by Melanie Ting
“Why don’t you try asking Elaine out again? Maybe a game wasn’t the best idea. Try a poetry reading. I bet chicks love artsy stuff like that. The biggest problem for you will be staying awake.”
“What’s the point? She’s way out of my league.” And Elaine had been very firm that she only wanted to be friends.
“Well, the point is that you were so happy when you got to go out with her. As your roommate, the person who has to suffer through your moods, I want you to be happy.”
Marty sniffed. He wasn’t that moody, but this was a big deal. He’d get over it eventually.
Jonesy held up his phone. “Okay, last chance. I’m going to text her....”
“Go ahead.”
He read aloud as he texted. “Hey Elaine, we are leaving for our road trip tomorrow. So, don’t forget about Knightley. Also if you want to hang out in the apartment in your lingerie, that spy-cam in the living room is totally not hooked up to any kind of remote streaming device.”
“Funny.”
Jonesy laughed. “Seriously, though. She’s got the perfect body. Those tits and that ass, and that tiny waist. Can you imagine—”
“Could you shut up? If you really want me to cheer up, this is not helping.” All Marty could think about was everything he’d lost before he even had a chance to enjoy it. Elaine had liked him; she’d asked him out in the first place. And then he had totally screwed it up. Or maybe she had just come to her senses.
The team was on the sleeper bus for the long trip to Cali. Some guys went straight to bed, but most stayed up until their normal bedtimes. Marty was playing cards with a few guys, when Jonesy stood up.
“Gentlemen, can I have everyone’s attention?”
Calls of “No,” “Shut up,” and general profanity were heard.
“Siddown, Jonesy,” Paul Thibault, their new captain, called out.
“No, Tibbs, this is important,” he said, and then ducked as a Starbucks cup flew towards his head. “Okay. While everyone on the team knows that I’m the smoothest guy on the team when it comes to the ladies….” He paused and waited until the groaning and hooting had ended. “Apparently, some of you guys have hidden talents as well. Otherwise, how do we explain how Doughy got married?”
“Oh, fuck you,” their back-up goalie, Mark Pillsbury, called out. “My wife is a very happy woman.”
Jonesy grinned. “That’s what I mean. You’re ugly as shit and we all know how small your dick is, so you must have hidden talents.”
Everyone laughed, and Jonesy continued, “But now is the time for everyone to share their secrets with the ladies.”
“What are you going on about?” Bod asked.
“Exhibit A.” He pointed to his roommate. “Devo here is in love. But he needs our help.”
“Jesus, Jonesy.” Marty pulled on his arm. “Sit down and shut up.”
“No, this is brilliant. I got this idea watching a movie the other night. We need to fix him up. I want every guy here to think up his best tip for getting women and share it with Devo. We’re going to fix him up so good that she won’t know what hit her. By the time we get back to Vancouver, he will be the perfect man.”
“Who’s the unlucky lady?” Doughy asked.
“Anyone remember Elaine from the calendar shoot?”
“The hot Asian chick?” someone asked. There were hoots and whistles.
“A ten-spot like her likes Devo?” Leper asked.
Jonesy nodded. “She asked him out.” Bod whistled.
“Shut up,” Marty said. “And she doesn’t like me.” Anymore. Again he felt deep regret, and Jonesy wasn’t helping at all. Marty wanted to heal in private without everyone on the team knowing what a loser he was.
There was more bitching and complaining from the guys. “I’m serious as a motherfucker,” Jonesy declared. “Devo’s had your backs for the past two seasons. Now it’s payback time. I’m going to put a schedule together, so if you don’t find me, I’ll find you.”
Foxy, one of the rookies, leaned across the aisle. “I’d like to help you, but I’m not really good with girls.”
“It’s okay. Jonesy is just blowing it out of his ass. There’s not going to be any fixing-up lessons.” Jonesy had a ton of dumb ideas, but this was the biggest, grand prize-winningest dumb idea of all. No way.
