Chapter 13
I'm beginning to wonder if this was a good idea. Steve is sitting to my left, Mike Illitch to my right, and the other seats at the round table are full of National Hockey League officials. They're going to ask me questions. They'll want details, specifics, and I'm not sure I can handle that.
Steve must notice, because his hand slips under the table to mine. He glances reassuringly at me, and then the meeting begins. An older man with gray hair and a thick French Canadian accent asks Mr. Illitch why he insisted on calling the meeting.
"Mr. Brisae," Mr. Illitch started, "in the past 24 hours, I was made aware of some problems that one of my players experienced before we acquired him."
"Mr. Ference is that player, we assume," another man, wearing a dark gray suit and wire-rimmed glasses, clarifies.
"If I may, I'd like to explain the situation," Steve says politely. Mr. Brisae, who seems to be the authority figure of the group, nods. Steve starts to tell them what I told him only hours earlier. "While playing for the Pittsburgh Penguins, it seems that Andrew was a victim of some...inappropriate behavior."
"What kind of abuse, Mr. Yzerman?" wire glasses man asks.
"I'm not positive of all of the details, but it looks to have been a case of abuse," Steve pauses to look at me, then continues. "Verbal and physical."
Mr. Brisae turns to me, "Mr. Ference, I need to know that everything that you say in this meeting is completely truthful," I agree solemnly, and he nods. "I will be asking you questions that will probably make you uncomfortable; if you cannot answer them, just say so. However, your cooperation would be appreciated."
"Yes, sir," I answer softly, fingers tight around Steve's. He squeezes back, and it strengthens my determination to get through this.
"Who was allegedly involved in this discretion?" this question comes from wire glasses.
I take a deep breath and whisper his name, "Johan Hedberg," and then I silently apologize to him.
"Were you the roommate of Mr. Hedberg during road trips?" another man asks, this one with black hair and a striped tie.
"On and off since March of 2001," I reply.
"Is there any other relationship that you shared with Mr. Hedberg that we should know about?" Mr. Brisae asks.
"We were friends," I start, then hesitate, "and...we were also...together."
"Sexually?" I have no idea who asks this question, because I'm too busy staring at the table and wanting to disappear.
"Yes, sir," I admit, cheeks blushing furiously. I've just come out to a room full of officials who can easily end my career if they want to. But Steve's hand is still holding mine, and I find the ability to speak again. "Johan and I were...lovers...starting in April of 2001."
Mr. Brisae nods, his expression unreadable, "When was the first instance of abuse?"
"The last game of the 2001 playoffs. When we were eliminated by the New Jersey Devils."
"What happened?"
"He drove me to my house, and I invited him in. When the door was closed and locked, he started to yell at me. He told me that I had been at fault for the loss. I turned the puck over too many times." I can hear his voice from that night, echoing in my mind and telling me what I did wrong. It's rolling like a video in my head, and I let myself tell them everything. "I didn't clear the crease well enough. I didn't block any shots. Then he punched me. After the first hit, I don't remember much..."
"How long did this go on?"
"For the entire 2001-2002 season. It was a ritual; after a win, we would go to my place and...celebrate. If we lost, he would punish me, and then he would leave, disgusted with me because I had stolen a win from him," I explain, feeling very much like I want to cry.
"What happened this season? Did something change?"
I don't know who is talking now, all of the voices are blending together, and I just answer numbly. I hate to think about this season. I hate to think about how everything started to go bad.
"It's okay, Andrew," Steve whispers, "you can stop now. You don't have to say anything else if you don't want to."
"I'm okay," I reply, voice breaking over the words. I am going to say this. I need to talk about how everything went wrong. "I had surgery in October to repair a hernia in my abdomen. That's when everything started to change. When I finally returned from the injury, the team went on a long winless streak. After the first loss I played in, he showed up at my house." I stop to regain my composure and to decide how to word the rest. "He hit me. He also swore at me and reminded me that I deserved the discipline. After that," I try to speak, but I'm crying now, and it's hard to force the words out. "After that, he...forced himself on me."
"Clarify, please, Mr. Ference."
"He...Johan..." I can't quite say it, and when I finally strain, it comes out sounding strangled, "raped me."
A pause follows, and I assume that they're writing something down. "Was this a one-time occurrence?"
"No," I answer, pausing to wipe away the tears that are streaming down my face, "it happened after every loss, sir. Even when we won, it was the same way."
The rest of the meeting is lost on me, because I'm crying too hard to pay much attention. I do pick up some comments here and there about the investigation that the league will begin, and Steve and Mr. Illitch discuss exactly how they're going about my therapy. By the time Steve leads me outside I've stopped crying. There's nothing left to cry about; I'm too numb to feel the pain.
