Memorial: A Novel

By Matt Brown

The Red Deer Rebels are in a rebuilding year. But their rookie head coach, Luke Nestor, is not accustomed to losing. As a player, he has led numerous teams to championships in junior and minor pro leagues. But this year his challenge is a big one. Relying on the talents of his prodigious but reluctant superstar, Will Topplehorn, and his short-fused Russian goaltender, Vanek Vilisi, Nestor will attempt to lead an unproven but determined group of fledgling junior players to the ultimate junior hockey prize: the Memorial Cup.

But as is true of real life, each player brings with him his own baggage: his own history, issues, values, aspirations, and demons. Memorial follows the lives of Coach Nestor and seven of his players as they attempt to figure out their own lives and their place in the turbulent elite hockey world. The stories of eight main characters converge into one in this fast-paced emotional roller coaster that delves into friendship, trust, acceptance, betrayal, and forgiveness, while illuminating all the adrenaline and vividness of junior hockey. This true-to-life story spares the reader none of the hard realities of this world and its participants.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 10, 2007
• ISBN: 9781462840892

Matt Brown

Matt Brown is an author and broadcaster based in the UK. He has written eight books for children, including Mutant Zombies Cursed My School Trip which won the FCBG Children's Book Award in 2020. Before dyeing his hair grey for fashion reasons, Matt presented on some of the UK's most popular TV shows and he has been on the radio a lot, hosting shows and making documentaries. He is a passionate promoter of reading for pleasure in schools as well as an advocate of saving public libraries. Matt is not considered dangerous (unless you get him talking about either his favourite trousers or Manchester United). Chats with him on either of these subjects may lead to death-by-boredom. Also, he does NOT look good in hats.

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Copyright © 2007 by Matt Brown.

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 copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

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8

9

10

11

EPILOGUE

1

Behind closed doors, George Litton, the general manager of the Red Deer Rebels pleaded his point to the team’s president, Barry Murdock.

How many times have you assured me that you trusted my instincts, Barry?

Murdock rubbed his eyes, then folded his hands in front of his face and looked grimly over at Litton. I know, George, but this just doesn’t make sense to me. We’ve lost five of our top six scorers, half of our top defensive pair, and now it sounds like Stemmel won’t be sent back to junior. That leaves us with two seventeen year-olds in net. Why the wild card at head coach? Don’t we want some experience behind the bench?

Litton stood up and leaned on Murdock’s desk firmly with both hands, This guy’s the pied-piper of championship rings, Barry. Everywhere he goes, he wins. Two Memorial cups in junior, with two different teams. Three Calder cups in six years with three different teams. He even won a championship last year in the German premier league with the team he joined half way through the year.

Murdock raised both hands in wonder, his eyes widening, "Well, what about that? The guy leaves Cincinnati in January, doesn’t tell a soul from what I heard, hops on a plane without his wife. I mean, it sounds like the guy just lost it."

Litton wandered to the window uncomfortably, his hands on his hips. Murdock padded his argument, Besides, the guy’s never coached. You know as well as I do that success as a player doesn’t necessarily equate to success behind the bench.

He’s been coaching since junior, Barry! He’s a born leader. Litton looked at Murdock with a hint of resignation in his eyes. I don’t know what happened in Cincinnati. All I’ve heard are the same rumours you’ve heard.

Murdock’s look softened, sensing his friend’s conviction. I’m not saying you’re wrong, George. But let’s bring him in as an assistant, groom him a little until he’s ready. Why throw him to the wolves with a team that’s as green as the one we’re going to have this year?

Litton sat back down, waited a moment, then looked Murdock straight in the eyes, It just feels right, Barry.

Murdock’s pause was twice as long. Then he shook his head, smiling. I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this. Okay, Nestor’s our guy. Give him a call.

Three weeks later.

Luke Nestor walked slowly into the Red Deer Centrium. The stadium was empty and dark. He stopped at the edge of the concourse and gazed out at the dimly-lit ice surface. For a twenty-seven year-old, his faced looked especially weathered and scarred. But his eyes revealed a youthfulness that was unspoiled by his challenging past. He wasn’t sure why he’d accepted the Red Deer head coaching job, until now. He wanted a fresh start, a new environment, but he wasn’t willing to leave the game behind. He loved it too much.