But by the time they stopped for their first game in Stockton, Jonesy presented Marty with a handwritten schedule.
“Most of the guys are flexible, but Tibbs wants to take you shopping when we get to San Jose. Apparently he knows a place around there.”
Marty looked down at the schedule, a series of grids, which would take up most of his free time for the whole road trip. Mainly it was names, but a few had little notes beside them, like “being funny” and “sincere compliments.”
“Are you kidding? Everyone is helping me? Why?”
“Guys love you, man. You’re probably the only guy on the team they’d do this for. Of course, there’s a few knobs who told me to fuck myself, but they probably don’t have any secrets to share. Hey, I want you to tell me everything Burner says. Word is that he’s a tantric sex master, and I wouldn’t mind learning some of that mystic sex shit.”
Marty looked down at his hands and remembered how Elaine had backed away. “But what’s the point? Elaine’s not going to go out with me again.”
“Leave that up to me, bud. You just go all Padawan and learn everything you can.”
“Do you really think this is going to work?”
Jonesy nodded. “From the sounds of things, she liked you. But you messed up the first date by being too nervous. And then the fight scared her. All we need to do is show her what a pussycat you really are. And you know how much she loves pussycats.”
Marty couldn’t shake the feeling that this was another stupid scheme of Jonesy’s. But he also felt a growing hopefulness that hadn’t been there since Elaine got out of his car. He’d take even a slim chance. “Okay. I’ll give it a shot.”
“Perfect. And hey, once you show her you’re a pussycat, and you’ll get some pussy. Sweet, right?”
“You’re an asshole, Jonesy. But you’re a good buddy too.” Marty slung an arm around him and saw Jonesy’s quick grin before he began to squawk about not wanting any emo crap from a guy he had to live with.
11
Say Yes to the Dress Pants
“You need clothes that fit better. It’s like you’re getting all your suits at that Mr. Gigantic place.” Marc-André Beaulieu and Paul Thiebault sized up Marty as he stood in front of a three-sided mirror. The two French-Canadians on the team decided that their role in the big makeover was going to be as fashion consultants.
“Incroyable,” said Boiler. “He’s enormous, yet his clothes are too big.” He pinched the back of Marty’s jeans, which were a little baggy.
“You better get the salesman to measure you,” Tibbs suggested. After that was done, Marty was shocked to find out he was two sizes smaller than he thought. Still, his mother’s advice echoed in his head.
“What happens if I grow?”
“You are not fourteen years old anymore, my friend,” Boiler said. “If you still grow, our opponents are in really big trouble.”
That was probably true. He’d been 6’4” and 230 pounds for a couple of years now, and while his weight fluctuated over the season, it stayed pretty steady. Marty had another worry. “We’re not spending too much money today, are we?”
“Sit down.” Tibbs patted the chair beside him in the spacious changing area. Marty settled into the comfortable leather chair. This was one of the nicest menswear stores he had ever been inside, and he felt nervous.
Tibbs was one of the team’s older players. He had played in the NHL for parts of a few seasons, but now he held a leadership role on the Vice. “You know, when I played in the NHL, the best thing to happen to me—besides the paycheques—was meeting Sylvie. Because I was a big deal then, I got to marry a wonderful woman. Eh, it’s not news to you, but probably yo
u will never get a chance to play up, right?”
Marty nodded. He played on the fourth line on the worst team in the league, so he didn’t harbour any fantasies.
“So now is your time. You can get a woman who wouldn’t look at you twice if you were flipping burgers back on the Prairies. Spend the money to look good. You need a new suit anyway.”
“I guess.” Marty preferred to save his money.
Boiler interrupted. “It’s an investment. You buy the good clothes, and they last a long time.”
“Okay. But no scarves or weird colours.” Both of these guys wore clothes that were pretty out there. Boiler was currently wearing a shirt with flowers on it, and there was no way Marty would do that.
“Don’t worry, we know what you like. Blue, grey, blah.”
