Last Resort

Martin Brodeur never had a reputation for being the best husband in the world, or the best father. He had broken one woman’s heart, torn families apart, and disappointed his children. He regretted all the heart ache he caused, but he never would go back to the way things were before the divorce…before the remarriage…before he thought his life couldn’t go wrong. He was thirty nine years old for Christ’s sake. He was a legend in the NHL, he had the best kids a man could ask for, and until today, he had a loving, faithful wife. Now he was on the other end of a broken marriage, of an affair gone all wrong, and it stung. Martin threw back the glass of amber liquid the bartender set before him, and the burn in his throat eased the burning in his chest for an instant. He was completely numb, and he didn’t care who saw him sitting in that North Jersey bar. Nobody approached him, even if he was one of the most recognizable players on the Devils. He even saw someone walk by in a Clarkson jersey, but one look at the player was all it took for the guy to bolt to his own seat across the bar. Martin’s hands were shaking with rage, and the ice in his glass rattled. The bartender quickly refilled the glass, and Martin sucked the whiskey down without a second thought. He wanted nothing more than to drown his sorrows in liquor, and then return to the hotel room where he was staying until he found an apartment.

It was right after he got back from Detroit. He opened the door of his luxurious home quietly, knowing that his wife and Maxime would be sleeping. It was late, a little after 12 PM, and he placed his suitcase at the bottom of the stairs. He would take it up in the morning. He loosened his tie and crept up the stairs, but he froze as he heard something strange. It was a moaning, which made Martin raise his eyebrows.

“Genevieve, c’est que vous?” he whispered, creeping up another few stairs. The moan echoed through the hallway again, and this time Martin swallowed roughly. Deep in his gut he knew; it was the same moan Genevieve made when they were having sex.

“Une personne est là avec vous ?” Martin asked, a little more loudly this time. He heard a frantic scrambling coming from his bedroom, and he bounded up the stairs, and burst into the bedroom. Genevieve was lying in the bed, covering her obviously naked body with the bed sheets. Another man was standing in front of the door, one foot into his pants, his hair askew and fear written all over his face. Martin’s body trembled with rage, and he drew himself up to his full six-foot-two, and squared his jaw.

“I will give you ten seconds to get the fuck out of my house,” he growled, and the man bolted from the room, not even bothering to gather the rest of his clothes. As soon as Martin heard the squealing of tires, he turned savagely towards Genevieve.

“So you want to cheat on me, huh?” he whispered, anger and hurt filling his voice.

“Martin, je suis desolee,” Genevieve whispered, shame streaking across her face. Tears welled in her eyes, but Martin just scoffed.

“Sure you are. You cheated on your first husband…why stay faithful now?” Martin asked. Genevieve cringed as the cruel words struck a chord.

“You cheated too,” she whispered defensively.

“Not on you…and I regret cheating every day. I should have done things the right way, but I was stupid. I’ll do them right this time though Genevieve…and next time don’t fuck another man while my son is in the house,” Martin snarled before storming out of the room. He crept down the hallway and opened the door to little Maxime’s room, where the boy was sleeping soundly. Martin bent down and kissed his son’s head gently.

“Maxime, I’m sorry…” he whispered sadly, resting a hand on his little boy’s shoulder. Max sighed happily in his sleep and snuggled further into his crimson blankets. Martin knew his son would be looking for him in the morning, but with a heavy heart, he picked up his suitcase, got into his car, and drove to Newark, where he knew he could find a cheap hotel quickly.

Tears streamed down Martin’s face, and he didn’t do anything to stifle or hide them as he rolled the ice around in his glass. He was a failure as a father, and he must have been a failure as a husband for Genevieve to cheat on him. A heavy, sinking feeling was blossoming in his chest, and he suddenly didn’t want the liquor. He wanted to go home and play with Max, or to go to his ex-wife’s house and see Anthony, William, Jeremy, and Annabelle. Instead, he motioned for the bartender to get him a third drink. He didn’t even bother to look up as someone dropped into the barstool next to him and ordered a Guinness. Instead, he took the now topped off glass of whiskey and threw it back.

“Rough day, eh Marty?” a friendly voice asked. Martin looked up and saw Tim Thomas smiling at him.

“Tim, what the hell are you doing here?” Martin asked in surprise, quickly wiping his face. His often rival, but still friend of a goaltender, smiled at him sadly.

“I heard that you didn’t show up to your practice, so I figured I should go out and look for you. I want some hardy old man competition tonight. I had a feeling I’d find you here,” Tim said quietly. His Michigan accent gave his words a funny twist, but Martin didn’t feel like ribbing the man for his accent right now. Martin glanced at his watch and swore in French.

“I missed practice?” he croaked.

“Yeah. First time in your career, eh?” Tim asked, his face softening. Martin nodded solemnly and simply requested another drink.

“Yeah. I’m buried in shit up to my neck, so I completely forgot about practice,” Martin said. The words were heavy, and Tim’s face creased with concern. He knew that it was unlike Martin to forget about hockey for a second.

“What happened?” he asked. Martin simply stared at the amber liquid in his glass and sighed. Tears were threatening to spill over once again, and Tim saw the tears forming in the usually jovial blue eyes of Brodeur immediately. He put an arm around Martin and Martin threw back his drink once more.

“Genevieve is cheating on me,” he finally managed to whisper, and Tim let out a low whistle.

