Diana intensely, and losing her first and then his mother almost a year later was like absorbing massive punches on both sides of a glass jaw.

  He felt his eyes open and close a few times as he looked down at the street and saw the newspaper van pulling up in front of his building. 4:30 a.m. It was time for bed.

  Alex dragged himself back to his bedroom. He knew that he couldn’t go on like this much longer, and he shuddered at the idea of what his mother was thinking…from wherever she was looking down on him.

  He collapsed onto his bed and fell asleep on top of the covers. The last sound he heard was the newspaper hitting his doormat. Tomorrow he would read about Freddy “The Flash” Rozelli’s latest meltdown, where he refused to sign an autograph for a young fan and then scrapped with the kid’s dad in the middle of the longest and ugliest labour dispute in profes
sional hockey history.

  9.

  Corey Peters rode a shiny elevator up to the fiftieth floor of a towering building on Bay Street, in the heart of Toronto’s financial district.

  He was on his way to see Dave Chambers, an old friend and uber-wealthy trader who meowed louder than most corporate fat cats. Corey was pretty well off himself, but his money was a drop in the bucket compared to Dave Chambers.

  Corey and Chambers went to high school together and Chambers was obsessed with becoming rich way back then. Corey always considered high finance to be dull and went after a law degree instead. He sometimes regretted the decision, as he found his own career to be boring, and wondered if all the extra money, cars, houses and vacation resorts, if all of that would have made being a finance guy more bearable. Boring was boring, after all. How much worse could it be?

  The elevator doors opened, and Corey stepped off to panoramic views of Toronto. Large glass windows surrounded the entire floor. It was almost like being in the CN Tower.

  He approached the large reception area. Chambers had two receptionists, both gorgeous females with headsets on. The one closest to the elevator smiled and motioned for Corey to go right in. Mr. Chambers was expecting him.

  The plaque on the door read Dave Chambers, President & CEO, Chambers Capital, Inc.

  Corey knew that Chambers wanted to call his company Das Kapital just to mock communist sympathizers, which to Dave Chambers was anyone to the left of Mussolini. However, when he went to do it, he found that someone had already taken that handle for a hedge fund. Chambers was upset that someone thought of this before he did. He did not like coming in second.

  Corey opened the door and stepped inside.

  Chambers’ desk was nearly thirty feet from the door in an expansive office. There was a large aquarium, a full bar and a mini golf set in one corner. Chambers was seated behind his oak desk and in the middle of an argument on the phone. He motioned for Corey to come in. Corey walked over to one of the windows and took in the view.