by Isabo Kelly
“Did I wake you?” Sousa asked.
“Nah. Long practice, came home, collapsed on the couch and forgot to turn on the light. So what channel am I watching?”
“Four.”
She turned to one of the major networks and waited.
“In other news earlier this evening, athletes from all of New York City’s major sports teams gathered together for the premier of an advertisement that showcases the international flavor this city has to offer.”
She sat back and watched the Swedish goalie for one of the other New York hockey teams, the Dominican outfielder from the baseball team from Queens, and the Japanese right fielder from the Bronx baseball team all talk about their sports.”
“Here we go,” Sousa said. “This is it…”
“Defenseman Max St. Laurent from the New York Empires had this to say…”
As they switched to the footage of Max’s interview, her heart started to race. His responses were slow and clear, which boded well for him. He was also adorable. And then…what?
As the silence extended, she wanted to smack the usually annoying journalist with her shoe. Finally, she watched as the adorable Frenchman realized he’d been asked a question, then managed gamely to answer it.
“Oh, boy,” she said.
“Oh, boy is right,” Sousa replied. “I take it you two have been emailing?”
“Yeah,” she said. “There was some kind of emailing and he emailed me back but I hadn’t….”
“So what are you going to do now? After you’ve seen your adorable Frenchman on TV?”
“Send him an email?”
“Do it now,” Sousa ordered. “He needs it. Bye.” And with that, her friend ended the call, leaving her to send a very important email.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
I saw you on TV. You’re still awesome.
K
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Relieved to hear that, thanks. Not feeling so awesome (?) now.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
You are. You held your head high and you were wonderful. And making an effort.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Merci
Chapter Six
Max
Tabernac.
The entire team had heard the interview. He’d had enough of the snickers, the weather maps, the silly puzzle, and the stuffed squeaky sun.
Merde.
He smiled, despite his embarrassment. Especially since he could feel the genuine horror from his teammates. They were laughing with him, embarrassed for him. And in a few isolated cases, proud of him. “OK, thank you,” he said, bowing. “Really. I am touched that all of you spent your off time watching me on television.”
Even his defense partner grinned and presented him with a French-English meteorological dictionary. He shook his head, grinned back, and put the heavy tome away before settling down into the usual rhythm of practice. But practice itself was in no way usual. It was hard, fast, and it felt as if the world was doing its best to keep his brain in the game, and not on last night’s moment of idiocy. He had to focus on the ice, the puck and the game. And work. Hard.
As per usual, the entire team worked, too; the forwards, the wings, the centers, and the defensemen. Puck handling and stick handling first, then passing drills. He even got a few moments on one of the power play practice groups, then his penalty kill unit got about five seconds. By the time he got in front of the net, Semenov didn’t even break a sweat as he turned away his feeble attempt at a shot. Only a cretin would shoot with his hands in the defensive stick position.
Coach MacArthur was pleased with the team’s efforts on the ice. Max didn’t need percée to see it, but he felt it nonetheless. There was also something else; a worry behind the pride. And worry from his coach made his stomach turn.
“Great practice, guys,” Coach Mac boomed. “Back here tomorrow for video. Also the two power play units need to come early. We need to drill this thing into submission.” And then he turned to Max. “St. Laurent? I need to see you. In my office. Ten minutes.”
The team broke up and headed toward the locker room. Of all people, Emerson clapped him on the shoulder. “Careful, buddy,” he said, his tone joking, his fear just below the surface. “Just be careful.”
Max nodded at the captain, taking the man’s sage advice at face value. Merde. He was in for it. But all he could say was, “Yes. Absolutely. I will.”
He headed into the locker room, grabbed his things, and took the quickest shower he’d ever taken. As he dried himself off and got dressed, he tried to figure out what he might be confronting, and did his darnedest to calm his raging mind.
He found himself focusing on the fact his coach was not angry. The man was frustrated. Proud and he felt a tinge of exasperation. That meant a couple things, he decided as he grabbed his bag and headed toward his coach’s office. But in the end, the most important thing was to make sure his coach realized how serious he was. He was working hard, and would continue to do so. The opportunity he’d been given meant a great deal to him, and he’d do whatever it took to stick as a pro.
Resolved, settled, he knocked on the door.
“St. Laurent?”
“Ouais, Chef,” he began without thinking.
Merde.
English. “Yes, Coach MacArthur.”
“C’mon in. It’s open.”
He nodded, took a deep breath and tried to see past his own fear. Frustration and worry and urgency from his coach. As he shut the door, he took another deep, cleansing breath before turning to his coach. Keep it simple. Slowly. Slowly. “I…”
But his coach shook his head, gesturing him to a seat in front of his desk instead. All he could feel was sadness. “I don’t want to hear one word out of you. Not one.”
He was silent as he sat down, focusing on Coach MacArthur’s face.
Now it was his coach’s turn to sigh, and he found himself overwhelmed by the disappointment rolling off of the other man.
