by V. L. Locey
“No, no, no women. Just, um, just men.” His soft cheeks were as red as a newly buffed apple.
“Okay,” I said with an internal wince. “I mean, okay and good for you. Why are you telling me?”
“Because you’re dating Madame Lila, and I knew you’d be cool about it, and I had to tell someone or go nuts, and you seem cool and wear a kilt, so I thought maybe you’d be the one to open up to about it.” The words ran out of him like shit out of a goose.
“Okay, well, I’m honored.” I scrubbed my buzzed head. “Do you know that we have two men who’re married to each other on the team?”
August nodded and continued to make puppy eyes at me. A droplet of water ran down his nose, and he quickly dashed at it with one of those fast hands of his.
“Why not come out to one of them?”
“Kalinski scares me.”
I snorted, and that seemed to break the suffocating tension. “Okay, I can see that. He does come off a little caustic at times.” I tossed my wet towel into the bin and began wrapping my tartan around my hips.
“A little?” August replied in his soft-spoken way. “Anyway, thanks for listening.” He turned to return to his side of the dressing room.
“Hey, August, come on, man,” I called while holding my kilt around me with one hand. “You really aren’t going to lay that big of a thing on me and then just say ‘Thanks for listening’, are you? There must be more you want to talk about, right?”
“No, not right now,” he hit me with a smile that would melt many a man’s heart. “Can we talk later sometime, maybe?”
“Sure, kid, any time.”
He ducked his head, then pitter-patted back to his stall. I stared at his broad back for a second, then returned to snapping the snaps inside my kilt. Lying down to get into the purple, black, and white tartan was not for me. Let my ancestors curse me from high above. I glanced over at August again. My thoughts went to Langley and Lila. Maybe talking to Mini Slash would be as simple as talking to August. I had handled that pretty well if I do say so myself.
I spent a few minutes searching and finally stumbled upon Vic in his little office located right by the soda machine. I rapped on the door, and his hazel eyes flew from his laptop to me.
“You got a minute?” I asked.
Victor waved me in. His trashcan overflowed with empty Coke cans. The man had a serious addiction.
“Please do take up my time. Fucking watching tapes is slowly killing off any functioning brain cells I may have left.”
I shut the door behind me and adjusted my duffel on my shoulder. “Look, about my asshole attack earlier…”
“It’s all good,” Vic said with a toss of his hand in the air. “I’ve been a bigger asshole to you a time or two.”
“Well who in their right mind doesn’t like anchovies on their pizza?” I asked, then pressed my ass to the door behind me. That was an ongoing jibe-war he and I engaged in.
“Everyone in their right mind,” Vic replied, and placed an ankle on a knee. “Sorry Dewey hit you in the wallet. I should have told him I spoke to you, but you pissed me off, so I opted to let you take it rectally.”
“Your warmth and caring truly overwhelm me at times, Kalinski.”
He bowed his head in thanks, the asshole.
“I deserved it. He should have benched me.”
“Yeah, you practicing Catholics are real big on the guilt.” He gave the crucifix dangling around my neck a dark look, then met my eyes.
I reached up to shove the cross back inside the collar of my shirt. “I don’t really practice so much anymore,” I clarified. “I just like to cling to the things that I grew up with. Guilt, self-flagellation, fish on Fridays…you know.”
“I am familiar. So, you’re upset about Lila’s son?”
I gaped at him.
“Please, Dan tells me everything as soon as he hears it, you know that.”
“Mr. and Mr. Talk Too Fucking Much,” I mumbled, and reached behind me for the doorknob.
Kalinski chuckled. I had to shake my head at how blissed-out the man was these days.
“I’m working on things, up here.” I tapped my temple as I pulled open the door. “Dan was a big help.”
“He’s good at helping dickheads see the light.”
“Speaking from experience, I know.”
“You bet. Keep me in mind if you need a sounding board. Been there and done that with the whole kid freak-out and denial show.” Vic stretched his arms over his head.
“Will do. Now get back to work before the team realizes what a fuck-up you really are and takes away your coach’s jacket.”
