The Uninvited Guest by John Degen

scoring by instinct and feel. As the puck left the tip of his stick blade, he took the inevitable hit in front of the net, spun deftly on the toe of one skate and did not open his eyes until his back hit the end boards, his arms wide to receive an avalanche of teammates.
    It was, in terms of raw skill and artistry, the greatest goal Stan had ever witnessed. And now the same young man stood by a table weighed down with food and drinks, sheepish in an uncomfortable-looking brown suit, the servant of two huge men with bad reputations. Stan waited until the evening wore on a bit louder and drunker, then approached Berschin.
    â€œLook at the Cup, my boy,” he said.
    The young man blinked and downed the last third of a tumbler of vodka. “Two-Second,” he said, smiling and drunk. “Yes, the Cup. What about it?”
    â€œDo you own the Cup?” Stan asked.
    â€œNo, Two-Second, you own the Cup. I know. I can win it, but only you can own it. You’ve told me this before.”
    â€œDo those two mobsters own the Cup?” Stan asked.
    â€œTwo-Second, no, I told you already. You own the Cup.”
    â€œSo, look at the Cup. You will take all that money you’re making because you won this Cup, and you’ll divide it up and it will all go away into the world. All that money is long gone already, some to your family, some to these two guys, some to you. Do you think this Cup gives a shit about your money?”
    â€œI guess, no, I don’t know what you mean.” He was blinking now, trying to see Stan’s point through a clear vodka fog.
    â€œStop thinking about these two guys. That’s just life. Everyone’s got his shit to deal with. They’re your shit, so deal with them, but don’t let them ruin this, this moment when this Cup, which you do not own and never will no matter how many fancy goals you score, this Cup is here for you. It’s a short time, believe me. Tomorrow, I take this Cup away from you, we’re back on a plane and you, my boy, you may never touch this Cup again after that. Stranger things have happened. Have you ever heard of Bill Barilko? Compared to that fact, those two big uglies mean nothing. You get my point? I see you standing around worrying about two men who will steal your money. You want to worry about someone in this room, worry about me, because it’s me who will take this Cup away tomorrow.”
    â€œTwo-Second, you win. You are the scariest man here.” The young man smiled and slapped Stan between the shoulder blades. “From now on, I worry only about you.”
    â€œSome day, Berschin, trust me, you’ll be closing your eyes and chipping rocks through your fence rails out there, rather than chipping pucks past goalies in the finals. When hockey is through with you it will let you know, believe me, and then those gangsters will be through with you as well. There’s always another fucking superstar.”
    Berschin nodded and refilled his glass from one of the dozen clear, half-empty bottles on the table in front of him. “You are the wise old man of the Cup, yes Two-Second?”
    â€œDamn right,” said Stan, and walked away, trembling from sudden anger. It was a cruel speech in many ways, and a kindness. It made him feel briefly equal to the brilliant young player, an unfamiliar but satisfying feeling. On his way past the bar, Stan made a point of introducing himself to the two gangsters. Not caring if they understood him, he shook hands with them and looked each of them straight in the eyes.
    The next evening, on the flight from Moscow, Stan fell asleep immediately after dinner. He’d felt all day as though a cold were coming on, and was glad this would be his last trip overseas for the season. The Cup sat secured in its case and strapped in with a seat belt in the first class seat beside him. He always gave the Cup the window seat, as that kept him between it and the curious who walked by it