Chapter 17
Bash
October passed, as it always did, in a blur.
Bash’s trip to the Netherlands was a nice diversion from school and from hockey, but it wasn’t pleasant.
No, it was just a reminder of what waited for him back home: Lotte, yes, and their friendship, but also the high pressure of his father’s company.
Bash had no choice but to join meetings, pressed into an expensive suit.
He had no opinion to offer on matters. None that he wanted to share, at least. He certainly had thoughts about how Koning Kapitaalgroep was run. Those thoughts would not be welcome.
The worst part of being home was seeing the state of his father’s health.
Gerard Koning had had his first heart attack at the age of thirty-nine, when he was a stockbroker on the Amsterdam Stock Exchange.
That was before he had even started Koning Kapitaalgroep.
The next heart attack came seven years later, when Koning Kapitaalgroep was five years old and juggernauting through the world of European finance.
Now, Gerard was sixty-eight, and the doctors feared another heart attack was on the way.
If Bash had gotten one thing from his father, it was his near-self-destructive sense of self-discipline. Just as Bash had wanted to push through the pain in his shoulder to play hockey, Gerard fiercely insisted on working.
No matter what.
Bash’s mother, Sophie Koning, told Bash that Gerard slept maybe four hours a night now. And that was on a good day. On the days he didn’t sleep in the apartment, he stayed in the company’s Zuidas high-rise; he was up before dawn to get back to work. He rarely came home before midnight.
And when he came home, he had two glasses of cognac before bed. Sometimes more. Sophie knew he drank more, keeping his desk well stocked with expensive jenever, a type of Dutch gin.
Sophie kept multiple of Koning Kapitaalgroep’s assistants, interns, and secretaries on her private payroll to spy on Gerard. Though most of them suspected she did this because she thought he was cheating, the thought of her husband being unfaithful was unthinkable to Sophie.
Gerard loved her. He just loved his work more.
Through her spies on Gerard’s staff, Sophie knew that when Gerard was at work, he never touched another woman, but he certainly touched the bottle, and was known to put his nose to the white powder.
All of this she told Bash when he was home, over a late lunch at the Amstel Hotel. As she picked at her food and he tried to maintain his manners instead of wolfing the food down, she explained to him her suspicions that Gerard was slowly killing himself.
“Je moet hem tegenhouden,” Sophie said. You must stop him.
Bash didn’t look up from the Mediterranean chicken he was cutting. “Nee, mam. Dat is niet mijn taak.” No, mom. That’s not my job.
Sophie had ordered a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc that cost more than three months’ rent in Bash’s college apartment and had only had half of one glass so far.
“Hij is je vader. Geef je dan niets om hem?” she said sternly. He’s your father. Don’t you care about him?
“Ja, ik geef om hem. Maar het is niet mijn taak om zijn problemen op te lossen.” Yes, I care about him. But solving his problems isn't my job.
Sophie sighed. “I love you,” she said in English. “And I love your father. Het breekt mijn hart om te zien dat hij dit zichzelf aandoet.” And it breaks my heart to see him doing this to himself.
Bash finally put down his utensils. “I love him, too,” he said in English. “It breaks my heart, too. Maar mam, wat moet ik dan doen?” But, Mom, what am I supposed to do?
If Gerard wouldn’t listen to Sophie, would he listen to Bash? Bash didn’t think so.
Sophie looked stricken and frightened.
Bash took her hand. “Heb je met zijn artsen gesproken?” Have you talked to his doctors?
“Ja, ja. Heel vaak.” Yes, yes. Many times. She drained the remainder of her wine in one long gulp. “Hij wil ook niet naar hen luisteren.” He won’t listen to them either.
“Then he’s made his choice,” Bash said. “What can we do?”
Sophie looked very sad when he said that.
That painful conversation kept coming back to Bash whenever he was in Massachusetts. The knowledge of his father’s self-destructive tendencies made it hard for him to focus on his classes or on hockey.
It was a very real possibility that Gerard might drink or work himself to death.
If he did, aside from the emotional pain that it would cause Bash and his family, it would mean that Bash would be expected to return to the Netherlands, perhaps permanently, after graduation.
Gerard was still very clear that he wanted Bash to take over Koning Kapitaalgroep after he died.