He’d been inside the Centrium many times before, as a player. It looked the same as before but it felt different now after all that he’d been through. He had doubts similar to Murdoch’s about his coaching ability. It was new territory for him. But his apprehension was offset by the relief of starting something new. He was eager to put some distance between himself and his recent past.

Topper

The Topplehorn farm, south of Tisdale, Saskatchewan.

A wiry young man ascended to the top floor of the small farm house for one last look around. He poked his head into his old room for one last look. It looked smaller with the furniture out of it. He smiled faintly when he thought back five years prior, when his sister had moved out and he had inherited a room of his own. A nine by twelve foot palace, all to himself. His older brother had kept the bigger room that they had shared, of course, but he was just thrilled to have his own space.

A quick scan of his parents’ room triggered too many memories for him to face again. He walked out quickly and leaned against the wall in the hallway with his eyes closed, collecting himself. Then he ran his fingers through his messy blond hair and exhaled sharply from his nose, returning to the present.

All clear up here, Mom! he called down the stairs.

Thanks honey! I think we’re all finished down here too, a voice responded.

The fair-skinned teen walked slowly down the creeky steps, leaning on the handrail all the way down, not wanting to let it go. His mother walked to the bottom of the steps to meet him. She was lean and strong, like her son, but something in her looked broken. He stopped a few stairs up and sat, still clutching the rail. Are you sure this is the right thing? he asked, looking up with squinting eyes.

His mother nodded surely, swallowing to choke her tears. I know it’s hard, Will. But I just can’t stay here anymore without your dad. It’s just more than I can take. She sat down beside him on the step and took his hand. It’s not the work, Will. I know you can keep the farm running. You’ve more than proven that over the past year. A tear rolled down her face and she continued, I just see him everywhere here. It’s just too hard. I need some distance.

Will nodded and hugged his mother, laying his head on the top of hers. It’ll be okay, Mom. I’m sorry. It just feels so final, like leaving here is… He stopped, either unwilling or unable to complete his sentence. He patted the outside of her shoulders and helped her up. Neither felt up to another cry. They both switched their demeanor back to businesslike to move forward.

All your stuff’s ready to go? You’ve got all your gear? Maggie Topplehorn continued.

Yep. The truck’s packed up, gassed up, and ready to roll, Will assured her, summoning a smile.

Auntie Lee has her Blades season tickets already. She said you guys will be here on October eighth, so we’ll get to see you soon, she went on, searching for words that would make the goodbye easier.

That’s assuming I make it. I may be home in a week if things don’t go well, Will cautioned her.

Maggie smiled and nodded with resignation. There was no use in pointing out the absurdity in his statement. She knew that, even with a year off, Will’s ability as a player was highly coveted by George Litton and the Red Deer organization. She played along. Right. See you some time between next week and October. You have everyones’ numbers in Melfort? I’ll be staying at Aunt Sarah’s for now. She’s already planning to expand the B&B now that I’ll be there to help, Maggie laughed, trying to assure her son that she’d be okay too.

Will kissed his mom and hugged her one more time, then walked backwards towards his beaten up pick-up. I’ll call you when I get there.

Maggie took one last look at her son. She felt at ease knowing that this was the right thing for him. There was something special about him that would go unnoticed on the farm. Almost regal, like a prince in pauper’s clothing. Okay, honey. Thanks for all the help. Drive safe.

Will nodded as he climbed into the truck. He pulled away slowly, waving as he left. Maggie waved back and blew him a kiss.

She slid the box of cleaning supplies into her truck and climbed in. She felt a sadness engulf her as she pulled away, but it subsided quickly when she thought about the weight that would be lifted from her son’s shoulders. Will had put his own grief aside in order to keep the farm running when his father was gone. Maggie had barely been able to function. She hoped that, now that she had sold the farm, he would be able to go back to being a boy. She thought that hockey was his best chance of doing it. But she knew that her husband’s death had changed her son forever and his youth might have faded beyond recovery.

