by V. L. Locey
“No worries, Coach. I’ll keep my cool.”
“I know you will.” Mitch and I both got a thumbs-up before he ambled off.
The blue-eyed blond next to me slapped my shoulder. “You got this, Miles,” Mitch said.
I gave his shoulder a short pop with the side of my fist in return. “We got this,” I reminded him, then turned my attention to refocusing.
When the clock on the wall showed it was time to return to the ice, we were ready. “We” as in the team. Not just me or Mitch, but the Cougars. We were pumped, hungry, and ready to win. The second period started off with a bang. Coach was right about the Broncos’ mentality. They came out of the away team dressing room with burrs the size of grapefruits under their saddles. I stood in my crease and watched the mayhem breaking out all over the ice. And once the Broncos started ramping up how hard they were hitting, the Cougars starting finishing their checks with a lot more zeal. Bodies started rattling boards, men bounced off glass, and our captain was trucked so hard by a Broncos D-man that his skates left the ice and his ass rolled over the boards. Mike landed in the lap of a Broncos forward, his helmet askew and his green eyes snapping.
That hit on our captain pushed the game from physical into downright bloodthirsty. The Broncos goalie and I had an easy time of it, since most of the action took place in the corners or in the penalty boxes. Aside from a couple of hairy power-play opportunities on both ends, it was all about retaliation and punching. When you’re throwing fists, you’re not trying to score.
When the buzzer sounded, the game was still scoreless but the penalty minutes were stacking up nicely. During the break, Coach Dewey, our head coach, had a few words for us. Many were not nice, but they were needed. We were letting the Broncos get to us, just like Coach Young had warned us tendies about. Now the rest of the team was getting that memo in big, loud, cursing font.
The third period was just as physical but far less sloppy. It seemed as if both teams had been read the riot act, because sin bin time was significantly reduced. The hard hits continued, and the net-crashing spiked into outrageous levels. After I’d been knocked on my ass for a third time, I got a little upset and had a talk with the ref. I explained that I was worried about how impaired his vision must be since he hadn’t seen the blatant goaltender interference happening right under his nose. He told me to get back to my crease or I’d get slapped with a delay of game penalty.
“Blind asshole,” I mumbled as I crammed my mask back on my head.
“I got that dickwad Danielson,” Mario informed me as we waited for a problem with the clock to be fixed. “You just worry about keeping that puck out of our net.”
I gave him a nod. The forwards gathered to my right for a faceoff. Dan Arou, who had been quiet all night due to defensive pressure, won the faceoff, shuttled the puck back to Mario. Mario managed to break away from the glut of players in my end. He broke over the blue line and took a slap shot. The Broncos goalie threw up his glove. The puck caught the edge of the catcher glove, spun up into the air, then landed behind the Broncos goalie right on the line. Mario dove at the crease, his stick extended in front of him. He nudged the puck just enough to send it slowly creeping to the back of the twine. A linesman standing behind the goal pointed at the puck in the net. The goal light came on and the fans went bonkers.
I leaped into the air as well. The Broncos goalie began battering the pipes with his stick. Mario rolled onto his back and three Cougars piled on top of him. When things settled down a bit, we were up by a goal with less than four minutes on the clock. The tension doubled. We all played balls to the wall, the surge of momentum from Mario’s goal infusing the team with confidence and one last burst of energy.
I had to block one shot in those final four minutes. And that was with an extra skater on when Binghamton pulled their goalie. When the final buzzer sounded, I skated as fast as I could from my crease to meet the team at center ice. We laughed and yelled, pumped our fists in the air, and hoisted McGarrity onto our shoulders. Little stuffed Cougars, a promotional item, sailed down from the stands. After Mario had his skates back on the ice, we formed a circle at center ice and raised our sticks in thanks to the fans. Everyone in that barn appeared to be on their feet. The applause felt great. Winning felt great!
“You need to stay around,” Mario said as we piled into the tunnel leading to the dressing room. “You’ll be one of the three stars of the game.”
