Hate Is A Strong Word

26.

"Can you explain to me what the fuck you're doing?!" I yell at him as soon as his face appears on my cell phone screen. It's seven o'clock at night in the Tatras, it's eleven in the morning in Edmonton, and I think I just woke him up. Looks like they had a very boisterous evening and last night and went to bed at maybe six in the morning. I'm surprised he's still asleep, even though it's going to be lunch soon and besides, they fucking have coaches and Robert and custodians and doctors, but there's still snoring.

If I didn't know they had an international drinking party yesterday, I'd think he got run over by a truck. He looks terrible. Circles under his eyes, he's got a black eye from his fight with Samuel yesterday and he's completely dead. I went to bed at five, got up at twelve, the house was still empty and quiet because there had been a lot of drinking this year, and by one o'clock I was on my feet, running around the snowy landscape with the football players.

I was home around three and by four I was standing on my cross-country skis and my dad was moving to get rid of his hangover. We got back an hour ago, and the cabin was just getting up and having dinner instead of breakfast. I waited all day for this main bully and scorer of the Czech team to call me, but nothing, so I took everything into my own hands again. He'll thank me for waking him up.

He grunts and turns on his side. "Tina." He says sleepily, and I can tell from his face and voice that he's about twice as hungover as he was back home. He's a hockey player, he can handle it. He's going to have worse things happen in his life than this. They got so mad last night, I don't know how they were able to do it. I just know there was drinking all night, but like all night long. But how could those coaches let them get literally fucked up like that and when they have underage kids there.

I know it must be hard to supervise twenty-something teenage boys who, while reasonable, are still young boys who like to have fun. But maybe the coaches had to have some sense. They must have known something like this was going to happen if they didn't prevent it from the start.

If I just take the coaches, there's four of them. Plus a video trainer, if two doctors, two custodians, a conditioning coach, a manager and I don't know how many other grown men. If there's maybe ten or twelve of those adults and of course Robert. The vigorous and discipline-hardened national team coach who goes by the name of Robert Miller, the very tough Robert. I can't get my head around it anyway. Bitch, they still had the Slovaks, you have twelve more adults.

I mean, the guys definitely have a curfew and a program, but I understand that if the management team is shit, they're probably going to have a hard time keeping an eye on young hockey players who have no problem sneaking alcohol into hotel rooms. They may be future stars of the Czech league or even overseas, but they are still young guys. I doubt they'll have practice today. This is the inside they don't want you to see. The entire Czech junior team plus the implementation team is blacked out. It's still just my speculation, but it's certainly not far from the truth.

"What the fuck are you doing there?" I say more calmly this time. I was worried about him. Hey, drunk Czechoslovakian hockey players in Canada doesn't bode well. Their alcohol-blunted minds might think of playing hockey and I guess we can imagine it wouldn't end well.

"Nothing."

"The pictures didn't seem like nothing to me?" I'm sitting alone in my room because I need a moment of peace. It's alive again down there now, as everyone is enjoying their last moments with family before our expedition come to an end.

"Photos?" Is he asking me or what? He doesn't even know that either he himself or someone from the national team sent me the photos, I don't know if it was the Slovak or the Czech team, I'll probably never find out unless he is aware that the photos got to me. My opinion is that a few dozen more were taken.