by Teagan Kade
“Don’t you get it? That stuff doesn’t matter to me. I’ve lived in the Upper End, had everything I wanted, and I was still unhappy. I don’t care if you’re a god-damn janitor. All I need is you.” I take his face in my hands. “Do you understand that, you big, stupid brute?”
His eyes flicker—fire and ice. “You deserve better, Wren. You always have.”
“But I want you. Tell me you don’t want the same.”
“I do.”
“So what’s the problem?”
He shrugs. “I just thought if I could get back into the league…”
“Forget the League,” I tell him. “Forget about this business with Tommy whoever the fuck he is and all that drama. We. Will. Figure. It. Out… Together. You’re not alone anymore.”
“You really mean that?”
I kiss him, the coffee still warm on his lips. “I’ve never meant anything more in my life, but you have to promise me you’re going to stop this self-wallowing bullshit, right here and now, because that I cannot accept.”
“Okay,” he says, placing the coffee mug down and lifting me up from my chair into his lap. “What now?”
“Now,” I say smiling. “We fuck.”
I wake up energized, which is kind of funny considering we barely slept at all.
I run my fingers over Carter’s velvety length, tickle his glans, the cherry hood of his cock. He jerks it forwards in response, smiling at me with his hands behind his head.
“Best hangover cure I’ve had.”
I take hold of his member, lightly pumping it with my hand. “Sure as hell beats raw eggs and an aspirin.”
He rolls over on top of me, pushing my thighs apart with his own. “You said you had something to tell me?”
I’d forgotten all about the call with the lawyer.
The tip of his cock taps against my clit.
“The lawyer rang.”
The tapping turns into rubbing, the blunt head of Carter’s cock starting to slip inside me every time he runs it downwards. “And?”
“He was able to get some of our, well, my savings unfrozen. Fifty-thousand dollars, in fact.”
At this moment in time I don’t think Carter would care if it’s a million. He slides his cock forward. I gasp, clutching at the sheets. “That’s great. What are you going to do with it?”
“The question is, what are we going to do with it?” I correct.
I’m doing the dishes, watching Carter cut up firewood outside, when my cell rings.
“Dad,” I answer. “It’s been two weeks.”
“Sorry, baby,” he says, what sounds like Cuban music playing in the background. “I’ve been so busy.”
“With?” I’m trying to keep the irritation out of my voice, to stop him turning what has been a blissfully good start to the day into something else.
“You know… life.”
“Do you know the government took the house, our things, Dad? Do you know I was homeless?”
“I know, baby. I heard, and I’m so sorry. I really, really am. I wish I could help, but I barely have two dimes to rub together myself. You know how it is.”
“You’re hardly living on the street, Dad.”
Someone calls his name in the background, a female. “Look, I know I’m not father of the year, Wren, and I know this has been hard on you, as it has me.”
Now I’m angry. “On you? What’s that supposed to mean?
“I’ve had reporters, cameramen coming up to me, asking about you, about David…”
“But you haven’t said anything to them, have you, Dad?”
“Of course not, baby, but they were offering a lot of money. I could do an interview, forward you the cash…”
I can’t believe I’m hearing this. “The one time I need your support, Dad, and where are you? Off floozing your next target, always on the con. What happened to you, Dad, seriously? I want to know.”
He exhales, seems tired of this conversation already. “You make choices, Wren, and you have to live with those choices.”
“Are you referring to David?”
“You chose to be with him, Wren.”
I’m getting awfully sick of this. I rub my eyes, will not cry over this. “Only because you pushed me to do it, because he was the ‘perfect son-in-law’—your words. Well, look how that turned out.”
“Where are you now?”
“I’m with Carter, Dad. I’m where I should have been from the start,” I tell him, and I hang up.
Carter
I’m about to pull the roller door up and bring out the Zamboni for the start of my shift when something tugs at my shirt.
I look down. “David?”
David stands there wearing a Canucks jersey. It’s got my old number on it. “Hi, Mr. Carter.”
Steve and David’s mom are standing over by the barrier. “What are you doing here, pal?”
David shrugs in that apathetic way only kids know how. “I’m getting this new treatment in Seattle, so I pestered Mom to drive me up here.”
I’m a little taken aback. “All that way to see me?”
“No, to visit the Chinese gardens,” he says with sarcasm, not missing a beat.
I smile and crouch down, pinching his cheek. “You are looking less like a vampire.”
“The doctors think I might be able to live another ten years, maybe more.”
As sad as that statement is, I keep smiling, patting him on the shoulder. “That’s great, buddy, really great, and hey, that’s plenty of time to work on your slapshot.”
He looks around. “Where’s your girlfriend?”
“Wren?”
“Yeah, the girl with the really pretty eyes and,” he grabs a pair of invisible breasts, “the bazookas.”
I stand and rub him on the top of the head. “You’re going to be a lady killer with lines like that when you grow up, but Wren’s fine. She’s back at the cabin.”
His face turns quizzical. “Are you going to marry her? I would.”
I laugh. “It’s complicated, bud. Adult business.”