“You did great during your segment of the commercial,” Coach Mac began, a bit of pride in his voice. “Wonderful. You also represented your team well in most of the interviews you did during the press thing. That tells me you’re making a genuine effort. You mean it. But these flub ups, these mess-ups of yours. They’re…”
“But…”
“Not one word, St. Laurent. I mean it. You need to listen. I cannot tell you how important it is to me personally that you’re making the effort to learn English. Whatever that effort is, it shows.”
Max wondered how the coach would react if the man understood how little he was actually speaking English outside of practice and scattered emails…
“And nobody likes that reporter anyway. But he messed you up. And if he can, then any reporter worth their salt can. Which means you’re not fluent enough. And here’s the thing. The Classic. Obviously it matters in the standings, but it matters for the league’s publicity. It matters for the team. If they mess you up there, again? It’s not just you who’s messed up, it’s the team. Because it will be everywhere.”
Max swallowed.
“And the thing is, the organization wants you to play up here. We think you’re ready and we think you’re going to be here for a while. So instead of sending you back down to Stratford to keep you out of that spotlight, this is what we propose. It’s a simple proposition. If you’re not fluent or whatever you want to call it by the time we play the Winter Classic , we’re hiring you an interpreter. And the cost is coming out of your salary.”
There were no words he could say. He was in trouble.
Merde.
Kayleigh
One of the new pieces was first on the agenda at the Philharmonia’s full practice: an arrangement of an aria from Carmen. Kayleigh found herself having to focus. The arrangement was a bit in
teresting, but in a good way. It was fast, furious and forced her nimble fingers just beyond their limits.
Finally, the piece was the way Arun wanted it, and he gestured to the ensemble to put their instruments down. “Good job, everybody,” he said, pride in his voice. “We’ll take five in a minute and come back to the Vivaldi. But before that, I have an announcement.
Announcement? Another announcement?
She sighed, then realized she wasn’t the only one. It was all she could do to keep from laughing.
“This isn’t bad, guys,” Arun qualified, his hands out in a motion of surrender. “So there’s been a change to this year’s schedule.”
Another change?
She bit her tongue, holding back any possible comment she might have made. The rest of the orchestra wasn’t as successful; she could hear the undercurrent of chatter around her. She just shrugged her shoulders and held her breath.
“Yes,” he continued. “I know. This has been a tumultuous year already and we haven’t even made it into December. But this year, we are getting a gala holiday party.”
Gala? Holiday? What???
She sat up straighter in her chair, carefully holding on to her violin.
“Because this year presents more opportunities for subscribers to spend time with orchestra members, as well as increased opportunities to gain new subscribers and charitable contributions, the board decided it would be a better use of time and money to give the Philharmonia a reward. Thus, instead of the midwinter charity gala, this year, we will have a mid-winter orchestral gala. Orchestra members, some selected board members and invited guests will attend. Attendance is mandatory. Plus ones are allowed. Dress code is black tie. Now take five, and we’ll go back to Vivaldi after the break.”
Kayleigh sighed. The very last thing she wanted to do was to have to deal with some of the members of the orchestra on an off day when she wouldn’t otherwise have to. It was one thing to see some of them when she wanted to but this?
“Aren’t you excited about the gala?”
Speak of the devil. Joe. One of the very last people in the world she wished to see.
Instead of answering him the way she wanted, she bit her tongue and focused on putting her violin back into its case. She absolutely did not want to go to this gala. But she wouldn’t tell Joe that. She had no desire to socialize with him. Especially since the man reminded her of an overexcited Chihuahua, and there was nothing she liked less. “Sure,” she said, picking words that would get her out of the conversation as quickly as possible. “Black tie, right?”
“Yes. Formal setting for us requires black tie.” He paused. “And it would be better for you to bring a date. It seems…awkward if you don’t.”
“Sure,” she said, preparing to leave Joe before he had a chance to continue the conversation. Because he wasn’t who she wanted to talk to. She needed to talk to Arun. Immediately.
And as soon as she put her violin case back on her chair, with a peripheral “Excuse me,” to Joe, she headed toward Arun. Thankfully, her friend had stepped away from the podium, and smiled when he saw her standing in front of him.
“Kayleigh, how are you?”
“Do I have to?”
Arun laughed, and rolled his eyes. “Not willing to mince words, Kay?”
She shook her head. “Not so much. Come on,” she pleaded. “Do you know what December is going to be like for me?”
Arun threw back his shoulders. “I do, or don’t you remember discussing this a few weeks ago?” he replied. “I’m guessing your parents are coming in?”
“Yep. And most of my relatives and half the province of Saskatchewan. It’s like my brother’s never played in a hockey game before.”
The sound of Arun’s laugh was almost enough to make her smile. “And haven’t you already noticed that ‘the powers that be’ were already making special arrangements for you? You know, your addenda to the schedule where you were told you didn’t have to attend certain events?”
She nodded, remembering the papers she’d been handed three days after the original schedule went out. “Yes. And…”
“This is not on the list of events you can miss. No buts, no excuses if not something major.”
