The Goon

by Sara Hubbard

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  He merely shrugs, and then he’s quiet while he picks dirt from under his nails with a car key.

  I go through the paperwork and sign off on things that are already filled out. Post-it notes with sign here are all over the place, and I flip through the pages, careful not to miss a single one. There are only a few sheets I have to fill out, and its basic information they should already have, like address, alternate phone numbers and next of kin. The final sheet is a list of rules. They’re fairly straight forward, and none of them are surprises, like no drinking, no drugs, showing up when expected and on time, etc. I sign off on it to confirm I’ve read it. The last page details what will happen to me if I don’t meet my conditions. Hashtag, go to jail.

  The receptionist eyes me, but she looks away when I catch her.

  Behind her are four doors, all painted white, and to the left of the sitting area is another door with a sign beside it that reads Unisex Bathroom. One of the doors behind the receptionist opens and I train my eyes on a large man with a ruddy complexion who steps out and, without a word, hooks a finger in my direction. I point to my chest, but the guy beside me gets up. Thank God. This guy wears a scowl so deep it’s like it’s been branded onto his face.

  “Good luck,” I say to the guy.

  “Same to you.”

  I wait for what seems like forever. I pull my phone out to check the time. At that exact moment, another door opens, and a man who looks straight out of a bad eighties sitcom points to me. He has a buzz cut and a mustache just long enough to curl up on the ends. All he’s missing is some aviators. “Emily Hanes?”

  “That’s me.” I stand and shove the phone in my back pocket.

  When I reach him, he juts out his hand and we shake. “Erikson.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  The door slams hard enough to make me jump once we’re inside. He takes a seat behind his massive oak desk stained in a deep, rich shade of brown. In front of the desk are two simple metal chairs; I slide into one and take a good look around the office while he putters with files and paperwork on his desk. And Charlie thinks I’m messy? There can’t be less than fifty files scattered about his desk, and sticky notes decorate everything, from his monitor to his stapler. A single file cabinet sits by a bookcase on the left side of the room. It’s closed with a heavy-duty padlock with metal much thicker than I’ve ever seen on a lock.

  “Oh! Here,” I say as I pass him the papers I’ve already completed.

  “I was just going to ask if you’d finished them.” He scans them. “Tell me about yourself, Ms. Hanes.”

  “Umm, there’s not much to tell.”

  “I doubt that. I’ve read your file.” He flips a page, his eyes scanning over my information.

  “Then you already know.”

  He looks up and gives me a serious expression. “Tell me what I can’t read about. Am I going to have trouble with you?”

  “No,” I say, firmly. “I just want to do a good job and move on with my life.”

  “Good.”

  “For my community service placement, I’m supposed to help teach hockey to underprivileged kids, so a friend of mine has been working with me. Getting me brushed up on my skating because it’s been a while.”

  “That’s good to hear. I like to see initiative. A lot of those kids will have come from chaos. I hope you can leave your personal drama at the door.”

  “Absolutely.” Personal drama? Why does he assume my life is still full of drama? I smile on the outside but, inside, his comment slices at my stomach. He only knows what’s in my file, and on paper, I don’t look so shiny. He thinks I have a temper, and I do. He also thinks I have the potential to cause some serious problems. He’s trying to be nice, sure. But I see it on his face—he’s skeptical, and he looks at me like I’m a criminal. I never want people to look at me like this again. That’s why I need to do this placement and do it well. To show him that the person on paper isn’t the real me. I’m more than that.

  “In my defense,” I say because I can’t help myself, “I’ve never done anything like that before. You know, before the car thingie.”

  “That doesn’t make it better.”

  “No, it doesn’t. I would never do that to anyone who didn’t…”

  “Deserve it?”

  “I…that’s not what…” Who am I kidding? That’s exactly what I was going to say. “I’m no danger to these kids. I promise you.”

