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Cam said no. He told the Hatter that Lynne Abbott had the story and would break it in the next morning's paper. Cam wasn't going to give up control of the message. He didn't want anyone thinking the decision to retire was anyone's but his. “I don't want any of that ‘by mutual agreement' bullshit” is the way he put it.

“By the way,” Cam said as he left Hattigan's office. “You've been in this game a long time, Madison. You ever get your name on the Cup?” Cam closed the door before the Mad Hatter could answer. Cam doesn't ask many questions he doesn't know the answer to.

Cam repaid Lynne by giving her news of his retirement a day ahead of everyone else. He also told her he'd hold an informal press conference in the dressing room after our Tuesday-night game with Edmonton.

“Look at this, Daddy,” said Lindsey, who came into the living room carrying a pumpkin in which Faith had carved earholes she'd filled with disks of summer squash and a circular nose hole from which extended a droopy carrot.

“It's a Jean Pierre-o'-lantern,” Faith yelled from the kitchen.

Caitlin carried the other pumpkin, an elaborately carved gargoyle the product of Faith's artistry and scalpel. If I ever get a face transplant, Faith's got the gig. She gave the Carter girls the gargoyle and put the Jean Pierre-o'-lantern on my coffee table.

“Is she your girlfriend?” Lindsey asked me.

“Lindsey, that's not a polite question,” said Tamara as she and Cam shooed the bats out the door.

“Well, are you?” I asked Faith when the door closed.

“I hope so,” she said.

“Me, too,” I said.

Faith was staying overnight for what she'd called “the second game of the home-and-home.” We watched the Colts beat the 'Skins 28–21, a nice midseason win for Indianapolis fans but not enough of a margin to cover the seven-and-a-half-point spread, which is the only thing a gambler like Cam's father cares about. The Colts would have covered if their Lithuanian placekicker hadn't blown a late-game field goal by banging the ball off of the left upright. I'd just turned off the TV when Cam phoned. He was laughing so hard he could hardly talk. “My father had ten grand on the Colts” (hysterical laughter). “It'd be worth the ride home just to watch him tear up the den.” Whenever Cam's dad loses his bets on the NFL Sunday games—which is most of the time—he tries to get even on the Monday-night game.

“I just called my father and he didn't even say hello. Just picks up the phone and says, ‘Goddamn Lithuanian gypsy choke artist … You didn't see disregard for the Vegas line in Johnny U's day.' So I tell him John Unitas was Lithuanian and he says, ‘Well he goddamn well must've been human on his mother's side.'”

Mr. Carter's football disappointments can lead to major den wreckage when his team wins but doesn't cover or when they lose by more than the spread. From the tantrums I'd seen watching games with Cam's dad I could imagine what was happening in Cam's parents' house.

I reminded Cam of the time we were watching with his dad when a wide-open Dallas receiver dropped a pass in the end zone on the game's final play, that moment of carelessness costing Cameron C. Carter Jr. twenty thou. The eruption began quietly with Cam's father mumbling about “the integrity of this goddamn league … druggies snorting up the thirty-yard line … Take away the betting man and the NFL couldn't out-Nielsen Dora the goddamned Explorer.…” Then Cam's dad kicked the coffee table and threw the remote at the plasma TV (missed, wide right) before storming off to bed. I had to hold a couch pillow over my face to keep from laughing out loud.

The memory of it had Cam and me laughing so hard we were gasping for breath when Faith, who had heard only my side of the conversation, stood up and said, “It must be great to be seventeen forever.” She didn't seem angry. Just curious, I thought. Maybe even wistful. She knows my teammates and I live in a world that gives us more cheap laughs than a Three Stooges film fest. Faith and I talked about it later. I told her about the baby powder Quig sprinkled in JB's hair dryer, the live lobster from a hotel kitchen Cam once placed on a napping Taki Yamamura's chest. Almost scared Taki back to Vancouver. And about the time three of us snuck out of lunch early, went to Rex Conway's hotel room, and put all of the furniture into the bathroom and left the Gideon Bible where the bed used to be. It took Rex more than an hour to get his room back together. I rationalized that the stunts are childish but the laughter is real. It cuts across cliques and team status. I claimed that laughter helps connect us and hold us together through the long season. “We need it,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. “I thought you were just immature.”

