by Van Barrett
“Hey Jono. Al's out there and he wants to speak to you.”
“Oh? He wants to see moi?” Jono theatrically put both hands over his heart. He made for the door and said with a wink, “Thanks for leaving me some of your sloppy seconds! Maybe he'll offer me that contract you won't sign, eh?”
I slapped Jono's ass as he walked by. “She's all yours, sexy.”
“If only it were that easy,” came his voice from beyond the door.
I hurried to untie my skates, kicked off the rest of my gear, and trotted off to join the boys in the showers, naked as the day I was born.
“It's Friday niiiight!” somebody howled from his shower stall.
“Hell yeah! Let's get laid tonight, boys!” someone else boomed.
The boys all grumbled and grunted, agreeing what a great idea that was. I could only smile and shake my head.
5
A Show-Boat!
– Lane –
Devon and I carefully guarded our vodka-cranberry drinks as we carved a path through the frenzied crowd. The bar, Joe Black's, was dimly-lit, and the place was absolutely jam-packed with students, like sardines in a tin can. In order to be heard, friends had to shout over the loud music that drowned out normal conversation. An annoyance that could only be remedied by drinking more alcohol, naturally.
The night life isn't always like this in Grand Forks, North Dakota, which is otherwise a pretty small and peaceful college town. But it seems like anytime the school wins a big sports game, the bar crowd comes out bigger, drunker, and crazier.
But at least they're happy. Because when the team loses? Blech. Don't even bother – just stay home, because the bitter crowd drinks themselves into this kind of zombified, drunken rage. And all the surly jocks strut around, with their chests puffed up and their elbows held out at a 90 degree angle, sizing up every guy they walk past. You can tell they're just chomping at the bit to get in a fist-fight.
Ahh – drunk, angry crowds. Just one more reason to love sports, right?
Now, I'm no weakling; I lift weights and I run to stay in shape and look fit. But I'm also not trying to get in any fights.
Thankfully, we haven't had too many nights like that recently. Because as I've been told, our hockey team is apparently pretty good and wins most of their games. Devon and I witnessed one of those wins tonight, after she managed to drag me out to Ralph Engelstad Arena to see our team play.
We made our way through the crowd, looking for a quieter cranny in the bar to hang out and talk. When a young couple at a table stood up to leave, we quickly scooted into the booth and took their place.
“Perfect,” Devon purred.
I scanned the crowd. “This place is nuts, Dev.” It was a sea of green, white and black – the school's colors.
“So what'd you think of the game?” Devon asked.
“I mean …” I gazed upward, searching for words.
The problem was that I lacked any meaningful vocabulary to express the complete and utter indifference I felt towards most of what I'd just experienced. Honestly, I wasn't even sure what I'd just seen! I mean, obviously it was a hockey game. But I had no idea what was happening, or why. The whole game, Devon had to be in my ear to tell me what the hell I was even seeing!
… Like, for example, why the referees blew their whistles at seeming random. (That was because of all sorts of rules I've never heard of before, like 'icing' and 'offside.' Rules I might not ever understand, no matter how many times Dev tries to explain them to me.)
… Or why some players sometimes had to be escorted off the ice and into his own personal jail cell, where he sat while looking all angry and/or disappointed. (That was because he'd made a penalty and was sentenced to sit in timeout for two minutes, apparently.)
… Or why, for the love of God, two players were allowed to tear each other's caged-helmets off and proceed to punch each other in the face over and over. And everybody clapped and cheered them on the whole time. (That was because the last time these two teams played each other, one player hit a player on the other team, and the other team didn't like it, and therefore they had a score to settle? As if this was the wild west or something.)
“I will say this about hockey: I'm absolutely screwed on that assignment. 'Cause I don't understand that sport at all.”
“Aww. I'll help you, dude, don't worry.” Devon patted me on the shoulder. Then, she added with a giggle, “As long as you keep getting me into games for free, anyway.”
