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  Title

  Break Away 2

  POWER FORWARD

  Also by

  OTHER BOOKS BY SYLVAIN HOTTE

  Break Away 1, Jessie on my mind (Baraka Books)

  The Darhan Series (2006-2008)

  Darhan, La fée du lac Baïkal

  Darhan, Les chemins de la guerre

  Darhan, La jeune fille sans visage

  Darhan, La malédiction

  Darhan, Les métamorphoses

  Darhan, L’esprit de Kökötchü

  Darhan, L’empereur Océan

  Darhan, Le Voyageur

  Miguel Torres (1998)

  Le chagrin des étoiles (2008)

  Les fistons (2008)

  The Break Away series are the first books by Sylvain Hotte to appear in English.

  Title Page

  Sylvain Hotte

  Break Away 2

  power forward

  Translated by Casey Roberts

  Montreal

  Credits

  Originally published as Aréna 2. Attaquant de puissance

  © 2009 by Les Éditions des Intouchables

  Publié avec l’autorisation des Éditions des Intouchables, Montréal, Québec, Canada

  Translation Copyright © Baraka Books 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Cover by Folio Infographie

  Book design by Folio Infographie

  Translated by Casey Roberts

  Conversion to ePub format: Studio C1C4

  Legal Deposit, 2nd quarter, 2012

  Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec

  Library and Archives Canada

  ISBN (paper) 978-1-926824-42-0

  ISBN (Epub) 978-1-926824-61-1

  ISBN (PDF) 978-1-926824-62-8

  Published by Baraka Books

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  Montréal, Québec H4E 2V4

  Telephone: 514 808-8504

  [email protected]

  www.barakabooks.com

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  Baraka Books acknowledges the generous support of its publishing program from the Société de développement des entreprises culturelles du Québec (SODEC) and the Canada Council for the Arts.

  We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada, through the National Translation Program for Book Publishing for our translation activities.

  For any comment or technical question regarding this ePub: [email protected]

  Chapter I

  I can’t remember ever being so tired in all my life. My legs, dead. My thighs, on fire. My feet were so swollen that they popped right out of my running shoes. The July sun pounded down, relentless. Dust and sand whipped my face, driven in gusts by the east wind that swept clouds of spray across the choppy water. And behind me, going on and on forever, Larry’s voice pushing me on, telling me never give up.

  Come St. Jean Baptiste Day, in late June, my training routine looked like this: up at 5 a.m. then run five kilometres along Highway 138. Next, lift weights out in the garage, then a huge breakfast. That’s how my workday started. Then I would head up to Lake Matamek. The government had given my father money to plant 120,000 trees. Between the two of us, we could handle it, he figured. The only thing is, 120,000 trees is a lot of trees. The days were long and hard. I’d meet up with him on the other side of the lake, on his hunting territory, the natau-assi, around 9:30 a.m. Then I’d work like a madman, planting trees like there was no tomorrow, hoping to transplant at least a thousand before three o’clock in the afternoon. More than a few times I’d be eating lunch, sandwich in one hand and shovel in the other, digging a hole for the next seedling. I ate more than my share of mud and dried leaves!

  Along about three in the afternoon, Larry would show up on his quad. You could hear the big Grizzly roaring like an American bomber at 20,000 feet. Larry was on the small side; he eked out a living doing summer jobs. The previous summer, he lost his job at the tourism office when he called a couple from Ottawa “morons” because they were looking for the Percé Rock on the North Shore of the St. Lawrence. But this year, he didn’t have to go looking for another lousy job like he usually pulled down between hockey seasons. My father took part of the transplanting money and put him on salary as my personal trainer. As soon as he laid hands on what for him was a substantial amount of money, Larry, who wasn’t accustomed to cash on hand and couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had four digits in his bank account, went out and bought himself a big and nasty ATV, a monster machine with a heated seat and handlebars, a winch in the front and a hitch in the rear, and support struts all the way around. Larry lived in a semi-basement apartment at Mrs. Fontaine’s, next door to the church. He was a poor man, he had nothing, but now he could pull a 45-footer out of the woods with that all-terrain of his. And that had to count for something.

  “What is that thing, Larry?” asked my father, the first time he showed up with his flashy machine.

  “It’s my Grizzly,” he said proudly, his eyes squinting behind his blue-tinted lenses.

  “So I see. You can pay an arm and a leg for one of those babies.”

  “Don’t you worry about me. I’ll work things out.”

  And he kept on smiling, one hand on his thigh, the other on the handlebars, proud as a bush pilot flying a supersonic jet.

  He would always “work things out,” like he said. You could bet on it. Larry always managed to work things out. Maybe not always in the best way, though. I thought I heard he was going through his second bankruptcy. Nothing to be sneezed at. Truth is, that thick-headed attitude of his just showed he didn’t really give a damn. Because even more than shelling out big bucks on fifty-three inch plasma TVs, trips down South, or a crazy huge quad that he absolutely didn’t need, there was really only one thing that truly mattered to him: hockey. And he wouldn’t let me forget it every time we met for my end-of-the-day workout: I was going to be the best player at the Quebec City junior team camp. Except I wasn’t a quad. I had my limits.