He shakes his head and crosses his arms. “Nu-uh. She’s pretty and she likes you. There’s nothing complicated about that.”
The little bugger has a point. “And where’s your girlfriend, huh?”
He rolls his eyes. “Please, once I get a bit better I’m going to be swimming in puss—”
I place my hand over his mouth, laughing. “Okay, okay. I get it, Hugh Hefner.”
“Seriously,” he continues. “You need to put a ring on that.”
“I’ve got nothing to offer her,” I tell him. “I injured my knee again, I won’t make it back into the NHL again…”
“At least you don’t have Hodgkin lymphoma.”
I nod. “You’re right.”
“You’ve got the best job in the world, you’re like a model, and you drive a cool, manly car.”
“I named it after a girl.” I wink. I wish I was twelve again, when driving a Zamboni and owning a rusty Jeep was the pinnacle of adulthood achievement. I can’t help but smile. “I suppose I do have it pretty sweet, don’t I?”
He reaches down and picks up his hockey stick and skates. “Now, I didn’t have Mom drive all this way to talk about girls, so put on your gear. You can still skate, can’t you?”
“What the doctor doesn’t know won’t kill him.”
“Good,” says David, a grin stretching his face, “because I’m going to whoop your butt today.”
“You can try.” I wink.
An hour later once David has thoroughly exhausted himself, I wave him and his mother goodbye from the front doors.
There’s some mild pain, enough to tell me my skating career is indeed over, but not enough to keep me off the ice.
Steve comes up to my side. “Good kid. Tough break.”
I nod. “You can say that again. He taught me a thing or two tonight.”
“And what’s that?” Steve asks.
“Where my priorities should be.”
I salute. “Yes, boss.”
It takes me longer than usual on the Zamboni tonight. The ice is so cut up I’m wondering if there was a hockey team earlier or a pack of monkeys.
This job allows for a certain peace, but tonight more than ever I find I’m content. Perhaps it was spending time with David, or Wren proving she’s happy to support me no matter what. Yes, getting back into the NHL would have been great, a second chance, but I’ve got other second chances to attend to, things that are far more important than slapshotting a disc of compressed rubber across the ice.
I’m sure I hear a sound towards the front of the rink. I stoop, looking to the doors, but it’s too dark down there to make anything out. “Steve?” I shout.
No response.
Isn’t hearing things one of the first signs of madness?
But if this is madness, if being with Wren, worshiping her body night and day, is madness, I say bring it the fuck on.
I make one final pass and park away the Zamboni, smiling at the memory of Wren squirming into my crotch seated on top there, almost driving us into the barrier.
It’s been a long day. I’m desperate to get back home to her, to separate those legs and taste the sweet treasure within, to make her toes curl and her lips call out my name. Fuck what the world thinks. We were meant to be together from the start, and I’m going to make it official—whatever it takes.
I’m heading to the front doors when two figures step out of the shadows.
I stop, my hands out. “Hello, boys.”
One of them has a shotgun now, the other with his trusty fucking crowbar.
The guy with the crowbar points it at me. “Tommy wasn’t too pleased when you turned down his offer.”
“What offer was that?” I ask, trying to remain calm here. They’ve got me backed up against the barrier. The exits are too far away to make it. At this range that shotgun would make a right ol’ mess of me.
“The offer of a peaceful resolution to all this, to keep it between you and him.”
“By extorting me into paying him more money for his supposed protection?” I’m looking for a weapon, but save for an empty soda can sitting on a nearby table, I’m coming up blank. The best thing I can do here is try to buy time.
Crowbar guy smiles, a grill turning his mouth metallic. “I personally think it’s a very fair offer. After all, there are some dangerous people around these parts, wouldn’t you agree, Georgie?”
‘Georgie’ smiles and nods, seemingly missing his teeth.
“Have you ever been inside?” I ask.
They exchange a look. Crowbar guy pulls down the neck of his shirt to reveal a tattoo of a clock without hands, a common prison tatt symbolic of doing time. Some inmates, especially those with lengthy sentences, used to get a watch tattooed on their wrist complete with strap and all.
“So you know,” I continue, “that any kind of fuck-up on the outside could get you thrown right back in.” I point to the shotgun. “Last I checked, that included murder.”
Crowbar guy laughs, tossing and catching the crowbar in his hand. “We’re not here to kill you, brother. Nah. We’re just going to fuck you up a bit.” He taps the side of his head. “We’re going to break you down a bit until you start seeing reason and cough up some coin. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” I reply, stiffening. I took my fair share of beatings inside. I can take another.
I extend my arms out. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
Crowbar smiles and starts to close in on me. “I’m going to enjoy this, crushing the fucking Crusher.”
A veritable pun genius.
He holds the crowbar like a baseball bat, bringing it back behind himself.
I flex the muscles in my chest as much as I can, prep for the blow.
Just when he’s about to swing, a new voice comes from the shadows. “Stop right fucking there.”
Georgie swivels, aiming into the darkness.