I gave her a stare. “You could be getting into all the games and practices you want, if you just told Stan that y--”
But she cut me off. “Nooo, nope, nope. This is your assignment, not mine. I've already got my hands full.”
I tutted.
“Besides Lane, it doesn't even sound like it matters. You heard Stan – they didn't even want a sportswriter! If I had to guess, this sounds more like it's gonna be a personal piece on River.” She narrowed her eyes and nodded thoughtfully. “And honestly, I think you'd be really good at that kinda thing. You're analytical, and you're so good at figuring people out. Think about it. You could get deep inside his mind, and figure out who he really is. Then you get to tell the world about the deep, passionate, soulful conversations you had with River Brame.”
“Lay it on a little thicker there, why don't ya.” I rolled my eyes. And again I had to laugh at his name. “River Brame …”
During the game, Devon had tried to point him out to me over and over – “There he is! That's your guy, that's River! Number 94!” – but I never could spot him in time. As soon as I finally picked his number out from all the others, it was too late; his 'shift' was over and he coasted his way back to the bench for another rest.
“Good god,” I'd complained to Devon when we were at the game. “They don't stay on the ice for very long, do they?”
Okay, I'm griping a lot about this stupid sport, but I do have to make a small confession. There was, in all honesty, exactly one part of the game where I actually did get a little excited. It was at the very end. And the reason I got excited was because I realized that I didn't have to spot River's number to find him on the ice. No, actually, I could spot him because of how big he looks – I mean, this guy was head and shoulders taller than most everyone else out there! And he looks brawny, too. Like a big dumb ogre. Once I realized that, I knew I could find him a lot easier.
So it was then, at that moment, at the very end of the game, that my eyes lit up. “That's River, isn't it?” I shouted to Devon while I pointed him out.
Her eyes lit up, too. “Sure is! Good job Lane!”
And then … well, it all happened so fast. A bunch of hockey guys from both teams were pushing and shoving each other along the glass. Apparently the puck was somewhere in that crowd, lost or forgotten, I'm not sure. The play pretty much stopped as those players seemed way more interested in tussling and clawing and grunting at each other.
But my eyes stayed pasted on River. I watched that big body elegantly slide right up behind the crowd. He seemed light on his skates, despite his size. And he must not have made a noise, because no one noticed him. I wasn't sure what he was doing, but – he wasn't getting involved with the messy fight stuff. He just sort of snuck up and bent over. And he dug his stuck into the mess of bodies.
And then, yoink! I saw it happen – River found the puck! He had it on his stick! And then River just blasted off towards the net. That was the fastest I'd seen anyone skate all night. Okay, so he might be a big dumb ogre, but he could skate like a Ferrari, apparently.
“He's got the puck! River's got the puck!” I yelled over and over to Devon. She screamed and jumped out of her seat. Hell, so did I.
And then – again, it all happened so fast, I'm not sure what exactly I saw. But River sort of had the puck, and he rushed at the net, and then … then it was just him and the goalie … and it looked like there was no more space for him to skate. He was right there with the goalie.
And then he just – I don't even know!
I don't know what to call it! I guess River whipped the puck around real fast, back and forth, back and forth. And then a flurry of snow shot up from River's skates, and that was it. River had psyched the goalie completely out with his moves. The goalie fell to the ice and did the splits, but he couldn't stop sliding on the ice. And just like that, the goalie slid completely out of the goal. He must've been a terrible goalie. Or was River really that good?
And hell, I won't lie. In that moment, the excitement was contagious. I felt this crazy, carnal thrill rush through my blood. My inner caveman was very pleased with this showing. He let out a war cry and pounded his chest. 'Yes! My team is going to win!'
In that moment, I felt like I suddenly understood why River Brame was such a big deal here at UND. Because a guy that big wasn't supposed to move that fast, that gracefully. But he did. And it was amazing to watch.
And I actually started to think, 'Holy shit, this River guy is kind of a hockey stud, isn't he?'
Maybe I even felt sort of – … proud. Honored, or something. I felt a glimmer of excitement that I was going to get to spend some personal time with him.