Vic tapped his head in a two-fingered salute, and I left him to his work. I exited the stadium with a new outlook on this whole Langley thing. Things would be just fine. Yep, I had this mentoring/parenting thing wrapped up tight as a nun on Good Friday.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. I peeked at the clouds rolling past and whispered a Hail Mary just in case.
Friday arrived before I was ready. I was standing in the middle of my kitchen with something called a mop in my hand, trying to recall the last time I’d cleaned my kitchen floor. It might have been before Obama was in office. Lila would be there any minute, and she would flip the fuck out when she saw how I lived. When she’d been up for casino night last year, she’d taken one look at my bachelor pad and rented a hotel room by Cayuga Lake. Since I wanted her in my bed as often as possible, I’d cleaned up a bit for her arrival.
I turned the mop over and rolled it around, searching for directions. I knew water was involved in some capacity.
“They put directions on a toaster but not on a mop,” I told the pile of dirty dishes sitting in hot soapy water in the sink while I schozzled my mop in the dishwater. A glass and a fork got tangled up in the ropey-braid things of my mop. The glass was easy to untangle. The fork? Not so much. I was tugging on it when I heard Lila’s voice calling my name.
“In here, baby,” I shouted over my shoulder.
“Seamus, what are you doing? Please tell me you did not have that dirty mop in the dishwater.”
I spun around, fork-infused-mop in hand, to stare at her. “No, of course not,” I blatantly lied.
Her finely plucked eyebrow shot up her forehead, then a kid nearly as tall as she was ambled into view. He worked real hard to look cool: ball cap on backward, wild hair covering his eyes, saggy jeans, oversized flannel shirt over a T-shirt with a pig with wings, and ratty old black high-tops.
“The fork fell on the floor and I fished it out from under the fridge with the mop,” I said.
“We are going to the hotel,” the beauty in soft autumn colors announced.
“No, come on, I spent all morning cleaning.”
I threw the mop aside and went to her, wrapping her stiff body in my arms and hugging her tightly. Langley frowned at the display. I kissed her to make sure the little shit knew what was what. His scowl deepened.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Lila replied, but did run a gloved hand over my cheek before we broke apart. “Seamus, this is my son.” She smiled and motioned to the boy in the doorway with a graceful arc of her hand.
“Nice to meet you, Langley,” I said, and offered the lad my hand.
“Name’s Fresh X-Pres,” he grunted as his hands went deep into his front pockets.
“What are you, a fucking bagged salad?”
“Seamus, please, I wish you would mind the coarse language,” Lila gently scolded as she peeled off a delicate gold cotton glove. “My son has chosen a new name that reflects his newfound self.”
“No, he picked a name that makes him sound like iceberg lettuce and radish slices in a bag,” I replied, because it was the truth.
Lila’s rosy lips were now a slash.
“You both can fuck off. At least I’m not a fucking queer-ass shim or a fag hockey player,” Langley aka Fresh X-Pres shouted at us, then stormed off to lock himself in one of my rooms.
Lila’s strong grip on my arm was
the only thing that kept that brat from irreparable anal damage from my boot.
“I’m going to kick his ass,” I snarled, and shook off Lila’s hand.
“Do stop. You sound like Red from That ‘70s Show,” Lila sighed with great weariness. “Do you happen to have any Scotch whiskey around?”
My eyes rounded at the request. “First, would I have any other kind? Second, you only drink mimosas or margaritas.”
I desperately wanted to go slap the shit out of Langley for that disgusting jab at Lila, but it looked like my girl needed me. The ass-kicking would have to wait. And I was making a note to make sure I never called that brat Fresh X-Pres. I can be a dick when needs be.
“A mimosa will not handle the stress of the past four days,” she said, and seated herself regally on one of my scrubby second-hand kitchen chairs.
I stormed over to the fridge, reached into the cupboard over the Whirlpool, and removed a bottle of Ardbeg 10 from the booze cupboard.
“You want the bottle, or a just some in a glass over ice?” I asked, and showed her the whiskey.