Gilly

Huntsboro, Alabama.

An elderly black man sat with his teenage grandson in the kitchen of their southern home. You sure about this, boy? the old man asked, his face wrinkling in amazement.

Yeah, Grampa. Hockey’s my game. I love it. You gonna come see me play? the young man replied, unaffected by his grandfathers obvious disapproval. His accent was conspicuously devoid of the southern drawl of the old man.

Grampa’s face contorted in disbelief. Come see you play in thirty below? Shit, Calvin, you got to be crazy, he replied, laughing.

Calvin shook his head at his Grampa. It’s not that cold at the rink, Grampa. In fact, Regina was up over ninety yesterday… hotter than it was here. He gave up, realizing the sell would be a tough one. Ah well, you’ll just have to wait until I make the show. Then you and Gramma can drive up to Atlanta to see me play.

Grampa’s face turned serious again. Your daddy said you could play football at any college in the U.S., full scholarship.

Dad likes to exaggerate. Calvin’s expression pleaded for a reprieve. He’d been defending his decision for the whole visit. Come on, Grampa. This is what I really want. But I want you to understand. I grew up in Canada. The son of a CFL legend. I wanted to find my own path. And hockey’s my own thing. I feel most at home on the ice. You’d get it if you could see me play.

I saw the videos… and I don’t get it. You’re like one black bee buzzing around with a bunch of white ones. Grampa looked out the window and his expression darkened. Your daddy said he heard them callin’ you nigger.

Calvin looked at his Grandfather and nodded slowly. I’m good, Grampa. People try to get to you when you’re beating their team. It doesn’t happen very often. It just comes out once in a while when someone’s frustrated and desperate. Grampa continued to stare out the window. Calvin leaned forward, placing his hand on his Grampa’s shoulder. Nobody called you nigger when you played football, Grampa? When you walked to school? When you crossed the street? Name-calling’s not gonna change what’s in my heart. There are good folks up there, Grampa. Mostly good folks. This is what I want. Please try to understand.

Calvin’s father, Malcolm stood in the doorway, his arms crossed. He wanted to rush to his son’s aid. Regina had been good to him. Good enough to make it home when he retired from football. He understood Calvin’s decision, and now regretted commiserating with his father about his son’s decision not to follow in his footsteps. But he knew that Calvin and his Grandfather needed to work this one out themselves.

At last, Grampa looked at Calvin and smiled. He put his hand around the back of Calvin’s neck and tugged him gently forward. Alright then, boy. You do what’s in your heart. Me and your Gramma will come to Atlanta… when you make it to the show.

Tagger

Sherwood Park, Alberta.

You’ve got your cell phone?

Yes.

It’s charged?

Yes, mom.

Something to eat while you drive?

Juice box, apple, cheese, and a bagel.

And you’ve checked? You have your insulin for sure?

Mom… yes. I checked.

Linda McTague had stopped trying to hide her panic from her son. She was struggling in the end to let him leave. I still don’t see why you want to leave the team here. You were assistant captain last year. Coach Niles loves you.

Kellen responded to each frantic question calmly and patiently. Mom, I just want to give this a try. I never dreamed of being invited to a Western League training camp. I just want to go and give it my best. I probably won’t even make it. He paused for a moment, a little bothered that this might be a consolation for his mother.

But what about your studies? There’s no university in Red Deer.

I can pick up courses at the college that will transfer to my degree. School can wait, Mom. And if I don’t make it, I’ll carry on with my history degree as planned. His tone was gentle and reassuring but his mother’s face showed no sign of relief.

Nick McTague walked into the room, hoping to rescue his son from his frenzied mother. Kellen could write a book about blood sugar maintenance, Linda. He’ll be fine.

Kellen smiled at his dad, appreciating the reinforcements, but knowing he wouldn’t likely have any more success than he’d had. Linda looked annoyed, feeling ganged up on. I’m his mother. It’s my job to worry… since obviously neither of you are going to… and I don’t want to hear about Bobby Clarke again either.