  “I hope that’s true. You had a slip up, and this is where you decide if you want to be this person”—he taps my file with one of his fingers—“or the girl who smartens up and realizes being a victim doesn’t give her license to hurt other people.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Even if that car had been your boyfriend’s, you don’t have the right to damage his property no matter how much of an asshole he is.”

  I nod, because the frog in my throat is too fat to let any words out.

  “Now, tell me something not in the file.” He folds her arms on top of his desk and stares at me, waiting.

  I think about it a moment and say the first thing that comes to mind, “I stole the baseball bat from my boyfriend’s place to smash the car and never replaced it when I broke it in half.”

  He shakes his head at me and wears an expression that I can only describe as dumbfounded. “I was looking for something like hobbies or interests, not a criminal confession,” he says before heaving a sigh.

  “Okay. I just thought you were looking for a confession. It never came up in court.”

  He holds up a hand. “Yeah, I got it. Replace the bat.”

  Replace the bat? That means I have to talk to Brad again, and I’m not sure my approaching him with a baseball bat would go over so well.

  Chapter 4

  Michael and I meet up the following Wednesday after one of his practices. We plan on meeting at ten o’clock at night, again at Tillerman Rink. I’m going to end up spending an awful lot on cabs to come out here for my community service all the time.

  He doesn’t show up at ten. I wait for him in the entrance while Gus putters around collecting garbage. After checking my watch a few times, it’s now ten-thirty, and I’m pretty sure I’ve been stood up.

  “Hey, Gus!” I call out.

  He straightens and lowers his garbage bag. His gaze scans the area around him before he realizes I’m the one shouting.

  “You haven’t seen Michael around here tonight, have you?”

  He shakes his head. “Not tonight. I have his number. Want me to call him?”

  I make a face and let out a sigh. “No, I have his number.” I tap out a text quickly and send it before sliding my phone into my jacket pocket. I’m not waiting around much longer. My days of waiting around on guys are over. Even if this one is trying to help me.

  When I decide I won’t wait another minute I say good-bye to Gus and leave.

  He couldn’t even text me to say he was going to be late? That’s just inconsiderate. Typical. The moon is out and there are dark grey clouds against the black sky. I call for a cab, but the only cab company in town tells me I’ll have to wait an hour because there’s Bingo at the Salvation Army tonight. Awesome. I’m not waiting another hour. I shove my hands in my pockets and start walking. It’s near freezing out, but I dressed warmly, so it doesn’t bother me. Except my nose. You could hang an icicle from it.

  I get about a quarter of a mile down the road before a car passes by. I hear it shift gears behind me, and when I look over my shoulder, Michael’s big SUV is doing a four-point turn. He drives back toward me and rolls to a stop when he reaches me.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Really, I am.”

  “Look, I know you’re doing this as a favor to Ozzie and you don’t owe me anything, but don’t be an asshole. If you say you’re going to be here at a certain time, be here. Or, at least, call. You have my number. There’s no excuse.” I won’t be anyon
e’s doormat, least of all some jock’s.

  He leans to the side as he reaches into his back pocket. He holds out his phone. “It died, or I would have called you. I was going to use one of the guys’s phones, but your number’s programmed into my phone.”

  My boil cools to a simmer.

  “I was at practice, and it was only supposed to go until nine-thirty, but coach Handler got pissed off about…it doesn’t matter. He’s always pissed off, and I should have warned you I could be late. It went long, and I’m sorry.”

  His explanation is reasonable. I’d be an asshole not to accept it. His cheeks are still rosy on his tan skin, his lips are bright red, and his hair is messy and wet, likely from sweat and not a shower. All evidence points to him telling the truth. “It’s fine. I just thought I got stood up.”

  “Nah, I wouldn’t do that to anyone. And I especially wouldn’t leave a girl stranded out here. Why the hell are you walking home in the dark, anyway?”