That's how I learned Faith McNeil doesn't chase pitches outside the strike zone.

*   *   *

We beat Edmonton 2–1 thanks mainly to Cam, who played his best game in two seasons, assisting on both goals, blocking four shots, and playing thirty-one minutes, more than half the game. But the big news came after the game when Cam met with the media.

The dressing room was more crowded than usual because of all the reporters who wanted to talk to Cam about his retirement. I got dressed fast just to be out of the way of the media crowding around Cam's dressing stall. It was the usual feeding frenzy where Lynne and other writers get whacked in the back of the head by TV lenses wielded by guys who think a dressing-room press conference is a reenactment of the bayonet charge at Little Round Top.

Cam is slick with the media and he didn't have any problems until toward the end. That was right after Bruno Govoni bolted to the shower and Jean-Baptiste quietly switched on Govoni's cell phone, then placed a call to it. When a writer asked Cam if his retirement plans included “bringing Carter & Peabody into the area of sports franchise ownership,” what we heard before Cam answered was the breathless voice of Loretta “Lash” LaRue moaning “Yes … Yes … FUCK … OHHHH … YESSS…”

“That goes for me, too,” said Cam as the press conference ended.

*   *   *

Two nights later we stole a 1–0 win at New Jersey, then returned to Boston for a five-game home stand. I got shelled 5–3 by Minnesota in the first game, so Packy switched to Rinky Higgins, who lost 5–1 to Columbus. We were 7–10 and in fourth place, eight points behind Montreal, when we faced the Canadiens at the Garden on a Saturday. Packy reminded us this was a four-pointer. If Montreal won they'd be ten points ahead of us—that's a lot of ground to have to make up—but if we won we'd be six points out of first, close enough to have the Canadiens peeking in their rearview mirror. The game was a laugher. I can't explain it but we beat them 9–3 and it was as if all the shots we'd been missing were suddenly jumping into the net. JB, Quigley, and Taki had two goals each and I got an assist when I shoved a puck to Cam, who passed it to JB, who roofed a laser that knocked Montreal goalie Claude Rancourt's water bottle off of the string holding it to the top of the net. Quigley then flipped the bottle into the crowd, which goes a long way toward explaining why the teams had a combined 217 minutes in penalties. The fight was so bad that even Claude Rancourt and I paired off, not because we wanted to fight but because part of the game's code is that when a melee breaks out the goalies fight each other. But Claude and I just waltzed around pulling on each other's jerseys and talking.

“I need Sox-Yanks tickets next season, Jean Pierre. You can do this,
mon ami
?”

“Get you into the Carters' private box,” I said. “Can you get me anything for the Canadian Grand Prix?”

“Pit pass. No problem,” Claude said, twisting the neck of my shirt.

Goalies like and understand one another in a way other players don't. We're united in a brotherhood of apartness and fear.

After the game, Alvin “Captain Baritone” Crouch asked Quigley why he'd flipped Rancourt's water bottle into the stands.

“Retaliation,” Quig said.

“Retaliation for what?” Captain Baritone asked.

“For nothing. I retaliate first,” Quig said.

*   *   *

We closed out the home stand with two more wins—5–4 over the Devils and 3–1 over the Sabres. One of my teammates—I still don't know who it was—got me pretty good before the Buffalo game. The day before every game our video guy leaves a DVD in my locker. It shows my saves, the goals I let in, and all of my passing and puck handling in the previous game against the opponent we're about to play. I use the DVD to review my own game and to remind myself of what the other team's shooters are likely to do. I usually look at it on the TV in the players' lounge but the day before the Buffalo game I was in a hurry to get home, so I brought the disc—labeled “JP vs. Buff”—home with me. I put it on just after dinner. Porn movie. Girl on girl. Faith howled. I wouldn't have minded so much if I'd had the real scouting tape along with the porn movie. But I played well against the Sabres, so maybe this whole scouting thing is overrated. Or maybe I should watch more porn movies.