Kellen wrapped his arms around his mother and gave her a gentle squeeze. Nick nestled in with them, joining the hug. Linda’s shoulders finally dropped in resignation.

Oh, of course you’ll be fine. Just take good care of yourself… and call us as soon as you get there.

Benny

Kelowna, B.C.

The Bennett family sat around the living room, waiting for Tyler to finish packing his bags. Miriam Germaine sat with them, waiting to accompany her boyfriend back to Red Deer. She had always felt a little awkward around Tyler’s parents, less so around his little sister. Twelve year-old Jessica broke the silence, feeling a closeness to Miriam that her parents didn’t seem to.

So what’s the plan again?

Well, Red Deer camp starts on the twenty-fifth, so Tyler’s going to go and do some of the testing and get a few skates in, then he flies to Washington on the second, Miriam explained.

And that’s the NHL camp? The Capitals or whatever? Jessica asked.

Miriam smiled at her seeming indifference. Yes, but they told him they would most likely send him back to junior after a couple of weeks. But this way he’ll get a taste before next year.

And how about you Miriam? You’re back to the college? Mrs. Bennett asked with a tone that sounded more like a job interview than conversation.

Yes.

And what is it you’re taking again?

It’s my second year of the music program. I’m a classical guitar major. Miriam sat uncomfortably, leaning on her knees, looking curled up and small. She felt quite comfortable with herself everywhere but with the Bennetts. There she felt like she was trying out… and things weren’t looking good for her to ‘make the team’.

What kind of job prospects will you have after that? I imagine it’s a pretty competitive field, Mr. Bennett’s tone was slightly gentler but still revealed a suspicion about Miriam’s intentions. Miriam tried to remind herself that they would be suspicious of any girl who might be seen as trying to take advantage of their son’s athletic success. But right now she just felt painfully aware of them staring at her nose ring and burgundy hair.

Um, yeah, it is, but they’re always looking for good studio musicians… for radio ads and stuff.

Miriam breathed a sigh of relief when she heard Tyler coming down the stairs. Okay, ready to go? he asked with a smile, knowing how his parents tended to act around his girlfriends, especially Miriam.

Mm hm. she nodded, trying to conceal her desperation to leave.

It took them a while to get on the road. The Bennetts had long goodbyes for their prodigious son. Miriam tried not to roll her eyes as Tyler opened his ‘good luck at your first pro camp’ gift.

Sorry about that, Tyler offered, rubbing Miriam’s knee while he drove. He looked over at his girlfriend. She looked weary. You okay?

Oh yeah, I’m fine. Just really tired for some reason.

Long day getting all packed up.

Yeah, that’s probably it, Miriam replied, gazing out the window at the winding shoreline of the lake.

Savvy

Red Deer, Alberta.

Dylan Savic stepped out of his truck to the parking lot of the Earl’s restaurant, just a few hundred meters from the Centrium. He was stocky and taut, the classic mesomorph. His skin was darkly tanned, accenting his already sharp features. His saunter turned to a stride as he stepped into the restaurant. Despite his efforts to stay cool, his heart quickened the moment he saw Gina waiting tables in the back corner. Her face lit up when she saw him, losing her own fight to hide her excitement.

Gina forgot where she was momentarily as she threw her self into Dylan’s arms. She cut their kiss short (a PG version) remembering she was working, then leaned back against an empty table, Just get back?

Yep, made it in under thirteen hours, Dylan responded, smugly.

Any tickets? Gina asked, knowing it should have taken about fifteen hours.

Nope. Radar detector.

Gina shook her head at his recklessness, but smiled since it was part of her attraction to him. How was the mill?

Sucked, Dylan responded flatly.

Gina stepped forward and leaned into him, foregoing more small talk. So were you a good boy while you were gone?

Dylan raised his eyebrows in mock surprise at the question, pointing to his chest in ‘who me’ fashion. Of course.

Gina punched him in the chest playfully, You better have been.

Vans

George Litton knocked on Luke Nestor’s half-open door then pushed it open and walked in. Luke?