He had made his peace with Bash’s “hockey hobby,” but he was convinced that Bash would eventually retire from hockey and return to the Netherlands, where he would pick up the reins from Gerard when Gerard was old and content.
Bash wasn’t sure he could reject his father’s dying wishes if those wishes were to take over the company.
He took his anger at the situation out on the ice. Never against other players, as that wasn’t his style, but against the puck, against himself.
He pushed himself harder than he should have. Though Cort had joined the starting line, Kurtzman still knew how to use Bash and would put him in at key moments in games.
Then, Bash was unstoppable.
He was the Basher once again. Injury be damned. Nothing could stand in the way of him and the puck, his puck and the goal. He played hard, trained harder, and collapsed into bed every night, exhausted and sore.
He only saw Adonis in passing. They texted almost constantly.
There was the usual horny texting, but more of it was them talking about their days.
Bash found that he enjoyed hearing about Adonis’s day.
He found himself hoping things were going well for Adonis.
Hoping that Adonis would get the good news that he would be on Team USA.
The Netherlands wasn’t sending a team to compete in ice hockey in the Olympics.
Bash had briefly toyed with the idea of going to watch the Olympics if Adonis got on the team.
Then he wondered why he would want to do that.
They had never defined themselves as friends; they were only hooking up.
What reason did Bash have to go support Adonis in the Olympics?
There were other, more pressing, things to worry about.
The most pressing of these things was Cort Styleton.
Something was up with the freshman. Bash couldn’t prove it, but he was confident.
Cort’s performance in practice and in the games had drastically improved, but his recklessness on the ice had returned.
He played as if he were invincible, heedless of his own safety.
By the end of most games, there were new bruises or blood on his face.
October was done, and November steamrolled the campus and the athletes.
Bash’s body was now constantly sore. He taped his shoulder every game and every practice.
The amount of tape he added grew every day.
The Americans took a week off for Thanksgiving, which felt weirdly pro-Colonialist to Bash, but he needed another break.
He wouldn’t be going back to Amsterdam for this break.
His mother had tried to convince him to, but Robbie had invited Bash to join his family for their big American Thanksgiving dinner.
Bash was more than happy for the excuse to stay in the U.S.A.
and avoid his father. He used the excuse that he needed to study for Finals.
On the last Friday before Thanksgiving Break, the Bellford Ravens faced their rivals, the Ashwell University Krakens, in an important conference game.
While their scrimmage had been held on Ashwell’s campus, this game was played at Bellford’s Rink. The game between Bellford and Ashwell was often considered the most important of the season, largely because of their long-standing rivalry.
Bash felt like his blood was buzzing before the game when the team gathered in the locker room.
Kurtzman delivered a rousing speech, then passed the floor to the co-captains.
Robbie went first, stirring the team into a raucous frenzy with his words.
You’d think he was prepping them for war in a Shakespearean play. Then he yielded to Bash.
Speeches weren’t high on the list of Bash’s skills.
He kept it short. He reminded his teammates that this was just another game, that they shouldn’t let the rivalry with Ashwell go to their heads.
He said that they’d played well so far this season, that they could tighten it up in a few areas, but that he had full faith they would.
Robbie jumped in and suggested that Bash sing a Dutch fight song. Bash flipped him off, everyone laughed, and Kurtzman hollered for them to get on out there.
Bash was about to pop his helmet onto his head when he saw his phone light up in his cubby. There were multiple unanswered texts on his screen.
Normally, before a game, he’d ignore any texts.
But two texts were from his sister, and one from Adonis.
While the other guys began to file out of the locker room, some moving awkwardly in their hockey gear, Bash grabbed his phone. He checked Adonis’s message first.
Adonis: Good luck today! Clarisse and I are sitting in Section 104. I’ll be waving at you!
Bash smiled. He’d unpack all the feelings he had about that text later, because Lotte’s texts seemed more urgent:
Lotte: Call me when you get a chance
Lotte: Dad seemed sick, and Mom finally convinced him to see a doctor. Turns out he had a Silent Myocardial Infarction (I’ve already put a file together about that, please check your email for it.) Doctors don’t want him to be active, but Mom and I don’t think he’ll listen. Call me.
Bash’s jaw clenched as he squeezed his phone.
“Koning!” Kurtzman called, looking back at him. His eyebrows were raised, and there was an expression of concern on his face. “Everything okay?”