The Goon

by Sara Hubbard

  I avert my gaze when I realize I’ve been watching him long enough for him to notice.

  “This coffee is awful,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I say sweetly. After smiling at him, I take a long sip and then sigh in pleasure. Idiot. I made it especially for him because I thought he’d need it.

  “Is cooking breakfast your punishment?” I ask.

  He looks at me confused. “No, why?”

  “You’re a guest, yet she asked you to make breakfast. Normally, she won’t let anyone lift a finger in this kitchen. She won’t even let me, and we’ve been friends forever.”

  “I like to cook. It’s kind of my thing.”

  “Oh.” I don’t know why that surprises me, but it does. Maybe because I’ve never been with a guy who ever made anything except reheated pizza. My dad only ever served take-out.

  He lets out a groan and a deep breath before puttering around the kitchen. He fills a pot and boils some water and then starts making some sort of sauce. In a pan, he fries some ham. Then to my shock, while he waits for things to cook, he starts to peel a cucumber while leaning back against the counter. Sometimes I snack on cucumbers so I think that’s what he’s going to do, until he doesn’t. He takes the long peel of cucumber and curls it into a circle before trimming some bits at the top with a knife. While I sit watching him, he takes a step forward. His abs are almost eye level with me. There are no less than eight. I didn’t even know people could have an eight-pack.

  He holds out the cucumber. It’s now a delicate flower, and it’s beautiful and perfect with blooming petals. I’m slightly amazed and even more curious about how his breakfast is going to taste. My hopes for a tasty meal are higher than they were five minutes ago.

  “What’s this for?” I ask.

  He hitches a shoulder. His beaten face hangs, and he refuses to look me in the eye. Is this for the diner? Is it an apology? I’m already over it, but the simple gesture touches me in a way that renders me speechless. “Thanks,” I say softly.

  “Did you give me the ice pack last night? I know it wasn’t Ozzie, and from the look on Charlie’s face this morning, I’m pretty sure she didn’t see me last night.”

  “It looked like it hurt.”

  “Even after I said that stuff to you?”

  “Last night I never wanted to speak to you again, but…I know what you’re going through. Better than anyone else, so…you’re welcome.”

  “So you’re not going to beat up my car?”

  I suck my bottom lip in so I don’t laugh. He winks at me and reaches out to squeeze my shoulder. His hand lingers, and his touch is comforting. The heat from his hand manages to work its way through my shirt to warm me all over.

  A long moment passes where our eyes are locked and there are no words. I feel the same connection that I did last night, and it’s welcome. I’m not alone. The weight on my shoulders suddenly begins to lift, and I take a breath deeper than I have in ages. It feels good to release it. I feel like I should say something, something poetic, but I just don’t have the words. And somehow the silence means more than the words ever could.

  Charlie bounds into the kitchen, oblivious to my moment with Michael, who takes a step away and returns to his cooking, stirring his sauce. In her favorite outfit—leggings and a tunic—Charlie drops into the seat opposite me. “That smells so good,” she says softly. “I’m starving.”

  Ozzie drops in the kitchen for a second to grab some coffee on his way out. One mouthful, and he’s spitting in the sink. “Wow. Did you make this?” he asks Michael.

  He smirks and nods to me.

  “I made it stronger because I thought you guys needed it.”

  Charlie and Ozzie exchange a look.

  “Did I miss something?” I ask innocently.

  Charlie giggles. “I love you dearly, Em, but you make awful coffee. It always tastes bad.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Ozzie looks sheepish as he wrings a hand around his neck.

  “Do I?” I ask.

  He taps my shoulder to comfort me before planting a kiss on Charlie’s cheek. “See you, babe. I’m refereeing a Midget game tonight, so I’ll be late.”