“Meh, I didn’t really do much,” I told him. He rolled his eyes and held on to my sweater. Shock filled me when I heard the arena announcer call me for the number two spot for blocking twenty-nine out of twenty-nine shots. After a short spin on the ice and a couple of pucks tossed to the kids, I hustled to the dressing room and arrived in time to catch Victor and Dan exchanging a secretive kiss between two soda machines. I averted my eyes and plowed into the madness of happy Cougars.
“You stood on your head,” Mitch shouted to me as I toweled off my face in preparation for the press arriving. “Man, how the hell did you manage to block the deflection with Danielson lying on top of you? That’s a highlight reel save, it is.”
“Just got lucky,” I replied, then sat down to untie my skates.
“Right, luck is what it was,” Mitch chuckled, before playfully punching me in the arm.
I threw a quick look around the dressing room. Almost every player had his cell phone out and to his ear, or they were texting. Coach was lenient about cell phone time after the game. During the game was not allowed, or when the press was admitted into the dressing room. Other than that, he was cool with us touching base with friends and family. My family consisted of my father and mother, both of whom cared so much that at times it felt a little suffocating. The joys of being an only child, I guess. I’d call them when I got home. I had no boyfriend or husband. My buddies were all caught up with their families. Seeing all the men sharing this special moment with people they loved took the sheen off things just a little. But there was no time to mope. The media would show up at any second. Time to plaster on the game face.
It wasn’t until I was on my way to my car that I pulled out my phone to order a pizza to pick up on the way home. Yay. A six pack of Labatt’s, an anchovy pizza, and an hour of Call of Duty to help me come down from the rush of an important win. My personal life was the pits. One lone text message leaped out at me. I climbed into my Mustang, then checked who it was. Shock overcame me as I read the message from Sal.
Heather gave me your number. Congrats on big win! Looking forward to tomorrow night. I’m cooking something special. My address is 8- B North Applegate Apartment Complex. See you at 7 pm.
A tingle of emotion welled up inside me and the night got a whole lot shinier.
The next evening came fast. Way too fast. I was in no way ready for dinner alone with Sal. On the drive to his place, I chewed the inside of my bottom lip until I drew blood. Maybe I should have taken the time to talk with Mario instead of acting like a bonehead. But in all honesty, did I really need him to tell me what was going to happen tonight, if the stars all aligned? I knew what went where. I wasn’t a complete virgin, just a semi-virgin. Stopping at a red light, I could hear Mario’s gravelly voice in my head.
“A semi-virgin, really, Augie? What the fuck—sorry Lila, baby—what the hell does that even mean? You’ve only had half a dick up your ass?”
Smiling at myself despite how sick to the stomach I felt, I crept along the small roads and lanes, trying to dredge up the one lackluster time I’d let a guy try to fuck me. We’d both been eighteen and nothing but fumbling fingers. He hadn’t even been able to get his dick inside me, he was so nervous, but he had got a couple of fingers inserted. Did fingers count, or did it have to be a cock? I hadn’t a clue, and I didn’t plan ever to ask anyone to explain deflowering to me. That episode had been so terrible, I thought it should count as a botched attempt. My virginity card should be reissued or something.
I slowed when I came to the address Sal had sent me. It was a n
ice little apartment complex made up of four buildings with twin oaks in a center courtyard. I pulled in beside a hunter-green Volkswagen Jetta. My stomach rebelled, and a sour belch bubbled up out of me.
“Come on, Augie, it’s nothing to get sick over. You like him, he likes you. Stop being a chick, as Kalinski would say.” I looked at myself in the rearview mirror. “That was really misogynistic. I’m sorry, women of the world.” That made me feel a little better.
I slipped the car into park, inhaled and exhaled through pursed lips, and ran my fingers through my hair. My palms were wet. I was gross. Sal would take one look at me in my stupid jacket, dress shirt and khakis, and tell me take my sweaty hands and semi-virginal ass back home.
