The Goon

by Sara Hubbard

  We get coffee and breakfast sandwiches from the food court at the Student Union. I’ve never been here this early ever. It’s odd to see it so empty. There are only a few dozen people sitting at the tables, a few of them doing homework while sipping drinks, and a few others with their faces in their phones.

  “I’m impressed. You’re up early,” Charlie says.

  “I’m always up early now.”

  She widens her eyes while smirking. “Who are you, and what have you done with my best friend?”

  I return the smile but don’t comment on why things changed. Telling her I’m sad and lonely and I can’t sleep because I think too much would only worry her, and I’d rather her stay ignorant.

  “How’s it going with Michael? He’s pretty great, right?” She takes a bite of her breakfast wrap filled with spinach, egg whites, and skim cheese.

  “Yeah, he’s nice. Not what I expected.”

  “I know. I thought the same thing. How he ended up with Chloe Adams I have no idea.”

  She couldn’t give me a better segue into this conversation. “She’s kind of why I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Chloe?” She pulls a face. “Why would you want to talk about her?”

  I open my mouth to start, but she cuts me off. “You know I hate gossip, but someone told me this the other day, and I have to share because I’ve never heard of something like this before. She got plastic surgery on her vagina.”

  “For what?”

  “Like a tuck or something.”

  I stare at her in disbelief and shake off both the image and the conversation. Yeah, that’s shocking, but not as shocking as what I’m about to tell her, though I make a mental note to look that up on YouTube later.

  “When I thought to myself, ‘what is she going to say?’ I can honestly say I never expected it to be that.”

  “I know. I tried to tell Ozzie about it, but he told me that unless I wanted to talk about his dick and my vagina, he’d rather not hear about it.” She rolls her eyes affectionately.

  “As much as I want to talk about vaginas, I have something else I want to talk about. Something really important.”

  We lean in, just in case anyone around us is listening.

  “This sounds serious.”

  “It is.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  Sigh. “When Brad cheated on me, I never told you who it was with because it didn’t matter. She could have been anyone.”

  “I thought she was some random girl,” Charlie says.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Okay, so who was she?”

  “I still can’t get the image out of my head, but talking about it only made it worse. I wanted to forget about it. I want to move on, but I feel like he still has a hold on me.”

  She takes my hand and squeezes it firmly. Her hands are like ice, but I don’t mind. “Tell me.”

  “If I’d known she had a boyfriend, I would have said something.”

  “Wait a second…” Charlie’s eyes are so wide they might pop out of her head. “Are you saying you walked in on Brad and Chloe?”

  I stare at her, unsure of what else to say.

  “Wow.” She slumps in her seat. “Just wow. That was months ago.”

  “I know. It’s clear she’s never going to tell him, and if anyone knows, they aren’t going to tell him either or they would’ve already.”

  “I never liked her. I thought he’d give her the boot by now.”

  I slide my hand out of Charlie’s and lock my hands behind my neck while I release a long heavy sigh. “Fuck. What am I going to do? He deserves to know. I guess the question is, who’s going to tell him?” My words trail off, and I wait for her to suggest someone who isn’t me.

  “Ozzie already wants to beat up Brad for what he did to you, so imagine what he’ll do if he finds out Brad cheated with Michael’s girlfriend? Not to mention what Michael will do. I mean, they don’t call him Goon for nothing.”

  “He says he channels most of his anger into hockey, but I think this is too big for the ice. He’s going to blow up when he finds out.”

  “I think you’re right.” She curls her fists on the table. “I hate her.”

  “Me, too.”

  “She hurt my best friend and she’s hurting poor Michael, too,” Charlie says.

  “When did you and Michael get so close? I’ve never heard you talk about him before you mentioned him the other night.”

  “Last summer.”

  “That doesn’t help me. What happened last summer?” I ask.

  “Remember when we went to PEI? We met up with some of Ozzie’s hockey friends and their girlfriends and rented some cottages near the ocean. Michael and Chloe were in the cottage next door.” She shakes her head, her face burning brightly. “Chloe would throw these tantrums because she always wanted to be alone with him. They fought so much he spent most of his time on the couch at our cottage. I thought they’d be over after that, but not so… God, how could she do that to Michael?”

  The memory slams into me again. She smiled at me when I walked in on them. She was on all fours on the bed, Brad behind her, ramming her like a hammer to a nail. I saw them from the side, and she turned her head in my direction when I gasped. Her ruby-stained lips curled just enough for me to see her laughing at me. “Do you think if we tell Ozzie, he’ll tell Michael?”

  “I don’t know. Someone has to, though,” Charlie says. “And I like Michael too much to let him stay with a girl who cheats on him. Plus, he should get tested. Who knows who else she slept with?”

  “True,” I say in agreement. Brad swore up and down it was a one-time thing—before he found out about the car and when he was actively trying to get me back. Maybe that was a lie, too. I never got tested. I figured I was fine, but I guess I’ll have to get tested now, too.

  “I’d rather not get him involved in case it gets ugly. He’s got too much riding on this year. If he were to get arrested like…” She averts her eyes.