Faith and I became an item. One indicator was that Tamara asked Faith to take part in the Bruins Wives Benefit Carnival in February. “Wives” is a misnomer. It should be called the Bruins Girlfriends Benefit Carnival because most guys on our team are single. The other indicator was that Faith asked me if she could “keep a few things” at my condo. I asked her if I could do the same at her house. I wanted to be with her, and for reasons that go beyond sex. I didn't like only the way I felt about her. I liked the way I felt about myself when I was with her. I think that's the difference between a Faith McNeil and a Sheri the Equestrienne. And between love and infatuation.

Thursday night after the game we thought we'd skip sex. “Tonight's an optional skate,” is the way Faith put it. We lay in the dark talking. She asked me what I like about what I do.

“I like being good at something. I like the recognition. And the money,” I said; then after a few seconds I tacked on the rest of the truth. “A rink is the only place I feel important.”

“Great while it lasts,” said Faith. Then she told me that the program for our game with Montreal last Saturday carried an interview with Canadiens retired veteran Phillippe Dorais. “You know what he said about retiring?” Faith asked, not stopping for me to answer. “He said that on the day he went to the press conference to announce his retirement he felt like he was going to jail. Like he was stepping into a life so bleak he'd never even imagined it.”

“I'm a long way from retiring, hon, and I'm going to have plenty of money when I do. But hockey is the only thing I know.”

“Money's important, Jean Pierre. And so is doing something you're good at. But pretty soon you're going to have to live that life you've never imagined.” Then she giggled and pinched my left nipple. “Always wanted to cop a feel,” she said. So much for the optional skate.

*   *   *

We chartered into Montreal on Friday after practice. It's a short flight, so we were in our hotel, the Queen Elizabeth, by early afternoon. The Queen E is home to one of Canada's oldest restaurants—the Beaver Club, a name dating back to the day when Montreal's chief industry was the fur trade. “I made dinner reservations for us at the Beaver Club,” Cam told me as we got off the bus. Bruno Govoni overheard him. “Why would anyone want to eat at a strip joint?” Bruno asked.

After the team lunch I took a walk by myself south on rue University, then east on rue Notre-Dame until I came to the Notre-Dame Basilica. The only time I go to church is when I'm in Montreal or Quebec City. I don't go for religious reasons but to be alone for a few minutes in a beautiful and familiar place. I like the smell in a Catholic church—burning candles mixed with the faint fragrance of incense lingering from a now forgotten service.

My first thought on seeing Notre-Dame's carved wood altar, gilded woodwork, and vaulted ceiling covered with thousands of twenty-four-karat gold stars is that this would be a great place to play Wiffle ball. I've already made up the rules. Anything into the pews is an out. Down the aisles is a single, beyond the pews is a double, the first balcony is a triple, and the second balcony or organ loft is a home run. Anything off of the balcony facade is a double. Hitting a Station of the Cross or statue of a saint is a double play. Fouling one back into the crucified Christ is automatic side retired.

I sat in a pew near a small side altar next to a metal stand flickering with votive candles. I think lighting a candle for an intention is almost as illogical as Madison Hattigan switching hotels to win a hockey game. I had a religion teacher at St. Dom's who said that to pray
for
something is not to pray at all. I tried to imagine Cam's dad trying to straddle that semantic blue line: “Heavenly Father, we beseech Thee not that the Packers win but that their loss be by less than the six-point spread. And thus may Your scourge fall on the Wizard of Odds and all bookmakers, for they are the vile money changers in the temple of sport. Amen.”

Illogical or not, I stuffed a Canadian $20 bill into the metal offerings box, pulled a wooden stick from the small sandbox filled with sticks, and lit candles for my mother's happiness, for my grandmother's health, and for Faith not optioning me to Muskegon. Then I lit one in memory of Lisa. I was going to leave it at that until I figured that twenty bucks should buy me the Total Conflagration Package, and I lit a candle for Boston winning the Stanley Cup. Maybe my high school religion teacher was wrong. He had to be at least partly wrong; he taught religion.

The only time I ever went to Mass at Notre-Dame was for Rocket Richard's funeral. We'd just been eliminated from the playoffs in late May of 2000 when Richard died. Five of us—Cam, Kevin Quigley, Jean-Baptiste Desjardin, Phil “Flipside” Palmer, and me—represented the team at the wake and state funeral.