  Every day, rain or shine, we rode out past Pointe-Noire to a huge beach more than five kilometres long and dotted with dunes. I’d run out and back barefoot, and anybody that’s ever run on sand knows it takes twice the effort. And if I ever, even for one moment, swerved down to where the sand was wet, tamped down by the high tide, Larry would lean on the Grizzly’s horn to drive me back on the soft stuff.

  Usually I could handle this awful end-of-the-day jog, even if it made me want to puke and it didn’t seem to make any sense. Not this time; I was wasted. One more sprint under these conditions and my heart would explode. My lungs were killing me. I stopped to catch my breath, bent over, hands on my knees.

  “Don’t give up, McKenzie. You’re not done.”

  “Sorry, man. I can’t cut it.”

  “Man? What do you mean you can’t cut it? When some 19 or 20-year-old smacks you around in training camp, you’re going to go see the coach and tell him, ‘I can’t cut it’? That’ll be just great.”

  “Give me a break, Larry. It’s hot as hell. I planted 15,000 trees today.”

  “In the NHL …”

  “There won’t be any NHL if I have a heart attack at sixteen.”

  Perched on the seat of his quad, he ran his hand through his long red hair and then took off his gla
sses, blowing the sand off his lenses.

  “Hmm. Okay. Take five.”

  My legs were so shaky I couldn’t bend them to sit. I let myself fall on my butt and sank into the sand. The weather was spoiling. The sun disappeared behind a bank of dark grey clouds; the wind turned chilly. Shivers ran up and down my sweat-drenched body.

  I took a few sips of water; gradually my gasping breath and racing heart returned to normal. But no sooner had I begun to relax when I heard Larry telling me not to take too long a break. The more I waited the harder it would be to finish my run. I knew he was right. If I sat there one minute longer I’d stiffen up so much I couldn’t take another step. I gritted my teeth and took off at a trot, like a horse on his last legs.

  Using my hands, I scrambled up a huge sand dune, while Larry drove around it on his quad. At that moment I heard what sounded like firecrackers popping. What it was, was an engine humming at a high pitch and backfiring like crazy. There was only one halfwit I knew who could be making sounds like that. Off in the distance, beyond the tall dune from which I could see the whole expanse of the Pointe-Noire beach, I saw a cloud of dust moving with the wind. Then, a purple vehicle would briefly appear and disappear as it zigzagged its way between the dunes. I recognized it: Mike and his dune buggy. And he was heading my way.

  I rolled all the way down to the bottom of the big dune. Like a frightened animal, I ran like I was being pursued by a terrible predator from another planet. It was no use. I was no match for the monster. Like out of some safari, Mike caught up with me and began riding circles around me, throwing up a thick cloud of blinding sand. I pulled my shirt up over my face and ran down to the water where the sand was wet. Mike was cracking up at the terrified look on my face. Grinning from ear to ear, he switched off the purple monster with its red and orange vinyl flames. He was high on the speed and the salt air, but also because it was pay-back time for last winter’s humiliation at Lake Matamek.

  “Hey champ!” he said.

  “Hi Mike. How’s it going?”

  “Not bad, as you can see,” he said, patting his buggy. “Stéphane’s going out fishing tomorrow. He wants to know if you’re on.”

  I would have liked to have gone out on Stéphane Leblanc’s fishing boat. Most likely he’d be after mackerel. As you reel them in with the roller, you can see the open mouths of the fish through the steel scupper rails before they tumble into the plastic tubs. We bring ‘em in with spinners: impressive and kind of yucky. We’d probably have dragged a few lines for halibut too. They can be huge and they’re delicious. Unfortunately, I only had Sunday off. And behind me, even if I couldn’t see him, I could feel Larry shaking his head from right to left telling me “no.”

  “No can do, Mike. Gotta work out.”

  “Sure,” he goes, putting his hat back on. “Don’t overtrain, or you’ll end up like friggin’ Courchesne. I saw him just this morning comin’ out of the Baie-Comeau gym. His arms were as big as my head. Unreal!”

  “Courchesne” is my friend Tommy. Last spring, at the end of the season, Larry put him on the first line with me. That worked out great. And the team won the championship.

  The armchair coaches claim that playing on the top line with Félix and me was the reason for Tommy’s success in the finals; otherwise, Shawinigan would never have drafted him. Félix has a lot more talent but he’s still too small and not ready for the major juniors. Tommy’s beefier, which is what made the difference.

  Like me, he trains hard. But he spends almost all his time in the Baie-Comeau gym. And he’s bulked up big. Real big. Larry doesn’t go for that. Tommy does too much weightlifting and not enough cardio. By the time he gets to camp he’ll be too heavy, he won’t be able to keep up.

  Mike waved goodbye and gunned the dune buggy. What a getaway! The purple monster dug two deep furrows in the wet sand, which quickly flooded with seawater. I watched him head off into the distance, big Mike on his machine, skipping over the dunes like a jackrabbit. I felt crappy. It wasn’t just missing the fishing trip with Leblanc; it wasn’t even the sand that Mike’s buggy had just shockingly thrown into my face. Neither was it hearing that Tommy was puffing up, lifting more and more weight every day. What it was, was that Mike had just shown up wearing a Boston Bruins hat, which meant I was going to have to teach him another lesson. How? I didn’t know. But I was definitely going to think of something.