Tibbs took charge of the process, and soon Marty was standing in front of the mirror in a nice suit.
“What is this?” He pinched the fabric. It felt nice and soft.
“I don’t know the English word.” Boiler said something in French, which sounded like the word for stop.
“Herringbone,” the salesman said. “And the fabric is a fine worsted wool.”
Tibbs nodded. “It’s good. You see when you are big like this—” He motioned to the vast expanse of Marty’s shoulders. “You need a little pattern to break things up. Not a big pattern, but something soft, subtil.”
Marty looked at the mirror. The suit was a nice gray colour and more fitted than he was used to, but he looked good. Then he looked at the price on the sleeve. “Holy! This much for a suit?”
“This is what nice suits cost. And remember, an investment in your future.” Tibbs patted Marty on the shoulder. He nodded at the salesman, and the tailor came and marked up the suit for alterations. “When we get back to Vancouver, I will show you where I get my shirts made.”
“Why can’t I just buy one from the store?”
“Because you are special. If you get a shirt that fits your neck and shoulders, it’s going to be too big here.” He pointed to Marty’s waist.
The salesman nodded. “Most men are not athletes like you gentlemen. They need an easier fit around the waist.”
“So I tuck it in,” Marty protested.
Tibbs shook his head. “The folds will show. You get a nice suit and a fitted shirt. Everything must fit properly.” His voice was firm, and Marty sighed. Sometimes it was better to give in.
The guys insisted he get casual clothes too. Marty did the mental arithmetic and figured that he was spending more on clothes in one day than he had in the past three years. But he had to admit that he looked a lot better.
He was wearing the last outfit: dark jeans, a t-shirt, and a v-neck sweater. He ran his hand over the sweater. “It feels so nice and soft.”
Boiler smirked. “That is what she will say too, when she runs her hand over your chest.” Marty smiled as he imagined this.
“You look good,” Tibbs said. “Lately your hair looks better too.”
Marty had gone back to Georgia, the woman from the photo shoot, to get his hair cut. She cost a lot more than the old man in Chinatown. Looking good was expensive.
“What if I spend all this money, and I never even get to go out with her again?”
Tibbs shook his head. “You can’t think like that. You are getting dressed up for yourself—because you are worth it. You will have more confidence and then, voilá. If not this particular woman, then the next one. But the key is you: you look good and feel good.”
This advice didn’t make complete sense. Clothes wouldn’t make Marty feel any different; they had never been as important to him as they were to Boiler and Tibbs. But he was willing to try something new.
“It’s almost dinner time,” Boiler said. The whole team was getting together for a meal tonight. Bod had connections at some restaurant.
“Okay, I’ll get changed back into my—”
“No, no, no,” Tibbs interrupted. “You wear these clothes now. We burn the other stuff.”
“I’m not wearing all my new stuff,” Marty protested. “I’m saving them for when I see Elaine.”
“I tell you, it’s not just for a girl, it’s for yourself. Maybe tonight, you will meet the girl of your dreams. One must always be ready. Hockey players are celebrities, my friend. You need to work it more.”
Marty laughed. “I’m not like that. I’m from Saskatchewan.”
The guys laughed along with him, but Tibbs insisted on the new clothes. “There is no such thing as ‘saving.’ These clothes belong to you now, so wear them. Life is too short to look like the unmade bed.”
When they got to the restaurant, Tibbs made a big deal about their entrance. He insisted that Marty stay outside until he had done a big introduction. Marty felt like an idiot waiting in the lobby, while he could hear his teammates laughing.
“Is this a surprise party or something?” The hostess was smiling at him.
He shook his head. “It’s too embarrassing to say.”
“Oh come on. You can tell me. I’m shock-proof.”
He motioned to his clothes. “It’s a long story, but I’m twenty-three years old and still learning how to get dressed.”
The woman laughed. “Well, you look great. And I thought you were older than that.”
Marty had always been big for his age, so he was used to that assumption.