She peeled off the other glove and laid them both in her lap. The rust-colored shawl she wore over the sparkly gold dress really made her skin glow. Shit, she was lovely, and so very pained.
“Some in a glass over ice would be fine. Do not use any glass from that sink.” She pointed at the overflowing sink with a long, pumpkin-colored fingernail.
After taking out a couple of clean glasses and wiping them on my shirt to her satisfaction, I poured us each a couple of fingers and sat down across from her.
“Air do shlàinte,” I said, then tossed my shot back.
“Cheers,” Lila whispered, then took a sip of her drink. Her nose crinkled. “It’s very peaty.” She coughed gently.
“Yeah, good and smoky,” I replied, then leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms over my “What’s under my kilt? How warm are your hands?” T-shirt. “Is he always that charming?”
“Seamus, I do not think I fully appreciated what I was leaping into with that boy.” She took another sip, shuddered delightfully, then leveled soulful brown eyes at me. “He is not making the transition any easier, but I understand his confusion and anger.”
“What’s he got to be angry about? The little shit is lucky you took him in. He could have been tossed into the system,” I snapped, then mumbled an apology to my girl. “I know he’s not a little shit, but that kind of talk? You cannot allow him to speak to you like that. If I’d spoken to my mother like that, Dad would have beaten me with his belt.”
“The boy has every right to be angry, Seamus. I am sure this,” she waved a graceful hand at herself, “is hardly any boy’s ideal mother.”
“Lila, you need to stop putting yourself down. You’re not his problem – he’s his problem. Didn’t his grandparents teach him anything about gratitude?” I poured myself another two fingers, then flung that back. It burned nicely.
“They did the best they could with a young child who couldn’t tell if his only living parent was his mother or father.” Her third sip emptied her glass. “I don’t know how you drink this. Give me more.” I gave her three fingers this time. She took a tiny sip, then looked right into my soul over the top of her grape-jelly-jar-glass.
“I had to pee in the men’s room.”
“Sorry, baby.” This day was cranking up to be a real shitfest, and it was barely noon yet.
She poked at the ice cube floating in her whiskey with her perfectly manicured nail. “I hate being forced into using the men’s room. I am a lady and should always be in the ladies’ room.”
“No arguments from me.”
I eyed the whiskey longingly. Generally, I’m not a big drinker, especially on game day, but seeing Lila so upset and not being able to kick Langley’s ass made the bottle look damn appealing.
“You’re going to stay for the weekend, right?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind?” Her sultry eyes lifted from her whiskey to me. “I’m not altogether sure I can put in a whole weekend alone with him just yet. He hates me so, Seamus.”
That lone tear tracking down her soft cheek did me in. I gently pulled her out of her chair and settled her on my lap. There she sat, head on my shoulder, uneven breaths tickling my neck, hands resting on my chest and nape, for the longest time.
“It’ll all work out,” I whispered into her soft hair.
I wasn’t sure how I could make such a bold prediction, but I just kind of had a hunch.
This is why I lose every Super Bowl wager I make. My hunches blow. Five ungodly hours at home with Lila and Langley had left me in a mood. The kid was a first-class shitter, despite what Lila thought. Well, I kind of figured she knew he was a pain in the ass, but since he was her only child, she was trying to be gracious about it.
“You look like you sat on a puffer fish,” Mike Buttonwood informed me as we lined up on the ice for the National Anthem.
“That would have been preferable,” I said, then shoved my mouth guard in so he would leave me alone. There wasn’t one person in the barn I wanted to interact with. I should have downed more Ardbeg 10, but since I’d recently been disciplined, arriving at the game three sheets to the wind wouldn’t have been too smart. I rocked left to right as a local beauty contestant massacred our anthem, then I made a quick lap of the ice while Francis Scott Key whirled in his grave, stopping to check on August.
“You need a nickname,” I told the doe-eyed kid.
He carried on with whatever ritual it was his goalie mind needed to prepare. It looked like it involved touching each pipe then caressing the net. I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. Tenders were the oddest fucking bunch.
