The Code by Gare Joyce Page B

our honeymoon and she got word that she had landed a part on a Saturday-morning show, a regular gig playing the fifteen-year-old girl next door. She was twenty-one but could pass. On day three of our vacation in Hawaii we headed back to L.A. I guess I should have taken this as a sign of troubles to come. But a few weeks later when Episode 1 aired, there she was at the end of the opening sequence, shrieking what would become her trademark line: “School’s out.” Nothing in hockey had me as happy as I was for her at that time. For me the thrill wore off around the ten-thousandth time someone yelled “School’s out” at her when we’d be having a quiet dinner at an upscale restaurant, but she never tired of it.
    Flash forward a few years. We were a couple regularly featured on the front page of the rags they sell at supermarket checkout counters. It was a small sensation when S’s pregnancy was written into the show’s script. The tabs and Hollywood gossip shows couldn’t get enough of her. I was in the supporting role, the “rugged bohunk ice warrior,” her Knight in Shining Shoulder and Shin Pads. We were squarely in the middle of the B list, which is way up there for a hockey player in L.A. I was downgraded to a B-minus when I was traded out of L.A. to Montreal, but no matter.
    Flash forward two years after that. There she was on the cover of the tabs once again. Clubbing with the guy who played her boyfriend on the series that was soon to be cancelled. He had wrists like the junkie he was, but S was too stoned to notice. He was landing roles, the flavour of the month, and they were the It Couple, never mind that, in the eyes of the law and our team media guide, S and I were Mrs. and Mr. I was in Montreal with our infant daughter—thank God it was late-summer. S called her divorce lawyer, her agent, and her publicist, in what order I’m not really sure. I was calling on my sister to come up to Montreal to help me with Lanny when training camp started. The day the divorce was handed down, I went blind with all the camera flashes when I exited the L.A. courthouse. And that day S found out that she had landed the role of a mermaid in a superhero movie starring a neophyte actor who’d been an Olympic swimmer.
    A couple of years later, when the sequel was in production, they were the It Couple.
    I suppose if you’re underwater you can’t hear people shouting “School’s out” at you.
    T HE SUMMER after my bantam season I started training with the martial-arts instructor who worked with cadets at thepolice academy. It wasn’t too useful in a hockey fight, but that wasn’t what I wanted out of it anyway. Karate was a pretty decent aerobic workout and good for improving my very limited flexibility. A roundhouse kick to the head is a thing of beauty, something like an end-to-end rush and a great deke and wired shot, a highlight-reel move.
    I wish I could say that I knocked out Anderson with a roundhouse to his thick skull, but such was not the case. No, I aimed low, a sweeping kick with my shin hitting his quad at forty-five degrees with downward force. This doesn’t sound like much and might not scare you, but the pain is instantaneous and the charley horse is good for a season. Anderson was one-legged after the kick and it was easy to take him to the mat. I sat on him and didn’t bother trying to punch him at first. I opted to choke, crossing the lapels of his blazer over his windpipe, like you would the heavy collar of a judo gi . I squeezed until all the air went out of him.
    â€œIs your fuckin’ insurance paid up? You want to know who was banging your wife on road trips? You think they’re going to enjoy spending your money? You …”
    I had only just started my interrogation when Lee tried to bail out his buddy and wrestle me off him. No third-man-in rule, no worries about suspensions and fines. Others put their