Luke Nestor sat at his already messy desk, one foot up on the only corner not covered with paper or hockey gear. He had the phone to his ear but appeared to be on hold. Hey, George. Have a seat. Luke pointed to the only other chair in the room. George moved the roll of tape, the stack of pucks, the water bottle, and the mini white board from the chair and sat down.

So you mentioned on the phone that you thought you might have a solution to our goaltending problem? Litton asked in a tone of guarded optimism.

Yeah, that’s who I’m holding for, Nestor replied, pointing to the handset. He said he’d give me an answer today.

Litton believed in Nestor as a player and had a good feeling about him as a coach, but ‘Nestor the recruiter’ was virgin territory. He was more than a little nervous but still had to ask, "and he is… ?"

Vanek Vilisi. German Elite League. I played with him last year for the last ten games and the play-offs. Phenomenal. Nestor read the skepticism in Litton’s face and couldn’t help but smile. Then he anticipated Litton’s next question and answered it preemptively, You haven’t heard of him because he was hidden away in the second division for almost two years.

Litton wasn’t biting. A German goalie?

Russian, Nestor responded surely. He came to Frankfurt with his mom to get away from his dad: soldier, bit of a psycho. See his dad would beat his mom up until Vanek was old enough to step in. Then the nightly fisticuffs were father-son. But then, for some reason, his mom decided she couldn’t live without the guy. Go figure. So she went back, but Vanek stayed. He was already backstopping the div 2 team from the organization I went over to.

Litton looked up. "You still haven’t told me about that."

Nestor looked him in the eyes, another time, George. He went on, You see, he could have moved up to the elite league right away. The kid’s feet are like lightning. But the coach, a Russian transplant, had kind of taken him in. Nestor sighed. And since it was the first real loyalty the kid had ever experienced, he stayed down for over a year and a half. To his credit, it was the coach who finally pushed him out the door, insisted that he move up.

Litton shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. Why do I get the feeling there’s a big ‘yeah but’ coming?

Nestor looked back sympathetically. Once you see him move, all yours fears will dissolve. He works hard, he… Vanek! Nestor’s attention shifted immediately to the phone. Well comrade, what did you decide? Nestor winked at Litton, giving him a thumbs up. Awesome! You’ll love it here, Vans. You’ll stay with me. No, Vanek, not stay there, you’ll stay… you’ll live with me… here… in Canada. Yeah. Okay, I’ll call you after I arrange for your flight. Your flight. When I get you a ticket? For the plane? I’ll call. Okay. Good, Vanek. I’ll call you tomorrow morning. Okay. Bye. Nestor hung up and looked up at Litton, shrugging, his English is still only so-so.

You were saying that when I see him… Litton prompted.

Right, he’s got the best feet I’ve seen, and I saw some good ones in Detroit. Then Nestor finally confirmed what was in Litton’s gut, okay, he’s a bit of a snap-show. Got a bit of a temper. But I can work with him on that, Nestor tried to assure his friend.

Litton was tiring of the phrase ‘a bit of a’. He’d heard a lot of it. He’d conceded to team president, Barry Murdoch, that hiring Nestor was ‘a bit of a’ gamble. His wife had astutely observed that his career might be in ‘a bit of a’ precarious perch. And now his mysterious new Russian netminder had ‘a bit of a’ temper. But Litton took a deep breath and resigned to what was already running its course. He smiled as he got up. Alrighty.

Hammer

Lethbridge, Alberta.

Garrett Hammond wandered back and forth from the house to his car, throwing another bag in each time. The beat-up hockey bags were filled with clothes, and were pushed in one-by-one, around the biggest bag: the one with his hockey gear. He held a cordless phone to his ear, chatting with his teammate as he packed.

How was Prince George? Garrett laughed at the reply on the other end. Good to have that drive out of the way, I bet. More laughter. Dylan Savic had a knack for making Garrett laugh.

Garrett’s mother sat on the step, wondering what was so funny. She looked sad to see her son leaving, but weary from much more than that.

More like four actually. I don’t drive like Villeneuve. So I’ll be in about seven. You in for a few pops? Nice. Last big piss-up before camp. I need it. He glanced up at his mother. Yeah. We’ll talk. Later.

