Antony couldn’t remember who brought the beer, but the locker room was full of cases being ripped open as bottles were passed around. Marc stood on a chair, hoisting the trophy above his head. Beer sloshed over the brim, raining down on Marc’s head, already wet with sweat. His smile was infectious, he was ecstatic, bursting with energy.
Antony could feel the vibrations of excitement through the floor, the whole locker room was buzzing. They’d won the President’s Cup, in overtime.
Marc Laurent scores!
The roar from the stands had been deafening. Antony watched from the bench as Marc won the title for the team. That’s my big brother. The swell of pride was overwhelming, but even greater was the sense of relief—a scout had come to watch tonight.
At twenty, Marc was set to be one of the younger players to be picked for the professional draft next month. It was something his parents had been investing in and grooming him for since he took to the ice. As a kid, Marc skated circles around everyone else his own age. Words like ‘phenom’ were handed out regularly.
No one could touch him; he was in a league of his own.
Antony followed behind, not as good, but good enough to make it to the Quebec Major Junior League with him. Their parents had put every cent they made into hockey. But the whole family knew—hell, the whole town knew, Marc would be a hockey star one day.
And that day was finally around the corner.
Still, Marc treated Antony like an equal, taking the time to help him practice on the skills he needed to develop.
“Why so intense?” Antony had asked him once, doubled over and breathless from the tedious drills. “You going to pros, not me.”
“You’re my backup. I don’t trust those Russians.” He’d winked. “I want my brother on my team.”
Antony looked away, embarrassed by his brother’s inflated belief in his abilities. Secretly, the idea of playing with Marc on a professional hockey team was terrifying. The thought of having his life consumed by the sport he loved as a kid but now resented, gradually grew from being tolerable to almost cripplingly depressive.
Antony wanted to keep playing, but not every day, like he’d been doing for the last three years in the major junior league. Now he was ready for a life outside the rink.
They lugged their gear bags over their shoulders as they made their way outside. The parking lot was almost empty, Marc had kept the party going in the locker room, making toast after toast. The girls lined up outside in the hallway, took another half hour of their time, getting autographs and pictures with Marc. They were always beautiful; full lips, perfect hair, and smelling like flowers instead of the sour odor of the hockey locker rooms. Marc was everyone’s favorite.
Antony watched as more than a few phone numbers got tucked into his gear bag.
Their parents had left earlier, promising to get a feast ready back home.
“Smell that little brother?” Marc tilted up his face to the winter sky, the stars quickly being erased with black clouds. “A future of unparalleled success awaits.” “Finally. I’m tired of you riding my coattails,” Antony teased, he turned and waited for Marc to open the trunk of the car. All Antony wanted to do was go
home and sleep undisturbed, until it was summer.
“You too, oui?” he said, giving him curious look. “We’ll always play together.” Marc patted his pockets then pulled out the keys. They jangled and dropped to the ground, lost in the snow for a moment before Antony found them with the tip of his stick.
Marc swayed on his feet. “Maybe we wait and call cab?” he suggested quietly.
Antony calculated the time they’d have to wait. “I’ll drive,” he said, hooking a finger into the key ring.
“You sure?”
“Oui,” Antony opened the trunk and tossed in his gear and stick. He could feel Marc sizing him up. “I only had few beers,” he said.
“Oui, but you’re cheap drunk.” Marc dropped his gear on the ground along with his stick and folded his arms in front of his chest.
Antony wondered if they would have to fight this one out like they did when they were younger. Like wrestling puppies, their mother had described them. Their father had spent more than a few afternoons patching up holes they’d left in the walls as a result of their goofing around.
Antony shifted his weight in the snow, a numbness had begun to crawl up his calves. “Can we go home, please?” he asked. “Or do we have to wait for more fans to come by and get their tits autographed?”
Marc blinked back at him, his expression unchanged. “D’accord,” he said, making his way to the passenger side. “You drive.”
Antony looked at the gear bag left on the ground. He gave the bag a quick kick with his boot, then hefted Marc’s equipment into the back of the car.
The first few minutes of the drive were in silence and then Marc said softly and with great astonishment, “Do you really think I’ll get to autograph someone’s tits someday?”
Antony turned to his brother and the serious countenance was enough to make them both burst out laughing.
“You’re pig,” Antony said.
“It came out of your mouth, mon frère! Who are you thinking of, hmm? Whose tits do you want to autograph?” He jabbed him in the shoulder.
The wheel moved out of his loose grip, the car swerved on the snowy road. “Fuck!” Antony said, righting the direction.
Marc laughed and turned toward the back seat. “Half those girls tonight would have taken you around back of arena, no problem.”
“Don’t be crude.” Antony’s pulse was racing, he blinked a few times. How many beers did he have? The numbness had settled in his feet completely. He pushed his foot down on the gas and the car quickened. They’d be home in ten minutes.
“Be careful.” Marc grunted then unbuckled his seatbelt reaching for something in the back. “Sometimes those girls are crazy. Patrick has a stalker.”
“Patrick has herpes.”
Marc snorted as he slipped back into his seat. An open beer was in his hand. “Great to have my own driver.” He tipped back the bottle and took a long sip.
The car grew quiet again; the only sounds were the swooshing of the wipers against the cloud of thickening snow flurries. “I can’t believe it’s going to happen,” Marc’s voice was full of awe, like when they were kids watching hockey on Saturday night. “I’m going to be in the pros.”
Antony watched his brother, staring out the windshield, smiling like he was watching his future play before him, one success after another. “I’ll be able to take care of everyone,” he said. “Dad can retire, I’ll pay off mortgage, buy them condo in Florida…”
Marc’s voice changed again, no longer full of anticipation, but humble gratitude. “Je dois te remercier, Antony. Merci. If you weren’t by my side, I’d never made it this far.”
“Ne sois pas stupide.” Antony felt the blush creep up his neck. His hands were sweaty with sudden embarrassment. “You have the talent.”
“Mais, vous allez le coeur, but you have all the heart.” He leaned closer and Antony could smell beer on his breath. “You made me realize why talent is important. I’d be loser like Patrick, using my time to score with chicks instead of practice. You keep me in line.”
Antony continued to stare at his brother, unprepared for the outpouring of appreciation. “I’m proud of you,” he said. “I’ll always be proud of—”
“Argh! Shit!” Marc’s face warped into a scream as he grabbed for the wheel.
Directly in front of them a curve appeared, dangerously sharp. Antony hadn’t been watching the road. He spun the wheel, but swerved on the icy surface. They were already off the road and airborne before Antony knew what was happening.
Everything was smooth as the car breezed through the air, then the sickening dip of the hood as they began to topple downward. There was a crush of a thousand fists and then nothing.