Fuck.
Resigned to the inevitable, she prepared to head back to her seat.
“Oh, and Kayleigh?”
She turned toward Arun. “Hmm?”
“I’m going to bring Jonathan,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Could you…bring someone as well? He’ll need someone to talk to.”
She nodded; she couldn’t say no to her conductor. Especially when he was a friend asking her for a favor.
“Someone to take his mind off of how nervous he is, maybe a hockey player?”
“Like they grow on trees,” she said, laughing.
“Please?”
Once again she nodded. “Sure, Arun. I’ll see what I can do.” If she were being honest with herself, she knew exactly who she’d ask. Except it was a horrible idea. A very bad, horrible, no good idea. But that didn’t stop her from thinking about it.
Max
Merde.
He was screwed. Tabern…
“Hein, petit,” his grand-père said, laughing. “Arrêt with the tabernacs or we’re going to put you in that church two blocks north.”
He laughed against the broom. He’d desperately hoped he’d be able to sweep out his frustrations on the floor of the poutine shop. Apparently, this was not going to happen. Especially when grand-père was in town, watching the shop so Alain could go fishing before the period he called ‘peak poutine season’ started. “Désolée,” he said, his voice full of regret. “I…”
“No,” Grand-père said, halting the apology with a smile. The World Series was on the television, a French language broadcast courtesy of a Quebec sports station that took pity on the shop. “S’OK. So what’s causing the trouble? Your schedule? You need a…”
“Another head is what I need,” Max answered earnestly. “I have to…be better at English, or I’m going to be forced into a translator.”
“So it is the language. Merde.” Grand-père swept at the counter with a towel. “Is there someone you can ask for assistance with English? Un Anglo? You know, what about a pretty girl…”
“Arrêt!” Max shouted, half laughing, half shaking his head. His grandfather meant well, but the idea…well… “I don’t know.” He paused and drummed his fingers on the countertop. “Maybe.” But would she? Would Kayleigh help him? Not that he’d mind having the excuse to spend time with her, but tabernac…
“Mon dieu, it’s like you have the world on your shoulders, petit. Be smart, hein? Not…like you search for the cure to cancer, you know?”
He nodded, smiled and sighed. An email wouldn’t hurt. The worst she could say would be no. And he could live with that.
Kayleigh
There was only one place Kayleigh felt comfortable going when she was on the verge of making a bad decision: Sousa’s bar. So immediately after rehearsal, she got on the subway, got off at the stop that took her to the right part of the Village and walked the few blocks to the Elk (not the poutine shop).
The Elk itself was a nondescript spot with a comfy atmosphere. Wooden bar with hand-carved bar stools and leather cushions. Small tables in the corner and a stone fireplace. She was there often enough nobody looked twice at her as she walked in with a violin case.
“Hey, Kay,” Sousa said as Kayleigh walked in. Her friend was behind the bar, swabbing it down with a cloth. “What do you want?”
“The Good Ship Bad Decision,” she replied, shaking her head as she sat down on a stool. “Dear god, Souze.”
Sousa began to make her drink—a Shirley Temple with a shot of vodka. “So what brought this on?”
“So there’s this gala,” she began as she reached for a water glass. “The management turned it into a gala for orchestra members only, when before it was for subscribers. Kind of a way to get everybody together and…rel
ax? I guess?”
Sousa nodded as she passed her the drink. “Go on.”
“So anyway, I don’t want to go to this thing. Really don’t. For reasons.”
“Which don’t involve the viola player that deserves his bow shoved up his ass?”
“Yes. And definitely do involve the fact I am tired, what with the fifty million things I need to do…”
“Yes. Yes. Yes. Go on.”
“And I especially don’t want to invite someone.”
“Come again?”
Kayleigh sighed as she took a swallow of her drink, letting the fizzy soda dance around her tongue. “See, Arun freaked out because he’s bringing his husband, of course. Problem is, Jonathan’s a total sports guy. So Arun asked me to bring someone, preferably a hockey player, to talk to Jonathan so he’s not bored.” She took another drink and sighed. “Basically.”
“And you’re thinking of asking the guy you had me give your email to?”
“In a nutshell. Hence the Bad Idea Express.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Sousanna replied matter-of-factly. “He’s hot. You’re asking him if he wants to go with you to a gala.”
“He’s on my brother’s team. He’s barely comfortable talking to me when my brother’s around.”
“You and he have been emailing, right? And is your brother going to be attending this gala?”
“Yes,” she replied. “We’ve been emailing, so it’s not going to be a random email out of nowhere. And no. My brother is not invited. He is not my guest.”
“Not your date, thankfully. So, again, what’s the problem?”
Kayleigh sighed, reaching for anything she could think of. “His English is not the best. What if he can’t keep up a conversation with Jonathan? What’s the point of bringing someone who can’t have a conversation with Jonathan, when the express purpose of bringing someone is to keep Jonathan occupied?”
“Does he have a cute accent? I mean what’s the point of an accent if it isn’t…”