  The rain began to fall on Pointe-Noire. So hard that it dashed even Larry’s determination. He motioned me to climb onto his big Grizzly and we drove around the point, beneath the tall black spruces that give the place its name. The sea was swelling and the waves were breaking on the reef three kilometres offshore. The deluge didn’t last long, but a minute was enough to soak us to the bone. Then, turning his back on the trail that would have brought us directly into town, Larry veered onto the 138 and we drove at full speed back to my place. I thought I was a crazy driver. But my coach was even crazier. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I was scared, but I wasn’t very comfortable either. Especially when I felt the rear-end of the four-wheeler lifting off the road surface every time we went around a turn, giving us the impression that we were destined for the ditch. I imagined myself sliding fifty feet on the asphalt feeling all my skin scraping off on the gravel, and then getting squashed by an eighteen wheeler. Not a pretty thought. But nothing happened. I got home alive. I said goodbye to Larry who, true to form, told me to get to bed early and not hang out with any girls. Don’t worry, I told him, and watched as he steered the Grizzly back onto the road, this time rolling slowly along the shoulder.

  I realized that Larry had really wanted to give me a scare. Like maybe I could jump up on his machine under exceptional circumstances such as the storm. But next time, I’d be back to running, same as always. No rest for soldiers. The warrior keeps himself in a state of constant readiness, so that in battle he’s ready to fight to his full potential, thereby increasing his chances of victory. It was the kind of crap he probably read in his military strategy or coaching books, ideas that got all mixed up somewhere behind those thick smoky blue lenses of his.

  I took a shower, massaging my aching thighs. Then I sat on my bed. My fingernails, even after I scrubbed them with a brush, were still dirty, encrusted with soil from tree planting. My father could have waited a year before starting planting. He had even mulled over the possibility. But Larry, who was never short of ways to make his charges suffer, had encouraged him to start right away. It was just what an athlete needed, he argued: rigorous, hard work to toughen the body. And the mind. Because the mind was what counted most, even more than talent or physical condition. And, for sure, my “mind” wasn’t what you would call my biggest strength. Larry had made exactly that point, weighing his words to convince Louis, my father, to start me on the program during my first year in the juniors. But his sales pitch didn’t really fool me. Most of all I’m thinking Larry already had a big Yamaha poster hanging on his wall with a close-up of the Grizzly 700 and he’d already figured it into his bear-hunting plans. Because, bear hunting— I don’t know if you’ve ever known a bear hunter —let’s just say those guys are “something else.”

  I thought it’d be a good idea if I said hello to Sylvie who had come home from work while I was in the shower. She was in the kitchen chopping carrots or celery. I thought maybe I’d ride up to Chez Lisette and see if some of my friends were hanging out there, maybe missing me. It was like I never saw anyone anymore. My Spartan training had pretty much wiped out my social life. But I was so tired, my body so heavy with fatigue, that it just seemed like my bed was the most perfect place to be in all the world. I stretched out on my back and jammed a pillow under my feet, as I sometimes like to do. I slept deeply, to the sound of rain hammering against the window.

  When I awoke it was past 7:30. Sylvie came into my room like a blast of cold air. She yanked open the drapes and the orange light of the setting sun flooded in. Little specks of dust danced in the sunlight while I tried to rub the sleep out of my
eyes. I groaned.

  “It’s too nice outside to be sleeping, champ.”

  “It was just raining.”

  “But now it’s nice. I made some soup. Did your father tell you if he’d be home tonight?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “When you see him tomorrow, tell him he has to pay the electricity and phone bills.”

  All Louis really wanted was to get those 120,000 trees planted. He worked from sunrise to sunset and slept in his prospector tent most of the time, at least while he was at camp. I could already hear him growling like a bear when I told him he had to come on home to write some cheques for Hydro-Québec and Bell.

  After downing a big bowl of soup and two sandwiches, I headed for the garage, munching a banana. The Skiroule was fast asleep under its dusty blanket. This time last summer, I’d have jumped on my Suzuki and gone up to the lake or down to the beach. But I was out of luck since my father had taken the quad to go work in the bush and I was on foot. I looked at the brand new dumbbells and the weight-lifting bench. My heart really wasn’t in it, but I set up to do some 250-pound bench presses. After three repetitions I quit. I just couldn’t get into it. Besides, I was burping up banana and it was grossing me out. I was reaching the end of my rope, what with running, weightlifting and tree planting. I wanted to get back on the ice. I wanted to skate. That’s what I was made for. But Larry had turned a deaf ear and decided there wouldn’t be any power skating before the end of July. He was making me wait, so that when I finally got the green light, I’d hit the ice in a frenzy, just a couple of weeks before training camp got underway. Another theory that he’d invented in that militarized world of his, where abstinence and desire make the warrior, the athlete, etc.