*

Amat doesn’t really understand what that means until he actually packs his equipment away, heads out into the corridor, and pushes through the outside door. Grownups cheer and applaud when they see him, a few of the older girls from school shout his name, Bobo gives him a hug, Benji ruffles his hair, and everyone wants to shake his hand. Farther away he can see Kevin being interviewed by the local paper. Then he writes autographs for a sea of children while their mothers nag him to let them take two photographs each: one of Kevin and the child, and one of Kevin and the mother.

Amat bounces around between the hugs and pats on the back, and hears himself join in a shouted rendition of “WE ARE THE BEARS FROM BEARTOWN!” so loudly that his chest stings, and he hears the others singing louder because he does, because they want to feel that they’re participating in what he represents now.

The rush lifts him up, his endorphins are bubbling, and afterward he will remember thinking: “How can anyone possibly experience this without thinking he’s a god?”

*

Kira is cleaning the cafeteria. Maya and Ana emerge from the washroom; they’ve changed and put on makeup, and are full of laughter and expectation.

“I . . . I’ll be staying at Ana’s tonight. We’re going to . . . study,” Maya smiles.

Her daughter is lying, of course, and her mother is lying when she pretends not to understand that. They’re balancing on that defining moment in life when they’re each equally concerned about the other. The teenage years offer a brief period of equality after childhood, before the balance shifts and Maya becomes old enough to worry about her parents more than they do about her. Soon Maya won’t be Kira’s little girl anymore, and then Kira will become Maya’s little old mom. It doesn’t take a lot to be able to let go of your child. It takes everything.

*

Peter steps into the president’s office. It’s full of grown men stumbling about, already very, very drunk.

“That’s what I’ve been looking for!” Tails yells, and comes staggering toward Peter, bare-chested, and grabs his shirt from Peter’s hand.

Peter glares at him.

“I never want to hear that you’ve taken alcohol into the players’ locker room again. They’re kids, Tails.”

“Pah, they’re not KIDS, Peter, give it a rest! Let the boys celebrate!”

“I let the boys celebrate, I just think that grown men ought to have their limits.”

Tails waves his words away as if they were persistent little insects. Two men behind him, clutching cans of beer, are engaged in a heated debate about the club’s A-team players. One forward is described as “so fucking thick he can’t even go and buy a loaf of bread without someone to hold his hand,” a goalie is “soft in the head; you can tell because he married a woman everyone knows slept with half the team before him, and probably the other half afterward.” Peter isn’t sure if the men are sponsors or just part of Tails’s group, but he’s heard remarks like that a thousand times and still hasn’t gotten used to the hierarchy in these rooms. The players can talk crap about the referee but never the coach, the coach can criticize the players but never the GM, the GM can’t criticize the president, the president can’t criticize the board, the board can’t criticize the sponsors. And at the very top are the men in suits in this office, talking shamelessly about the players as if they were racehorses. Products.

Tails tweaks Peter’s ear affectionately to lighten the mood.

“Don’t sulk, now, Peter, this is your night! Do you remember ten years ago when you said you were going to develop our youth program? When you said that one day we’d have a junior team that could hold their own against the best in the country? We laughed at you then. Everyone laughed at you. And now here we are! This is YOUR night, Peter. YOU made this happen.”

Peter wriggles out of the headlock Tails—drunk and happy—tries to get him in. The other sponsors start loudly comparing scars and capped teeth, trophies from their own hockey-playing days. None of them asks Peter about his. He has no scars, he never lost any teeth, never got into any fights. He has never been a violent man.

One board member, a beer-sodden director of a ventilation company in his sixties, starts bouncing about and slapping Peter on the back as he grins: “Tails and I met our local councilors! They were here this evening! And off the record I can say that things look pretty damn promising for your new espresso machine!”

Peter sighs and excuses himself, then goes out into the hallway. When he sees David he actually feels relieved, even though the junior coach’s constantly supercilious attitude normally drives him mad, because right now he’s the only sober person in the vicinity.

“David!” he cries.

David carries on without so much as glancing at him. Peter jogs after him.

“David! Where are you going?”

“I’m going to watch the video of the game,” the coach replies mechanically.

Peter laughs.

“Aren’t you going to celebrate?”

“I’ll celebrate when we’ve won the final. That’s why you appointed me. To win that.”

His arrogance is even more pronounced than usual. Peter sighs and stick his hands forlornly in his pockets.

“David . . . come on, now. I know the two of us don’t always see eye to eye on everything, but this is your victory. You’ve earned it.”

David’s eyes narrow, and he nods toward the office full of sponsors and says: “No, Peter. Like everyone in there keeps saying, this is YOUR night. After all, you’re the star on this team, aren’t you? You always have been.”

Peter stands rooted to the spot with a growing dark cloud in his stomach, unsure if it’s made up mostly of shame or fury. His voice sounds angrier than it should be when he calls after David: “I only wanted to congratulate you!” David turns around with a bitter little laugh.

“You should congratulate Sune instead. He was the one who predicted that you and I could do this.”

Peter clears his throat.

“I . . . He . . . I couldn’t find him in the stands.”

David holds Peter’s gaze until Peter looks down. David nods sadly.

“He was sitting in his usual place. You know that.”

Peter swears under his breath and turns away. David’s words creep after him: “I know what we’re doing here, Peter, I’m not some naive little kid. I’ll be getting Sune’s job because the time has come, because I’ve earned it, and I know that makes me a bastard. But don’t forget who’s holding the door open for him. Don’t try to kid yourself that this isn’t your decision.”

Peter spins around, fists clenched.

“Be careful what you say, David!”

David doesn’t back down.

“Or what? You’ll hit me?”