  “I know.” She’s talking about me, and it makes sense. I know I’ve fucked things up and now have a criminal record. I’m going to have so much fun looking for jobs when I finish school.

  “What about you?” I ask, hopeful.

  “Oh, Em, I adore him, but I’m not sure I’m the right person. I’m his friend’s girlfriend. Chances are he’ll believe Chloe over me, and Ozzie will be pissed off about it.”

  “Charlie, I barely know him.”

  “Yeah, but you saw it with your own eyes. You’re the only person who can make him believe it.”

  There’s truth to that. If someone had told me Brad cheated on me, I would have laughed. I was so sure of him and us. No one could have convinced me otherwise. In that respect, I guess it’s a good thing I walked in on it. Ugh. I almost laugh at myself for thinking that. As if anything good came of that night. My life was destroyed in a matter of seconds.

  Charlie lays a hand on my arm and strokes it lightly. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

  I shrug. “Whatever. I’ll get over it.” And I will. But this time I don’t intend on getting over someone by finding someone else.

  “Of course, you will. And I’ll be here for you whenever you need me.”

  I let out a long, strangled groan. “All right!” I say, frowning. “I’ll do it.” I’ll crush Michael’s heart with my bare hands and accept the backlash. It’s the right thing to do. Why is the right thing often the hardest?

  “He’ll thank you, eventually.”

  I’m not so sure about that. I have to give her credit for trying to toss a positive at me, though.

  “Michael’s got practice this morning at the campus rink if you want to track him down,” Charlie says.

  “I said I’ll do it, but does it have to be today?” My voice takes on a whiney quality that annoys even me.

  “Soon?” she asks, although it’s more of a demand.

  “Soon,” I agree.

  I’m not sure why I go to class
today. It’s not like a single thing is going to soak in. I’m too tired, and my sleepless nights are catching up to me. Halfway through class, I fall asleep with my elbow on the desk and my face in my palm. Charlie nudges me and my face slides off my hand. My head drops before popping up like a drill sergeant calling me to attention. “What?” I say loud enough to earn me some stares.

  “He just gave us a hint at a question on the mid-term,” Charlie whispers.

  “Is that all?” I say with a yawn.

  “And also…you were snoring.”

  “I don’t snore.”

  Charlie fights a smile. “Like a bear with a raging sinus infection.”

  I try my hardest to listen for the rest of French, but I don’t manage it too well. When class is over, Charlie takes off to her journalism class and we say a quick good-bye. I trudge down the hallway to early twenty-first century literature, but I pass the open door and keep going. I do pretty well in that class, so I think I’ll survive skipping it. It’s time for this girl to go home and hide in her bed from the rest of the world, but mostly from Michael.

  I can only put it off for so long.

  I sleep the day away after some help from some cold medicine. It’s almost eight o’clock when I wake. Marla, my roommate, is at her desk studying, as usual, head down in a book. She chews on the end of a pen that’s almost down to the inky interior.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No. I should have gotten up a long time ago.”

  “Avoiding life?” she asks without looking at me.

  “Something like that.”

  She slides my phone over to the edge of the bed. “You had a few calls, but I didn’t answer them.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I say. Most of the alerts are spam emails. Although there’s one with a coupon for twenty percent off at Kate Spade. I flag that one to have a look later.

  I lean forward on my bed, tugging down my tank top that rode up below my boobs while I slept. I take the phone and put it in my lap after I sit up. Before I scroll through the rest of the alerts, I fix my top knot so stray hairs don’t collect in front of my eyebrows.

  Three missed calls. One from my probation officer, one from Charlie, and the final one is from Michael. I didn’t expect to hear from him so soon. I put him off until last because I dread talking to him, especially considering what I have to tell him. Charlie leaves a message telling me to call her back, and my probation officer leaves one as well. He’s checking in. Ugh. I’ll be happy when all of this is finally over, and I can get on with my life.

  Michael didn’t leave a message. In fact, the missed call doesn’t even refer to him by name. The name he inputted when he added his number was Magic Michael. That’s what he made me call him last night at practice. I smile at the sight of it, though my smile is quickly replaced with a frown. If I could spare anyone from the heartache of betrayal, I would. In a second. Enemy or friend. Except maybe Chloe, because she deserves everything she gets.

  “Everything okay?” Marla glances at me from over her glasses, a single brow raised.

  “Yeah, fine. Why?”

  “You look really intense right now. Like how my three-year-old cousin looks when she’s about to take a dump in her diaper.”

  “Wow. Thanks for that visual.” I start to dial Michael’s number. “Hey, do me a favor and tell me whenever you see me make this face. I’d prefer to avoid it if I can.”

  “Sure thing.” Her gaze returns to her textbook.

  With every ring of the phone, anxiousness creeps into my mind and then flows through my body to quicken my heart and make my palms sweat. I wipe one on my sheets while the other holds the phone. Four rings, and I’m about to shut off my phone when he finally answers.

  His tone is deep but soft, very similar to what he sounds like in person, only without his towering hulking frame to look at. He sounds like an average guy.

  “Hey,” he says. I assume he saw my number and already knows who’s calling him. I also didn’t put my real name in his phone. While trying to be funny, I attached the name Gretzky’s my Bitch to my number.

