Chapter 25
Lunch with Steve is almost predictable. He asks how therapy went; I tell him what Dr. Giannetti and I talked about. After that, as always, he drops the topic completely and brings up something else, so that we can eat lunch while in less intense conversation.
The meetings with the NHL officials are usually just as predictable. Not today.
Jason Woolley flew in from Pittsburgh, and he’s already waiting in the room when Steve and I get there. He has a black eye and a swollen lip, and my stomach clenches when I realize that the wounds are from Johan. My insides twist more painfully when it dawns on me that he’s being bruised in order to help me.
Barely a word is said to me when the meeting begins, instead they ask Jason what happened. He explains how he got the injuries, how after a loss to the Rangers, Johan drove him home, and started yelling at him. Worthless. Stupid. Fuck-up. The insults are so familiar I feel like I’m going to be sick. As he describes the way Johan hit him, punched him, kicked him, I have to make a concerted effort to keep my lunch down.
Fortunately, Jason’s house has been wired and put under surveillance, so there is audio and visual proof of what he’s saying. When he finishes, I assume that the hardest part of the meeting is over. But again, today’s meeting isn’t exactly predictable. One of the officials, wire-rimmed-glasses-guy, asks him if he had experienced anything similar when he was in Pittsburgh the first time.
The next half hour is a brutal recollection of things far worse than I’d dealt with. Tom Barrasso, known for his temper and lack of sanity, had been even worse behind closed doors. He was more abusive than Johan had ever been with me; he tore Jason down with insults that made me wince, beating Jason to the point of unconsciousness on a regular basis, only to rape him while he was out cold.
His voice is numb as he tells the story, his face completely void of emotion. Meanwhile, I’m crying and choking, and only the steady, reassuring grip of Steve’s hand on my knee is keeping me from bolting out of the room. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to tell my story with such apathy—or if I even want to be that numb.
“Did anyone in the organization know?” one of the officials asks.
Jason nods slowly, and his answer is barely audible. “One time, Tom was sloppy. He didn’t even wait until we left the arena. He punched me a few times, and then someone heard and stopped him.”
I lean forward, deciding I have to know who stopped Barrasso…and why he didn’t stop Johan.
“Jags…Jagr. He just kind of put his hand on Tom’s shoulder and asked what was going on,” I swallow hard, fighting the sour feeling in my stomach. “After that night…he never said anything about it. The only acknowledgement was a sympathetic, guilty look every once in a while.”
I know that look. I can see it in my head; I remember the way he looked at me after that last game against New Jersey. I’d expected contempt—it was well known that we didn’t get along—but he just gave me a look that said he felt bad for me. He must have known what was going to happen.
Why had he helped Jason once, and then never again? How did he know what was going to happen with Johan before it even happened? And why the hell didn’t he try to stop Johan?
Wire-rimmed-glasses-guy makes a comment to one of the other officials, “Next meeting, I want Jagr here. I don’t care how; I want him in this room. No phone conferencing.”
After the meeting, I thank Jason for helping. He shrugs, “It isn’t as bad now. He’s not as horrible as Tom was, and at least this time I know it’s serving a purpose.” He meets my eyes, and I’m struck by the lack of emotion there. He wishes me luck and then he’s gone.
He’s broken, completely apathetic. I realize then that the pain, the depression, the fear is far preferable to a vacuum of all feeling, and I’m grateful that I escaped before Johan could break me.