  Without an invitation, I reach for his door handle. He leans over and helps by pushing it open. I climb inside and moan as the heated seats works its way into my frigid muscles. “Because I wasn’t going to wait for an hour for a cab.”

  He stares at me, frowning. “You still up for practice?” he asks. “I can take you home now if you’d rather do that.”

  “I should practice...if you’re not too tired.”

  “If I’m not too tired?” he scoffs. “I’ve got the stamina of a race horse.”

  He throws the car back into drive and does yet another four-point turn. The rink is locked when we get back. Michael knocks loudly and puts both his hands to the side of his face as he presses up against the glass door to get a better look.

  “Maybe Gus left,” I offer.

  “I think he sleeps here.” He bangs again. Gus appears around the corner almost immediately. His face lights up when he smiles at Michael. I wonder if I should be offended I didn’t get the same greeting. Gus digs in his pockets for an extreme amount of time before pulling out the keys.

  How deep are those pockets?

  “I thought you were done for the night,” he says with inflection.

  “No, just starting,” I say.

  “I’ll be tidying up for maybe another hour.” He removes his red ball cap, smooths back his thinning hair, then replaces the hat. “Ice is yours until then.”

  “Thanks, buddy.” Michael slaps him on the side of his arm, and we make our way to the ice.

  “How about, in the future, if I have practice before we skate,” Michael begins, “you let me pick you up so you’re not waiting around. Unless I’m here with the kids, but even then, I could drive back and get you.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t want to put you out.”

  He waves off the thought. “It’s no trouble. Most of the time I’m around campus anyway.”

  “Is your girlfriend on campus?”

  He frowns, and when he speaks, his words are clipped. “Yep.”

  “Trouble in paradise?”

  He laughs without humor as he takes a seat on the player’s bench. “There’s always trouble in paradise.”

  “So break up with her.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Yeah, it is. If someone doesn’t make you happy, move on. Don’t stay with them and let them get more attached, or find someone else to make you happy while you’re still with them.” Seems simple enough to me, though I know a lot of people who don’t seem to grasp this concept.

  I shove my foot into my skate a few times. It’s like shoving a round peg into a square hole. Or is that the other way around? He stares at me intently, and I roll my eyes before loosening my laces.

  “Why do I get the feeling we’re not talking about Chloe anymore?”

  I shrug and start to tie my laces. “It happens all the time. People fall out of love, or the next shiny new toy dangles in front of them and they move on, anyway.”

  “If I commit to a girl, then I focus on her. I don’t cheat, I don’t lie, and I don’t get distracted by shiny new toys. Don’t judge everyone based on your ex. I have a lot of guy friends, and the majority of them are like me, not like him.” He delivers his words with conviction. It’s impossible to believe he doesn’t mean them. I almost feel bad for insinuating he might not be a good guy. He’s been good to me so far, so why do I doubt him?

  Because I can. Because I keep believing every new guy I jump into a relationship with will be different, but he never is.

  We get on the ice, and he offers his hands. I don’t hesitate as much today because I trust him on the ice now. He pulls me around, getting me comfortable on the skates before getting me a skating aid to use. It functions like a walker but without the wheels. I feel like a five-year-old, but I like the stability of the bar, and it lets me skate around without anyone’s help, which gives me a sense of accomplishment.

  As the night goes on, we mostly talk about hockey. He gives me the rules and some pointers to help me with the kids. Then he drills me on the details. I get most of them wrong. I know the basics, but little more. I might have to do some real studying.

  After loud clicking sounds ring out in the large space, many of the lights start to go out. Gus gives us a wave and lets us know it’s time to go. We take off our skates, and Michael puts the skating aid away. I follow him to his car after he offers me a ride. It’s near midnight, and my body is ready for bed. I fight a yawn and, though I manage to keep my mouth mostly shut, I can’t avoid the sound that comes along with it. It makes him yawn, too.

  “You’re getting better,” he says. “You should only need a few more practices. When do you start your community service?”