Steve emerges into the light with his own shotgun raised to his shoulder. He’s pointing it at Georgie. “Fucking drop it.”
Crowbar Guy turns and laughs. “You’re outnumbered, friend.”
Now’s my chance. I prepare to tackle Crowbar Guy from the back, but I don’t need to.
“Noah,” Steve calls.
Steve’s teenage son steps into the light, his own rifle raised, this time pointed at Crowbar Guy.
“He moves a single inch and you drop him, son,” says Steve.
“Yes, Dad,” comes Noah’s shaky reply.
They’re fucked now.
“Put it the fuck down!” yells Steve, jerking the shotgun towards Georgie.
They’re out of options. Georgie lowers the shotgun to the floor, standing with his hands raised.
Steve shifts his gun to Crowbar Guy. “You too, goldilocks.”
Crowbar Guy lets go of the crowbar. It lands with a thud on the carpet.
“Kneel!” yells Steve. “Hands on your heads.”
The goons do as he says.
Steve reaches behind his back and tosses me a packet of cable-ties. “Tie them up, Carter.”
I zip-tie Crowbar Guy’s hands first, pausing with fist raised to punch him in his ugly fucking head.
“Carter,” Steve warns, “don’t give them any excuse to put you back inside, buddy. Let it go.”
Crowbar Guy spits to the floor. “Tommy’s going to hear about this,” he says.
“I’m sure he will,” I reply.
I cable-tie Georgie’s hands together.
Steve gestures to his son. “Noah, hand Carter the rifle. Carefully now.”
I take it and hand Steve back the cable-ties. “You came prepared.”
Steve smiles, gun still raised at the goons. “Two tours in Afghanistan before the NHL. A Ranger’s always prepared.”
“Noah,” says Steve. “Run on home now.”
“But Dad…”
“Home. Now. Call the Sheriff.”
“Go on,” I enthuse. “And thanks.”
Noah nods, satisfied, and runs back through the front doors.
Not less than ten minutes later the Sheriff Lawson and his deputy arrive. He surveys the scene. “What the flying fuck do we have here?”
“Scum,” says Steve.
The Sheriff grins, holding his belt and looking at me. “I suppose this has something to do with you?”
I nod.
The Sheriff shakes his head. “Ah, fuck it. I always thought this place could do with a clean. Deputy.”
Steve and I lower our weapons.
While the deputy hauls the men away, Sheriff Lawson turns to me. “Like I said, Crusher. You’re trouble, so I want you think long and hard about what your presence here is doing to innocent folk like Steve.” He looks between us. “I’ll see you both down the station for a statement. God knows it’s going to take all night to get to the bottom of this.” He tips his hat and walks off, leaving Steve and I alone.
Steve leans his shotgun up against the table. He walks over the vending machine, punching in a code, a can of soda popping free. “You want one?”
I shake my head.
He opens the can and drains it, holding his chest.
“You alright?” I ask.
“You scared the shit out of me, Carter. Who the fuck are those guys?”
“Goons sent by a guy I was inside with, a guy I was paying for protection, a guy who thinks this protection money extends to the outside.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, shit.” A thought occurs to me. “How’d you know they were here?”
Steve points up at the CCTV camera. “Remember? Though personally I’d prefer the sex tape action you had going on the other night. Woowee.”
Fuck. I’d completely forgotten about the camera.
Steve crunches the can in his hand. “One thing’s for certain, you’re damn sure lucky I happened to be watching, not to mention the benefits of me living a street over.”
Steve takes a seat nodding. “Don’t worry about it, but this guy inside.”
“Tommy.”
“Tommy then. What’s he in for?”
I laugh. “A better question would be what’s he not in for?”
Steve pushes his cheek out with his tongue, thinking. “I might be able to help.”
“How’s that?”
Steve places the crushed can a nearby table. “After you left, the team did some charity work with Correctional Services. I made some contacts, some friends.”
“The last thing I want is you getting involved, Steve.”
He laughs, flicking his eyes towards the shotgun. “Bit late for that, isn’t it? Hey, what was that team slogan a while back, ‘believe in blue’?”
“Something like that.”
“You’re still part of the team, Carter, whether you’ve got a busted knee or not. Let me help you, not because you need it, but because you’re family.”
I’m at the station for almost six hours.
Wren’s waiting when I arrive back at the cabin.
She rushes forward to embrace me. “Thank god you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” I smile. “You almost had a cripple for a boyfriend, but I got lucky.”
“Carter, what if Steve hadn’t shown up?”
I pull her into my chest, hold her there and never want to let her go. “Don’t even go there, baby.”
“What if they come back? What if more men show up?”
“Steve has some connections. He thinks he can help.”
“And if he can’t?”
“I’ll deal with it.”
“What about the reporters, the media? They’re never going to let up, Carter.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, too. I know someone who might be able to help, put together an interview telling your side of the story, under your terms.”
“A reporter?”
“Yes.”
“And you trust him?”
“I don’t trust anyone, but this guy—asshole he might be—has turned over a new leaf.”
“You think people can do that? Change?”