The front door to a ground floor apartment opened, and Sal stepped out onto the little brick walk leading to his door. He was wearing cargo shorts and a T-shirt with the line “You’re a gorgonzola!” and I was in a suit jacket. He looked amazingly casual. I looked like a moron. Talk about being humiliated. I didn’t even realize I was out of my car until I felt a raindrop hit the top of my head. I gazed skyward. Thick clouds hung over the neighborhood.
“That is one impressive car,” Sal said to me as I jogged to the front door.
“It’s the first car I ever bought with my own money,” I told him after we’d hustled inside to avoid the rain shower. A low rumble of thunder rolled over the neat little apartment. “Sorry about being overdressed,” I mumbled.
He ran his dark eyes down and then back up my body. That sinful slow burn in my stomach began again. “You look great.”
The air was crackling with sexual energy. I had no doubt Sal was the man in charge here tonight. I was way out of my league, but it was exciting as hell.
“Dinner is just about ready,” Sal said. “Why don’t we set the table, and then we can eat?”
“Okay.” I mentally slugged myself.
Sal didn’t seem to notice how dumb his dinner guest was. He chatted away as we walked through his place, taking a short tour of the living room and dining area before we arrived in a small but clean kitchen. The smells in the room were mouthwatering.
“What’s for dinner?” I asked, then hurried to tack on, “it smells great.”
“It’s my mother’s recipe.” He beamed while turning off the oven.
I watched him bend over to get some pot holders from a drawer. His pants pulled tightly over a firm ass. My body reacted instantly, sending blood flowing south. I peeled my gaze from him and pretended to be inspecting the magnets on the refrigerator when he glanced at me.
“Have you ever had Mexican food before?”
“Only the stuff they sell at those chain restaurants.”
“Then you’re in for a treat,” he said while pulling a roasting pan from the oven.
Steam billowed out of the pan when he removed the lid. My stomach roared as the spicy cloud of moisture enveloped me. Rain began pelting the window over the sink, the large droplets splattering noisily on the glass.
“My mother used to boast that she made the best lime chicken breasts in Guadalajara,” Sal said.
“Your family’s from Mexico?”
He had a small MP3 player docked into a speaker. I recognized the song playing. It was something from Modern Baseball, a band I really enjoyed as well. Looked like we had the same pop/punk taste in music.
“My parents are,” Sal replied. “My baby sisters and I were born in America. Have you ever been to Mexico?” he asked as he placed the roaster on the stove, laid down his pot holders and pulled open a cupboard.
“Nope, but I’d like to go sometime.” I enjoyed the way he moved. He always appeared to be doing things with purpose, even if it was just taking down two dinner plates and handing them to me.
“You’d love it. The silverware and glasses are already on the table.”
“Ah, okay.” I spun around, plates in hand, and backtracked to the dining room. It was a small room, with a sliding door that led out to a small patio. I placed the dishes carefully beside the silverware that rested on folded cloth napkins. Then I scrubbed my palms over my pants. A flash of lightning lit up the night. Thunder followed right behind. Sal entered the room with his roasting pan full of chicken breasts, smiling widely.
“Sit down, August,” he told me while putting the roaster on two large tiles with roosters fashioned from tiny bits of colored stone. I moved a large pitcher of ice water to make room. “I have to go grab the after-dinner drinks.”
I sat down. He hustled off. Hands in my lap, I looked around the room. The wall behind Sal’s seat had family portraits hung artistically on it. I put my elbows on the dark wooden table and leaned forward. The picture that grabbed my eye first was one of Sal and his family all gathered on and around a couch. The kids were seated, and Mom and Dad stood behind them, Sal’s father’s hands resting on his son’s shoulders. Sal was younger in the image, maybe the same as me now. Identical twin girls of two or three on either side of him smiled at the camera. You could tell the three kids were siblings. Sal’s mother was a striking woman with long, black hair, glowing brown skin, and big brown eyes. His father was built like Sal, had a great smile and lots of silver in his short black hair. They looked really happy.