  “Hi. It’s Emily…from the rink last night.”

  “Yeah,” he says with a chuckle. “I saw your number.”

  “Did you call?” Of course he did, but I feel the need to have him confirm it for some reason. To justify why I’d call him when I really don’t need to. We planned on getting in touch for more lessons. That’s reason enough.

  “I did. I found us some ice time Sunday night if you’re available. It’s late though. Eleven?”

  “That is late.”

  “Yeah, there wasn’t a lot of free ice time this week.” He pauses for a beat. “I’ll pick you up?”

  Marla glances at me from the corner of her eye but looks away when we make eye contact. She has no idea who I’m talking to. I ache for the days when Charlie and I were roomies. When I didn’t have to worry about having private conversations and when we always had each other around to talk to and bounce ideas off of.

  “Yeah, I can do that.”

  “All right. I’ll make it happen. I’ll pick you up around quarter to.”

  “Sure.”

  “Later, Em.”

  Em? “Wait!”

  I hear his breath. I caught him before he hung up, and now I have cold feet and want to change my mind. Sunday is days away. I want to put this off, but can I keep this in for that long? I don’t think so. And when I think about him spending time with her, telling her he loves her and her saying it back, I feel like an asshole. It almost makes me an accomplice to her lies.

  “Is there any way I could meet you sooner?”

  “Nah, there’s really nothing. Some amateur groups have filled up the night slots until midnight for the rest of the week. Rink manager wants the ice shut down at midnight so Gus can clean the ice and have it ready for early practices. They start at six for some of the kid’s lessons.”

  “Oh, okay.” Shit. Think quick Emily without giving anything away. But that’s not my style. I’m more direct. “Listen, I need to talk to you.”

  “Oh? What about?”

  “I can’t talk about it on the phone. Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”

  “Uh…I guess I could.” He sighs into the phone making a crackling sound. “But uh…I told you I have a girlfriend, right?”

  I roll my eyes. “You have nothing to worry about.” Seriously, he assumes I’m into him because I asked him to lunch? Well, maybe it’s not such a huge stretch, and he is crazy sexy, but it’s the furthest thing from my mind. For a change.

  “I don’t know. You’re a girl. What would you think about your boyfriend having lunch with a pretty girl he barely knows?”

  The compliment stops me—who doesn’t like to be told they’re attractive? I recover quickly. “I’m not into you, Michael. Not even a little. I’m just trying to help you, like you helped me. So can you meet me or not?”

  “Sounds important.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.”

  “Then how can I say no?” His tone is soft and easy. Not a trace of worry behind it. “I’ll see you at Meatballs at noon.”

  “If I forget to tell you tomorrow…I’m sorry.”

  He chuckles. Maybe he thinks I’m being dramatic.

  “And if I forget…you’re forgiven.”

  My chest constricts as I exhale a breath I was holding. Oh, Michael, you say that now, but you have no idea what’s coming.

  Chapter 6

  There are several great restaurants in Spruce Valley, but since I started school at St. Martha’s I’ve only ever been to Cèilidh, the campus pub, Pilgrim’s, and Meatballs. Meatballs seems to be where everyone ends up after going to the bars on the weekends. They’re open until three in the morning, and they have a backroom with old-fashioned arcade games and a couple of pool tables. I’ve been here a fair bit, but honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever been sober.

  While I sit at the colorful booth with maroon faux-leat
her seating, I drum my fingers on the metal table and look around. It’s straight out of the fifties, and the pictures on the walls have old images of this place with waitresses on roller skates. On the wall to my right, there’s a hockey jersey signed by Mannie Gunn. He went on to play professionally for the Toronto Maple Leafs. I’m not a huge hockey fan, but I like going to games, and I’m familiar with some of the big names.

  “Can I get you anything?” a lady in a pin-striped dress says. She pulls a pad out of the front pocket of her apron.

  “Just a Coke. I’m waiting for someone.”

  She leans over and takes the two extra placemats and cutlery. “I’ll be right back,” she says sweetly.

  The crowd is light today. A family of four sits at a booth near the glass front door, and the father talks animatedly while his kids laugh at him. His wife watches with admiring eyes and a sweet smile. A jukebox plays an old song that I don’t know, and I slide out of the booth to take a closer look at the titles displayed colorfully beneath the glass screen. I don’t recognize many of the songs. While I like some old music, my knowledge is limited to stuff my parents played while I was growing up. I settle on Let’s Get it On and quietly croon to the first line, which is pretty much the only line I know. When I spin around, I’m face-to-face with a cheeky-grinned Michael.

  I don’t do embarrassed easily. It takes a lot to get me there, so this doesn’t even top my list.

  “You sing like an angel,” he says.

  My laugh is akin to a snort. “Growing up, I had a huskie named Jake. He’d howl along with me whenever I sang. Dad used to tell me to be quiet so I didn’t ruin Jake’s melodies.” I roll my eyes. “So thanks for saying so, but I know I’m not Grammy material.”

  I slide into the booth, and the waitress meets me there, setting my Coke down on the table with a blue straw. She looks at Michael questioningly.