“So, you guys are a hockey team?”
“Yeah, the Vancouver Vice. We play your Barracudas tomorrow night.”
She frowned. “I thought they were called the Sharks.”
“No, that’s the NHL team. We’re the AHL, one league below.”
The hostess smiled. “Oh sorry. I guess I’m showing that I’m not really a hockey fan.”
“It’s okay. It happens all the time.”
“I could be though,” she said. “I’m Val, by the way.”
“Marty.”
Boiler appeared suddenly. “Devo, you missed your cue. Come on.”
“Sorry, gotta go,” he told the hostess.
“One more time,” said Tibbs. “Straight from the runways of Paris, we present—the magnificent Marty Devonshire.”
When he rounded the corner into their private room, the guys were all looking up expectantly. He took long strides, trying to imitate a model on a runway, and they all cheered and laughed.
“Wow, you look great,” Foxy told him. Foxy’s idea of dressed up was a new tracksuit.
The guys all laughed and enjoyed their meal. Being on the road was the best way for a new team to bond. At home, everyone did their own thing, and some of the guys had girlfriends or families. But on trips together, it was only the guys all the time. They split up into their own cliques, but sometimes they did team events like this. To Marty, those were the best times.
After a good meal, and a few drinks, the conversation turned back to fixing up Marty.
Bod took centre stage. He was a veteran who was pretty good but he’d never made it to the NHL. “Okay, Marty. I’m going to share a huge secret with you. I can guaran-fucking-tee that if you do this one thing, you will have pussy for the rest of your life. Women will be texting you at night, begging for a booty call.”
The whole table had gone silent. Bod grinned. He loved the fact that everyone was listening. He held up both his hands, raising his index finger with one, and making a peace sign with the other.
“This is the secret. Two for one.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Jonesy asked.
“It means, you give her two orgasms for every one you get.”
Foxy closed one eye like he was doing some big calculations. “Uhhh, how do you know? Like I can’t always tell when she’s coming or not.”
“Well, women are built differently, so a guy’s gotta take his time. Touch her everywhere, kiss her, all that fun stuff.” Bod took a long drink of his beer. “Then you go down on her, make her come that way first. If she says she’s coming with just your dick in her, she’s faking. She won’t
want to get with you again.”
Boiler shrugged. “What’s the big deal? Most guys go down on their woman.”
Bod shook his head. “Most guys go down on her once. She comes, and then the guy’s like, ‘Glad that’s over, now let’s fuck.’ Maybe it’s a good fuck, but it’s nothing special for her. It’s the second time that really sends her. Women get all worked up, and the second time is really intense for them.”
“Jeez,” Jonesy said. “I don’t know if I could wait that long.”
“If it was a woman I really wanted to impress, sometimes I’d jerk off first. Just to make sure I didn’t rush things,” Bod admitted.
Foxy’s mouth was hanging open. “Wow. Twice, eh? What if you made her come three times?”
Bod raised his palms. “Oh son, that’s the danger zone. You only make a woman come three times if you want to marry her. Because you rock her world like that, and you’ll never get rid of her.”
“You are so full of the bullshit,” Tibbs said. He began to laugh, and Bod joined him. That made Marty wonder if Bod had been serious at all. But still, it was pretty interesting advice. What would it be like to get with Elaine? Going down on her would be incredible. Her skin was so golden and glowing, and the skin under her clothes would be even softer. When she had bent over on their last date, he’d had a glimpse of a pale blue bra and the bulge of her breast. Maybe she was wearing a matching blue thong that he could pull down and then plunge his tongue into her sweet depths. She would taste good—he was sure of that.
“It’s time to go, boys,” Tibbs interrupted Marty’s fantasies.
He sighed. As he stood, he realized thinking about Elaine had given him a hard-on. Luckily, the thickness of his new pants kept everything well hidden. Score another point for expensive tailoring.
As they left the restaurant, the hostess called out to him. “Hey Marty, good luck at your game tomorrow.”