“You think maybe we can call you Augie?”
That pulled him from the void. He even flipped his mask up. “That’s really terrible,” August informed me.
“No it’s not. It’s awesome. You remember Augie Doggie and Daddy Doggie?”
The kid stared at me for fifteen seconds and never blinked.
“It was an old Hanna-Barbera cartoon? Sweet Mary Madonna, what the hell is wrong with you kids today?”
“Sorry, but I never heard of that cartoon. I used to watch Dexter’s Laboratory a lot.” He looked contrite as hell. You couldn’t help but like the damn kid. “Are you doing anything over the weekend? I thought maybe we could hang out or something.”
“I’d love that, but my girl and her son are up for a couple days.”
“That’s cool,” August said, then closed up by flipping his mask down to cover his face. I felt like I’d just kicked a puppy.
“We might be doing something with some friends tomorrow night. I’ll check on the particulars and let you know,” I lied.
Those brown eyes lit up inside his mask. Shit. Now I’d have to rush around and see if I could find something to do tomorrow night and pray that Lila was agreeable. Damn my sweet and gentle nature.
I skated to center ice to flank the center, cussing under my breath. When I looked up for the face-off, I spied George Pekkanan of the Waconia Wasps – or as our special teams coach calls the massive Finn, Georg PepperPopperPooperman – squaring up to battle Dan Arou, who had been plugged into the first line to replace Kalinski at center. For a winger, Dan played center well, and his face-off win percentage was amazing. We liked to tease him about being able to skate between the opposing player’s legs because he was short, at least by professional hockey standards. The real reason Dan was so good was because he was as quick as liquid silver. Dan and I were starting to click, just as I had with his husband. The only difference between being Dan’s wingman and being Vic’s was that Dan wasn’t into retaliation on the ice, which won him all kinds of good sportsmanship awards from the team and the league but did not wipe the smirk off Pekkanan’s horsey face.
I caught the insult Georg flung at Dan’s back after Arou won the face-off and shuttled the puck to Chris Metzer, a new acquisition from the ECHL. Dan was already racing down the ice, so maybe he hadn’t heard it,
because even as mild-mannered as Daniel Arou was, I didn’t figure he’d let what had been said about Vic go.
“Pity the concussion didn’t kill that faggot you married,” Georg had said, referring to the injury that had ended Victor Kalinski’s career at the ripe old age of five and twenty.
Guess I was just in one of those moods. I remember my father saying on more than one occasion that Scots were half temper and half mental. Georg gave me the “bring it” look. I threw down my stick, shook off my gloves, and dove on the Finnish center. Hearing the cartilage in his nose crinkle when my fist smashed into it was enjoyable, as was watching him hit the ice and cover his head. Pummeling him as he lay there also felt damn nice. Pity the instigator call that I got afterward wasn’t as much fun. When it was all said and done, I’d racked up a minor penalty, a major for fighting, a ten-minute misconduct and a game misconduct. The fines would be hefty to say the least. As would the ass-chewing I would get from the coaching staff.
I threw myself into the Cougars dressing room and took a seat in front of my cubicle. Shit, shit, shit. There would probably be a suspension coming my way. I sat there in my gear, sweaty and sulking, until the countdown clock on the wall told me the first period had concluded. When the team arrived, quite a few had complimentary things to say. I got a long look from Arou. I tried not to pay much attention, but discovered that was impossible. As was the irate special teams coach who called me into the hall with a jerk of his flaming red head.
“What the holy fucking hell is the matter with your brain pan, McGarrity?” Victor yelled right in my face. “Did we not just discuss the need to keep our heads clear and not pull penalties?”
I stared right into Kalinski’s angry blue-green eyes. “The fucker said he was sorry that crack to the head he gave you didn’t kill you. There may have been the word ‘faggot’ used as well. I took umbrage to that and punched him in the face. If he ever uses that word or talks that way about one of my friends again, I’ll do the exact same motherfucking thing.”
It was kind of comical to watch Vic masticate and swallow that information.