“Are you allowed to drink now that you’re heading to the playoffs?” he asked as he reentered the room.
“A little here and there,” I said, inhaling the man’s aftershave as he walked past me with a small bottle of something called Patrón and two glasses. “So you caught the game last night?”
“Yeah, I did, and I was really impressed with your performance.” That made me blush. “Can I just say that your humility is incredibly sexy?”
“I guess you can say that,” I jokingly replied.
He chuckled softly as he sat down. “We’ll save the liqueur for after the meal,” he said, and poured me some ice water.
“That’s good.” Why do you suck so badly at conversation, August?
“Do you know who you play in the first round?” he enquired.
He took a sip of water, then put his glass down so he could serve. He filled my plate with chicken and rice, then gave himself a much smaller serving. I mimicked him opening his napkin and spreading it over his thighs.
“Not yet. We’ll find out tonight and then get a few days off so the league can get things set up.” I cut into a boneless breast with my fork and took a bite. Foreign seasonings burst into life on my tongue. Sal watched me carefully. I groaned in pleasure, then dove into the food. “This is incredible,” I managed to say between bites. “What is it again?”
“It’s cilantro lime chicken breast served over rice,” he informed me as he began cutting his chicken into small bites then stirring it into the wild rice it sat on. I helped myself to another breast and followed his lead, cutting the chicken into chunks instead of strips. “Have you ever been involved in a championship before?”
I nodded with a full mouth and held up my fork. Sal nodded in understanding. Howling winds whipped around the complex.
“Back in college my team made it to the finals, but we were beaten by Silver Lake, who had been the conference champs for something crazy like four years straight. We gave them a good run, though,” I explained.
Sal regarded me thoughtfully as I spoke, as if he were measuring my words. I feared he found them lacking. After all, he spoke quite well, I thought.
“Will your family be coming down from Manitoba for the first round?”
“Doubtful. My dad’s not fond of leaving Martens Bay, but they’ll watch online if I can explain how to stream things over the phone. They adopted me when they were in their fifties,” I explained, then shoved more chicken into my face.
Sal smiled, and that odd fluttering feeling returned. All through the meal we talked about me, my past, my playing days in college, my likes and dislikes. When the main course was over and Sal was pouring us three fingers of that dark brown liqueur, I jumped into things like a typical puck-pusher.
“So you’re
not at all like I thought you would be.” There. It was out. It had been chewing on the edges of my thoughts since I’d first stepped into his apartment.
Sal pushed the delicate little liqueur glass toward me and settled back into his chair. His dark eyes grew curious.
“You were expecting me to be what, exactly?”
“I don’t know.” Now I felt twice as embarrassed, if that was even possible. I stared stupidly at him. “I was just surprised that you cook so well and hang up your clothes. My apartment is a mess, and the only thing I cook is boxed macaroni and cheese.”
“I’ll have to teach you how to cook for yourself. Athletes need to eat healthy food, right?”
“I don’t want to be an imposition.”
“Trust me, you wouldn’t be,” he said, then sipped on his cordial. Or was it a cocktail? “I love to make stuff for other people to eat. My mother and I are always looking up recipes and swapping them. She jokes that at least she can share her love of cooking with her gay son, because her girls can’t boil water.”
I was super uncomfortable, and grasped for something suave to say.
“I used my friend Mandy as a beard all through secondary. I even went so far as to feel her up once just so I could talk about how breasts felt in the locker room.”
That really hadn’t been on the list of acceptable things to tell Sal tonight. I lifted my glass and sniffed. Coffee and cocoa tickled my nose. I tossed the drink back like a shot of tequila. It coated my throat with warmth. You are a total moron, August.
“Okay, well, sure. That’s directly related to cooking.” Sal chortled, and the terribly awkward moment blew away on a gust of rainy air. “Are all hockey players as weird as you?”
“I think it’s a goalie thing,” I remarked, then held out my glass for another drink.
“Good thing I got lucky enough to pick up a goalie at the party, then. I like men who’re unique and a little crazy.”