  “Love you,” she says with a twinkle in her eyes. Though he never says it back—at least not in front of me—he bear hugs her from behind and whispers something in her ear. I’ve never seen her smile brighter. After Ozzie leaves, Michael serves us eggs Benedict. When I’m hungover, I can’t eat or risk throwing up. But Michael? He wolfs down his food like it’s his last meal. Then he follows up with four slices of toast. Charlie finishes hers, too, which isn’t like her. She struggled with her weight growing up so she’s careful about what she puts in her mouth. She never believes me when I insist she’s always been beautiful.

  “Where’d you learn to cook?” I ask him with my mouth full of eggs and smooth, creamy hollandaise sauce.

  With his swollen and cut lip, his smile is lopsided. “Self-taught.”

  “No way.”

  “His cooking is the reason he’s always welcome here,” Charlie teases before taking her very last bite.

  He winks at her…as well as he can. Or maybe he’s blinking to fight off a case of blurry vision or discomfort.

  “This was amazing. As usual. But I have to head out or I’ll be late for class,” Charlie says. “Can I drive you guys home, or to class? Or you can just hang out here until you’re ready to go. Em, you don’t have class until ten, right?”

  I’m not even sure if I’m going to go. “Yeah, ten. That’s okay. You go. I can walk over later.”

  “Michael?”

  He finishes chewing. “I’ll clean up and head to the gym when I’m done.”

  “Don’t clean. I can do it when I get home.”

  He stares at her.

  “Fine,” she says, giving in. “But just throw them in the dishwasher, okay? I’ll finish when I get back.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “You’re such a bad liar.” She pushes away from the table after giving him an affectionate eye roll. It’s like he’s a piece of the furniture here, and he knows where everything in the kitchen is without asking. It’s another reminder of how absent I’ve been this last year. I feel like an outsider right now. It saddens me to think he’s spending more time with them than I do. And it’s all my fault. Because whenever Brad came calling, I would run. I was one of those girls up until I broke it off.

  Charlie gives me a quick hug and hurries away. She shuffles around by the door looking for something and lets out an “a-ha” when she holds up her keys. After grabbing her book bag, she waves to us from the door as she leaves.

  I’m all alone with Michael.

  He stands and points to my plate, “Are you done with that?”

  “Sure. Thanks, it was really good.”

  “Of course, it was,” he teases.

  “How long have you been cooking? I swear it was restaurant quality.”

  With his back to me, he starts to load the dishwasher. In my house, we had a rule. If you cook, you don’t clean. I stand and try to take the plates from him, but he won’t let go.

  “You made breakfast. I can do this.”

  “Not a chance. But,” he says, “you can help.”

  “Sure.”

  Side by side, we add dishes and utensils to the dishwasher. I could work faster, but he moves leisurely so I match his pace. I’m not upset or hurt right now. I’m kind of enjoying the mental break it gives me from torturing myself over the girl I was, and who I no longer want to be.

  “You were about to tell me when you started cooking?” I say.

  “Was I?” He gives me a sly grin.

  I frown at him.

  “My mom passed when I was twelve, and my brothers couldn’t cook. If it was up to Dad, we would have had beans on toast until we moved out, so…”

  I freeze, my hand holding a bowl, just as I’m about to set to scrape the leftovers into a brown bag for composting. He notices my reaction and refuses to meet m
y eyes. I don’t want him to be uncomfortable, so I carry on without saying anything, not even an “I’m sorry.” Or whatever people are supposed to say when they hear about stuff like that. I’ll probably get it wrong, so it’s better to say nothing at all. “So you took over?” I say.

  “Yeah. Watched a lot of YouTube videos, mostly Gordon Ramsay because, well, he’s the shit. I started off with easy stuff, and over the years I started trying some more difficult ones.”

  “What are you taking at school?”

  “Business.”

  I let out a chuckle. “You’re good at cooking and you seem to enjoy it, so why not culinary school?”

  He pulls a face that’s a mixture of disbelief and humor. “Are you kidding me? I’m a hockey player. I wanted to come here to play. There’s no hockey teams at culinary school.”

  “You want hockey more?”

  “I like hockey.”

  “You like cooking.”