Garrett turned off the cordless phone and placed it on the counter inside the door. Then he sat down on the step, a few feet from his mother.

I talked to Dad this morning, Garrett started. His mother said nothing. He said he was going to try to patch things up again.

Laura Hammond looked straight ahead, her eyes welling up. Not this time, Garrett, she muttered quietly.

You won’t even talk to him? Garrett protested.

Honey, . . . are we really going to get into this right now? Seriously? Laura seemed desperate to close the discussion. She stood up and stepped towards her son. Come here and give your mom a kiss.

Garrett bent down to kiss his mother, then rested his arms around her in a half-hearted hug. The two stood in marked contrast. She looked small and frail. Pretty most days, when she bothered to put on make-up. But not today. Not in a few weeks. Garrett towered above her, broad, and imposing. His short, brown hair lightened by the sun, curly on top. He was rugged but handsome. To Laura, he looked more like his father than he ever had, but she tried not to see it.

Call me when you get there, ’kay, hon? Laura’s tone rang with affection, trying to salvage a civil goodbye.

Sure, Garrett replied flatly. He climbed into the Mustang that he and his father had rebuilt, then peeled away, a passive final protest to his mother’s unwillingness to give in.

2

Luke Nestor sat with George Litton in the middle of the empty Centrium bleachers, watching the practice as his assistant coaches were running it. He had decided it would be a better vantage point for assessing the talent on his new team, although sitting in the bleachers during a practice felt foreign to him. He would have to cut the group of forty players down to twenty-five before the season opener, a task that he dreaded. Litton tried to help him talk his way through it.

Tell me what you’ve seen so far, Luke. Litton prompted.

Nestor crossed his arms and sat back, hugging his clipboard to his chest. So far? He paused. So far I’ve seen forty guys busting their asses to make this team.

Come on, Luke. Don’t make it harder than it needs to be. No one likes cutting players, but it’s got to be done. Who stands out… besides Topplehorn?

The grave look on Nestor’s face faded to a smile as he turned his attention to Will Topplehorn on the ice. He’s something, eh? He moves like Fedorov. What’s his story?

Litton’s smile faded as quickly as Nestor’s had appeared. I hate to think about it. His Mom and Dad were on their way to watch him play at their home rink in Tisdale. Some kids drove off a bridge in front of them and their truck went through the ice. His dad was trying to save them when he fell into the river and drowned. His mom saw the whole thing but there was nothing she could do. Nestor shook his head slowly, still transfixed on the young Topplehorn on the ice. Litton continued, Poor kid was so racked with guilt, he quit playing altogether. He paused. I can’t begin to imagine what their family has gone through. Anyway, it was his mom that talked him into playing again. She sold their farm so he wouldn’t feel obligated to keep it running. She called me and asked if we’d consider inviting him out despite the lay-off.

Nestor looked over at Litton, Lay-off?

Yeah, she said he hasn’t been on skates since that night. That was almost eighteen months ago. Nestor’s eyes widened as Litton continued, They had to buy him new ones because his feet had grown a size. Litton snickered in spite of himself.

And he’s how old?

Turned seventeen in July.

Nestor shook his head again then looked back out at Topplehorn. You think he’s thinking about his dad right now?

Litton shrugged, Doesn’t look like it, does it? But how could he not be?

Nestor nodded, Yeah. Then he leaned forward and rested his chin on his hands. So this is what eighteen months of rust looks like? I do believe we’re in the presence of greatness, Georgie.

Agreed. What else do you see? Litton asked, moving Nestor along.

Well, I could see Topplehorn playing with Hammond on his right side; that’s a no-brainer.

Yeah, he’s our top goal scorer of the kids we have back, Litton added.

Probably the black kid on his left," Nestor continued.

Guilliam. Inserted Litton.

Right, Calvin… any relation? Nestor asked. The question was clear enough without an explanation. Most Canadians new the name Malcolm Guilliam from his playing days in the CFL, whether they’d seen him play or not.

Yeah. His son. Built just like the old man too.

Yeah, he’s a good size, and deceptively quick with that long rangy stride. You got him from the Pats?

Litton nodded as he