“Martin…that is…that is rough,” Tim said after a while, and Martin simply nodded. He didn’t request another drink, but he had a feeling he was going to soon. I should have known this was coming. Karma is a bitch, isn’t that what they say? What went wrong though? Why did Genevieve turn on me like this? What did I do wrong? Words filled Martin’s head like venom, making his stomach squirm and his hands itch to bring his drink to his lips. The bartender had taken the hint, and didn’t hesitate to refill Martin’s glass anymore. The alcohol wasn’t making Martin drunk, not in the least bit, but it was taking a slight edge off of the crushing pain in his chest.

“Yeah,” Martin said. It was all he seemed to be able to say. Words failed to come to him, and Tim just patted him on the back.

After another few drinks, Tim guided Martin out of the bar and insisted on driving him to the hotel. Martin consented, knowing it wouldn’t be the greatest idea to drive even if he wasn’t drunk. Compared to the dim lighting of the bar, the bright, sunny day made Martin’s vision swim and his eyes narrowed to shield them from the sun. Once his eyes adjusted, he realized that Tim was driving the wrong way.

“Tim, I said the hotel is the other way,” Martin said quietly, not wanting to be rude.

“I know,” Tim said, his face serious. He still had the thick, bushy moustache, the only remnant of his playoff beard from last season.

“Where are we going?” Martin asked, but he already knew. He had taken the trip to Ilya Kovalchuk’s house so many times that he could do it at night, with his eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back. As they pulled into the driveway of Kovy’s house, Martin groaned inside. He saw the cars of several of his other teammates parked along the street, and he knew he was in for a team lecture for missing practice. Martin felt betrayed, lost, and lonely, and he didn’t want to face his more than likely angry teammates right now.

“Tim, I don’t want to do this right now,” Martin whispered, but Tim just turned the car off, and got out. He walked over to Martin’s door, opened it, and stared down at him expectantly.

“Come on Marty…they’re not going to yell at you. We’re all here to help,” Tim said quietly, and Martin eventually got out of the car, allowing Thomas to lead him into Ilya’s house. The house was eerily quiet, and Martin knew that Ilya must have had his wife take the kids out for a little bit.

“Marty…” was all Ilya said as Martin trooped into the house after Tim. Tim stepped to the side as several of the Devils got up from the couch and pulled Martin into a team hug. Martin wanted to throw his teammates off of him, to punch Tim Thomas in the face, to rip his hair out, and to kill the man who had turned his life upside down, but all he could do was stand there numbly and allow his teammates to hug him.

“You’re not playing tonight,” Ilya said after about an hour. Martin’s head snapped up, from where he had been carefully examining the carpet fibers in the living room, and he glared at Kovalchuk. If looks could kill, Ilya would have been a goner.

“What did you just say?” Martin asked. His voice had a savage edge to it, and several of the guys in the room stiffened. It was rare to see Martin angry, but when he did get angry, it was frightening.

“You’re not playing tonight,” Ilya repeated calmly. Tim had told the team what had happened, and Martin had just sat there, his head hanging in shame as the words rolled off of Thomas’s tongue with ease. Martin knew that this was coming, but he didn’t want to accept it.

“Who are you to tell me that?” Martin asked, anger glinting in his now ice cold blue eyes.

“The captain,” Ilya said sternly.

“I…I have to agree with Ilya on this Marty…so…Ilya has one alternate’s vote,” Patrik Elias piped up from the couch. Patrik was a quiet man, so his words often weighed heavily with the team.

“I agree with Patrik,” Zach Parise said, his young face riddled with the saddened wisdom of a much older man. Martin knew that Zach had enough heartbreak to last a man a lifetime. Martin was happy for Zach though, because Zach was starting to form a beautiful relationship with a woman who lived across the street from him. In that moment though, Martin only felt a bitter resentment towards the three younger men.

“I see how it is. The young guys think I can’t handle myself out there, so they’re taking a team vote to pull me,” Martin growled darkly, and Tim put a hand on his shoulder.

“Marty, they’re right. You’re emotionally compromised right now, you wouldn’t do well anyway, and we don’t want you beating yourself up over a bad game on top of all that’s happened lately,” Tim said calmly, and Martin stared at the goaltender for a moment.

“You just don’t want me to play so your team can win,” Martin accused childishly.

“That isn’t true Marty, and you know it. Martin, we’re all your friends here…we’re just trying to do what’s best for you,” Tim said quietly. Tim Thomas was another soft spoken man, with a kind heart, and not a cruel bone in his body. Martin simply hung his head again as he acknowledged his defeat.

Lou and the Devils’ coach allowed Martin to stay home from the game the next day, telling the media that he had come down with flu like symptoms. David Clarkson and Travis Zajac insisted that Martin stay in a nicer hotel than he was originally planning on staying in, and so Martin bent to their will. He spent a while at the bar, trying to fight off the horrible feeling that was beginning to surface in his chest with whiskey. It was impossible, and the harder he tried, the worse he felt. He eventually gave up on drinking and left the bar. Once he got to his room, the demons that had been lingering in his mind for so long finally surfaced. He tore the room apart, and once he was done, he just collapsed in the bathroom and cried. He felt weak, and feminine. There was no way anyone could love him, he reasoned, and everything in him wanted to die. In fact, death felt like such a good idea to him that he found himself reaching for a jagged shard of broken mirror before he even knew what he was doing. He looked at the piece of mirror for a long time, his eyes red rimmed at dull in the reflection as he stared. His pulse was rushing in his head, and he was still thoughtless. There was so much emotional turmoil building up inside of him, and some little voice in the back of his mind reasoned with him, making him believe that this was the only way to make things better. The pain only lasted for a moment, and as his vision blurred he heard a frantic pounding on the door of the hotel room. The last thing he heard before he lost consciousness was the beep of a keycard as someone unlocked the door, and one of his friends screaming “no, no!” over and over again.