Stupid me, I guess. Because a jock at heart will always be a jock. And what happened next sealed that in my mind forever.
See, now that the goalie had helplessly taken himself out of the play, River had a wide open net. But he just sort of sat there, staring at it. Was he too dumb to know what came next? Was this his fatal flaw as a player? Because let's be honest, every human being has some flaw, some critical character defect that everyone else can see but him.
Maybe that was River Brame's. Maybe River was this supremely, athletically-gifted hockey player who skated like the wind. A player so good, he could literally charm goaltenders out of their nets. But once he had that open net, he just could not, for the life of him, remember what it was he should do next. A million dollar body and a ten-cent brain.
“What – what's he doing?” I'd blurted out to Devon.
“I – I dunno!” She'd said.
And then it felt like eternity. River didn't do anything, even as the goalie managed to get back on his skates. And all the fans were suddenly worried, and they made this horrible sound, this terror-stricken whine. I guess it was the sound of 11,000 human bodies all cringing at once.
That's when it finally happened: with the goalie outstretched, flying across the ice, River finally shot the puck into the net. Before anyone could stop him.
Everyone else exploded into this relieved roar. Everyone but me. I turned to Devon.
“Oh, fuck him!” I yelled.
What a braggart! What a show-boat! What a sore winner! What was his problem, anyway? He couldn't just humbly win the game, like a gentleman? He had to make a big show out of it first?
This was my first experience with River Brame, the guy I was supposed to follow around for the next few weeks. And he'd already left a sour taste in my mouth.
***
“I think you're being way too hard on him.” Devon dismissed my rant with a laugh. “Earlier today you didn't know anything about hockey. Now you're saying that you've seen enough hockey to automatically know this guy is a – what'd you call him? A 'douchey braggadocio?'”
“I'm just saying. He could have a little … y'know … humility or something.” By now, we were on our third or fourth vodka-cranberry.
And no, we weren't talking about hockey or River the whole time, if that's what you're thinking. We'd also talked about the boys she was interested in, classes, Bitch and Moan, and anything else that we normally talked about.
It just so happens that River's name kept coming up. Because, uh, for some reason, I couldn't let it go.
But while I ranted about how River had better learn to be a lot more humble, or else I'm gonna tear him a new asshole with this report I'm gonna write, Devon tuned out.
“… all I'm saying is, if River had scored that goal right away, then – … hey. Dev? You're not listening, are you? Hello? Deev~on.”
She had her eye on something – or somebody – at the bar. Coyly, she peeked over her shoulder, advertising the arch of her back.
“Dev. Where is he? Who is it?”
She tossed her hair when she turned back to me. “Mm?”
“You see someone?” I asked. “You're sure acting like you see somebody.”
“Yeah. I think so. He was smiling at me. Is he still looking? Blue and white polo.”
I stood up and, with a hand cupped over my eyes, searched the faces at the bar for cute boys that matched Devon's taste.
“Oh my God Lane – don't be so obvious!” Devon yanked at my shirt until she pulled me down and made me sit instead.
“Sorry, sorry!” I tried again, this time without standing. “Okay, I think I see him. Athletic build and shaggy dark hair?”
“Yeah. That's him.”
“Yup. He's totally looking over here. Yeah, he's cute. Definitely more your taste, but yeah, I can see it. Looks like he's whispering something to his friend, too. Oh – oh boy. Don't look now, but he's trying to point you out to his friend.”
Devon bit her bottom lip. “Think he'll come talk to me?”
“Not with me sitting right here next to you.” I stood so I could disappear somewhere else for awhile. But I paused when I saw the guilt in her eyes. “Don't you feel bad, Dev. Lord knows I've left you for a cute guy before.”
“You sure?”
“Yup.”
“Okay. Thanks. And sorry. But thanks for understanding.”
“Of course.” I slammed the rest of my drink. “I'll hang out at the bar if you need me. Good luck.”