  He merely shrugs and puts the last plate in the dishwasher. “Sure, but I like cooking for myself and for others. I’m not interested in working in a restaurant.” He tosses in the detergent puck and starts it up.

  I turn my back to the counter and lean against it with my arms folded over my middle. “Are you going to try to play professionally like Ozzie?”

  “If they’ll have me. That’s what everyone I know dreams about, but the odds aren’t great.”

  “Sure, if you’re average.” I smile at him. “Are you average, Michael?”

  At that, his busted-up face takes on a warm shade of red. He runs a hand over his face and then strokes the stubble on his chin, over and over. He ignores my question. “What about you?” He slings a dishtowel over his shoulder. “What’s in your future?”

  “Hockey, of course. Why do you think I asked for lessons?” I say, deadpan.

  He laughs easily but winces when his lips spread wide.

  “You didn’t have to do that, you know,” I say quietly.

  “What?”

  “Beat up Brad.” I fold my arms over my chest, the mere mention of his name making my chest hurt. Not because of Brad now, but because of who I was with him. And how pathetic I’d been.

  His expression becomes serious. “Yeah, I did.”

  “Do you feel better?”

  He holds up his fist and flexes it; the cuts on his knuckles are raw and red. Though he doesn’t answer, he doesn’t need to. I have a feeling today is worse, because what now? Now that he got his revenge, it’s time to accept his girlfriend’s betrayal and move on. “I do.”

  Liar. “How’d it go with Chloe?”

  He leans against the counter beside me, both of us staring straight ahead. “She denied it.”

  I glance up at him, though he won’t look my way. I don’t understand. “But you fought him anyway?”

  He lets out a long, strangled sigh. “I didn’t I say I believed her.” He scuffs one of his bare feet on the tiled floor. “Man, she lies so easily. She was indignant. How the hell could I possibly accuse her of something so awful? How could I be so horrible?”

  “What did you see that changed your mind?”

  “It’s not what she said. It’s what she didn’t say. Not once did she deny it. I tried to make her, but she wouldn’t. She just kept asking over and over who told me. She tried to convince me someone was trying to break us up. It was fucking pitiful.”

  “I think Brad would have lied about it if I hadn’t caught him.”

  “I’m pretty sure he would have.” He gently nudges my shoulder with his arm. “Sorry.”

  “It is what it is,” I say.

  “Chloe tried to convince me you’re into me. Like she did before the two practices we had together.” He laughs. “She thinks you lied to get her out of the picture.”

  “Yeah, and I waited two months after my breakup to put my plan into action. I’m such a whorish mastermind.”

  He lifts one of his big hands and scratches the short scruff on his chin. His facial hair is darker than his dirty-blond hair. It has an auburn hue to it, and its coarse texture makes a rough noise against his fingertips.

  “I don’t even think she was buying what she was selling.”

  “I’m really sorry you have to go through this.”

  “I’m really sorry I said those things to you yesterday.” He gives me a sideways glance and hangs his head.

  I bump him softly with my shoulder to get him to smile. “You told me the truth and it hurt—I won’t lie—but I can’t stay mad at you for that. You told me what I needed to hear to put him behind me for good. How could I possibly have any lingering feelings for him now after finding out about Valentine’s Day?”

  “It was a dick move. I probably should have called him on it, but…I don’t know. I didn’t know you, and for all I knew, you guys weren’t exclusive.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Nah, it’s not.”

  “I forgive you.”

  He smiles, his fat lip making it crooked and awkward and somehow kind of perfect. “Good. I like hanging out with you. You’re one of a kind, Emily Hanes.”

  “One of a kind? I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

  “Trust me. It is.”

  My cheeks heat, and I bunch my shoulders up and hide my face. “Friends?” I ask.

  He holds out his hand and I look into his sincere, sparkling eyes. I reach out and take it, holding it lightly while he squeezes. It feels more intimate now than it does on the ice. The connection between us has changed our relationship in a way I don’t fully understand. As my stomach flip-flops, I swallow hard and wait for his reply.