  “Uh…I’d have to look. It’s near the beginning of January. You really think I’ll be ready?”

  “You would’ve been ready without the lessons.”

  “Thanks for saying so, but we both know that’s not true,” I say as I climb into his car. “I hope it goes okay. I’ve never really been around kids before, so I have no idea how to be around them. What if they hate me, you know?”

  He adjusts in his seat and glances my way, smiling. “Not possible.”

  “Thanks, but it’s very possible.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Em, but you’re one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met.”

  I feel myself blush—a rare occurrence. After the last few weeks and the rumors and name calling, I’ve been feeling pretty down. I used to have confidence, never cared what anyone said about me, but now I care too much. I appreciate him saying that.

  “Are you really this nice or is it an act? You’re so different on the ice, it’s hard to reconcile the two of you.”

  “Mostly. Yeah, I have a temper, but I’ve gotten good at channeling it. I mostly save it for the ice. It gets me pumped up, and not only has it made a difference in my life, but it’s helped my game. Competition coupled with ‘pissed off’ has worked for me.”

  “Mostly, huh?”

  He grins. “I’m no saint. I slip up, like anyone else, but I try hard to be good. Lately, the only person who seems to get me worked up is my girlfriend.”

  He pulls out of the rink parking lot and turns onto the road. He drives slowly, around the speed limit, adjusting his mirrors before leaving his hands on the wheel. When a new country song comes on, he changes the station to a pop song that makes me start tapping my foot along.

  “You were pissed off about your girlfriend earlier. What was that about?”

  He’s silent a moment. His fingers tap on the wheel. “She likes to provoke me.”

  “How?”

  He glances at me.

  “I know it’s not my business, but I’m asking anyway.”

  “She tries to make me jealous and then screams at me if I do anything about it.”

  “Sounds fair.”

  He raises an eyebrow.

  “I’m joking.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sheesh, ease up. I usually am…joking, that is.” I’ve bee
n so focused on guys being the asshole, I’d almost forgotten that girls can be just as awful. Who is this piece of work, anyway, so I know to avoid her? “What’s your girlfriend’s name?” He told me her first name, but not her last.

  “Chloe Adams.”

  I whip my head around to face him.

  He eyes me. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  My palms start to sweat and my heart beats wildly in my chest. In his relationship, he’s not Brad, he’s me. Because the girl I caught Brad with months ago is Chloe fucking Adams. “How long have you been with her?” My voice is so quiet it could register as a whisper. I clench my fists, fearing his answer.

  “Uh…” he begins, “almost six months.”

  Fuckity fuck, fuck.

  After I caught Brad and Chloe and I saw her around campus, I let it go because I didn’t want to get into any more trouble with the law. I never confronted her, and I never took revenge, though I wanted to. Badly. I didn’t know she had a boyfriend, let alone that it was Michael. I see him around all the time, but never with her. How could I have known?

  As I squirm in my seat, letting my situation sink in, the same ache returns that needled my chest the night I caught Brad. Only the pain I feel deep inside is for Michael, and for everything he’s going to have to deal with when he finds out. The knife twists deeper when I realize if someone was going to tell him, they already would have. It brings me an even bigger problem, one I don’t want to deal with.

  Will it be me who has to tell him?

  Chapter 5

  I don’t sleep at all. Having to tell Michael that his girlfriend cheated on him was not something I expected to add to my to-do list this week. He’s been with her for six months so he won’t walk away unscathed. Though I know I’m not the one breaking his heart, I’m the one delivering the sharp blow, so I’ll play a part in it and that just plain sucks.

  I ask Charlie to meet me for breakfast so we can talk it through. I contemplated not telling him, but I can’t do that. He deserves to know. I guess I just need her to confirm that what I’m doing is for the best. And maybe a little part of me hopes she’ll offer to tell him or ask Ozzie to do it for us. Michael might take it better if it came from a friend. Michael and I are friendly, but we’re not exactly “friends.”