6
Where r u
– Lane –
Like a lot of people these days who feel isolated, awkward or alone in public, I did what comes most naturally … yup, that's right! I found a wall to lean against, pulled out my cell phone and fiddled around on the internet to kill time. That's when I noticed that I had an unread text message. From Paulo. My heart skipped a beat as I opened it.
I bit my lip to keep from my excitement contained. Don't get carried away, Lane, I told myself. Lord only knew what he wanted. Last time he texted me was a disaster, after all. But still. I was drunk and optimistic, and it was hard not to get carried away.
So I opened the text. It read, simply,
“Where r u”
No question mark. Just, Where r u
Where am I? Where am I. Really? That's it? That's his text?
Harumph. I pocketed my phone for a minute and studied the hundreds of liquor bottles that lined the back wall of the bar.
Obviously, Paulo wasn't interested in anything serious, as he'd made perfectly clear. So I guess I shouldn't have been disappointed when his text wasn't this long, heart-felt apology. But y'know, I would've settled for another kind of text … say, if he artfully proposed a 'fuck-buddy' kinda set-up.
Because I get it. It's college. We're all busy as hell, and no one's got the time or energy for anything more involved than casual, meaningless sex. So I'm not necessarily opposed to a 'no strings attached' kind of arrangement, but at least try a little to get it, maybe?
But no, Paulo didn't even care enough to trot out the standard lines you give to someone that you wanna keep around as a fuck-toy, but want exactly zero relations with otherwise.
You know, some bullshit like, Hey Lane, I'm just at this point in my life where I really need to be single because of some vague nonsense, but it'd be cool if you kept sucking my cock whenever I fancied. Deal?
Instead, he tossed the lamest, shittiest piece of bait out there – Where r u – to see if I'm dumb, desperate and thirsty enough to gouge myself on his hook.
… Am I?
With a sigh, I whipped my phone back out and typed a reply to Paulo. Because fuck it … I was feeling a little drunk. And a lot pathetic.
This is what I wrote: “Whoa, that's a pretty serious question, Paulo. Are you sure you're ready to ask me that?”
I pressed send with a grin, thinking t
hat I'd won this round. Surely Paulo would have to step up his game to meet my challenge!
But a half-minute later, my phone buzzed. I opened his text, hoping Paulo had redeemed himself …
Only to read this: “haha, shutup. Im drunk and horny. And u want me”
Ugh.
Paulo's actually so lame, he's almost repulsive. When I read that text, my stomach flopped upside-down in my stomach in revolt.
… But the worst part, despite my organ's not-so-subtle rebellion, was the fact that I was still maybe-sorta considering it. No, not because I 'wanted' him. (Blargh.) If anything, I 'wanted' him to take a fucking hint and actually put in a little effort.
I sighed and tapped out another reply: “Charming.” Translation: please, Paulo, please give me a reason to fuck you. Because for some reason, I still would.
My phone buzzed with his rapid-fire response: “So where r u”
“Ugh,” I groaned. The boy had a thick-ass skull. There was no getting through to him.
I can't be this pathetic, can I?
I peeked away from my phone and glanced across the bar just in time to see Mr. Blue Polo as he approached Devon.
Well, at least her guy isn't an idiot, I thought to myself. Because it's the worst when a guy is brave enough to make eyes from across the bar, but doesn't actually possess enough balls to come talk to you. Thankfully for Devon, that wasn't Blue Polo.
He said something to her. Whatever it was, it must've been good, because Devon smiled and laughed. They exchanged a few more pleasantries. Suddenly, Blue Polo strutted off with a swagger in his step and a confident smile on his face. He bought a drink for Devon and took a seat at her table.
I could tell by the way she sat, the way she held herself and moved, that she was into him. And he was obviously into her. He couldn't keep his eyes off her.
Sigh.
I was happy for Dev, don't get me wrong. But obviously, given my guy troubles, it was hard not to throw a little pity party for myself.
Fuck it.
With a self-loathing sigh, I tapped out a reply to the dope: “I'm at the bar. Joe Black's.”