  “Absolutely,” he says. His voice is soft, like a caress.

  Chapter 9

  Michael all but disappears over the next few days. We were supposed to meet on Sunday, but that didn’t happen. Maybe our sessions are over, and I can’t say I’m happy about that. I kind of liked being on the ice with him. Skating isn’t so bad with him around. I think about him often and wonder if I should reach out. He has lots of friends, but we understand each other, and I feel like I might be able to help in ways some other people can’t.

  I don’t call him, though. Okay, I picked up the phone several times to call him, but then I hung up and told myself not to obsess about him, even if he’s only a friend. The old Emily is gone, and she’s not coming back.

  I busy myself with school, and I meet my probation officer again. Today, he asks me about school before moving on to my hopes, wishes, and dreams. He can’t know how difficult it is for me not to roll my eyes at him. I’ve got too much going on to have one of these conversations. His questions force me to face that fact that not only am I lonely and sad, but I’m also aimless.

  “What are you going to do with your arts degree?” he asks me.

  “I have no fucking clue,” I tell him, almost earning me a smile. Or maybe he has gas from the pita on his desk. I could smell the garlic when I entered the door to the building earlier, even while his office door was still shut.

  “Why pay all this money for school to get a degree that’s not going to get you where you want to be? You need a plan. Are you going to live with your parents your whole life? Minimum wage won’t pay for rent, utilities, and your credit card debt.”

  Ha! I got him there. My parents pay off my credit card debt.

  The questions continue. Is he my probation officer or counsellor? I swear to God, I’ve been feeling low enough lately without him dragging me down further.

  After a very uncomfortable and unforgettable hour—and not in a good way—I leave his office. The second I’m through the door and the cold hits me, I breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t have to answer hard questions again until next week. If only attendance wasn’t mandatory. I’m on my way home, my shoulders hunched up, my mitted hands shoved deep in my pockets, when Michael finally reaches out to me. I’m surprised to feel so excited when I pull my phone out and see Magic Michael on the display.

  Michael: Skate at 10 p.m.?

  Me
: I’m fine. How are you?

  Michael sends me an image of him smiling so hard I see every inch of his gums, upper and lower. Okay, so maybe he’s doing better than I thought. Chuckling, I text him back.

  Me: Please don’t smile like that again.

  Michael: Only if you’re lucky.

  Me: I can do 10.

  Michael: I’ll pick you up after practice. Around 9:30.

  Me: TTYL

  Michael: Get your skates sharpened.

  Shit. I forgot about doing that. I have no idea where to get skates sharpened, and the only place I can find online is about a twenty-minute drive away. I suppose I could cab it, or I could call and ask Charlie for a ride which would also give me an excuse to hang out with her. I want to see her more, especially since we had our heart to heart. She picks me up outside the dorm after her last class.

  I open the door and drop into her hatchback. She greets me with a smile. “How’d it go today?”

  It takes me a moment to decide what she’s talking about. “Erikson is annoying.”

  “Uh oh,” she says as she pulls away from the curb. “Tell me about it.”

  “Uh, it’s nothing. He’s just really gets into my business. Oh! Wait! I didn’t tell you. He also wants me to replace the baseball bat I broke when I smashed that guy’s car.”

  “Is that why we’re going to Second Base?”

  I chuckle. Who names a store Second Base? “No, I need to get my skates sharpened, although I guess I could pick up a bat while we’re there. Maybe that’ll make him ease up a bit. Replace the bat?” I muse. “What about what Brad did? Does he have to make amends for being an asshole? Nope.”

  Along the highway, Charlie keeps a look out on the left and I take the right. I don’t know the exact location for this store. Never been here before, and I’m sure I won’t come again. We approach a diner alongside a music store. Just after that is Second Base.

  She pulls up front where there are a handful of other cars. A red convertible stands out to me because I know who owns it. His name is Jeff, and he’s on Brad’s baseball team. Charlie catches me staring and lays a gentle hand on my arm.