Unsportsmanlike Conduct

by Sophia Henry

  Fuck it.

  “He was always pissed because I did not want to dance. He thought I wasted my talent.” I took a sip of vodka and smirked. “But I have other talents.”

  “More talents?” she asked. “Do tell.”

  I leaned closer, placing my lips next to her ear, and whispered, “Come to my room and I will show you these talents.” I meant for the comment to come out completely inappropriate that time.

  “Really?” she asked. Her lips, plump and shiny with gloss, morphed into a scowl. “You just ruined anything we had going.”

  “Ruined?” I asked. “You’re angry with me for asking? I haven’t been able to keep my mind off you since you knocked me down on the track.”

  She smiled, then caught her bottom lip in her teeth, as if she shouldn’t be happy about the compliment. In a sweet, shy voice, she asked, “You haven’t?”

  I took her hand and, holding the rest of her fingers down, raised her pinky. “I am wrapped.”

  Kristen laughed and snatched her hand back. “You’re crazy.”

  “For you.”

  “You just met me. What’s the attraction?”

  “How can you ask me this?” I asked, stunned by her question.

  She rolled her eyes. “Other than physical?”

  Maybe I hadn’t been forward enough in showing her how much I liked her. It had been years since I cared about someone. Years since I wanted to go caveman—tossing a girl over my shoulder and taking her back to my cave to provide for her and keep her safe. Years since I’d said something more meaningful to a woman than telling her she was using too much teeth on my dick.

  I reached out and skimmed the back of my fingers against her cheek, while keeping eye contact. “You are beautiful,” I said, sliding my fingertips to her temple. “And smart and funny.” I let my fingers trail down her soft, warm skin to the middle of her chest and tapped her collarbone gently. “But you have a darkness underneath. It’s intriguing.”

  She shivered under my touch. “Why would darkness intrigue you? Seems kinda messed up.”

  “Life is not rainbows and vodka.” As soon as I spoke, I regretted the words. Why would I try to bring such a beautiful person with so much energy and light down to my level?

  But Kristen wasn’t fazed by the melancholic direction in which I’d turned the conversation. She set her water bottle on the table and grabbed my hand. “Nope. It’s cruises and salsa dancing. So let’s go.”

  Her soft touch and enthusiastic spirit lured me back to the dance floor. The blood warmed under my skin and my head hummed.

  I didn’t deserve Kristen. She had too much integrity and was too full of life to be taken on the emotional roller coaster being with me would provide. But I’d enjoy the rest of the night with her graceful body in my arms and the steady beat of her warm heart against my chest.

  Before I cut her out of my life tomorrow.

  Chapter 7

  The blood doesn’t come out, though my husband scrubs and scrubs. Every day he has to step over my body. He grabs a boy running toward me, pulling him into his arms before he tramples me.

  “Watch out for Mom,” he says, hugging the tiny child to his chest, stroking our son’s soft sable hair. He weeps silently, shaking as the boy squirms and wriggles free from his grasp.

  “I have no mom. And you have no wife. She’s not really there. And neither am I.”

  I’m on the floor, dying in a pool of blood, gasping for the air I’ll never have again. There’s my son, inside my womb in a sea of life-giving fluid, choking for air he’ll never know.

  I woke up sweaty, clammy, and terrified. Turning onto my side, I brought my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. The only light in my cold, dark interior room came from the clock on the bedside table, which told me I’d only been asleep for an hour.

  A version of the same dream had been waking me up sporadically for the last five years. Ever since I realized I’d probably never get married or have kids. Sometimes it came on out of the blue, but usually it happened right around the time I met someone I really liked.

  Even my subconscious was reminding me to keep it light. Keep it fun. Don’t get real.

  Instead of attempting to go back to sleep and chance going straight back into the dream, I climbed out of bed and pulled a blue-and-white-striped sundress over my head.

  The temperature in the hallways of the boat was comfortably cool, but the trembling in my limbs didn’t fade when I stepped out of the elevator and into the warm, humid air on the pool deck. The dream’s recurring theme spooked me, because I always interpreted it as a twisted glimpse into my future.

  Lights and music blared from a bar still going strong, so I kept walking. I wanted to lie under the stars and relax. Calm down. Challenge my brain so it would stop obsessing over fictional boys or babies.

  Though the pool had closed for the night, I continued walking across the deck until I found the perfect lounge chair to sit on. I leaned back, stretched my legs in front of me, and gazed at the infinite sky.

  Constellations have always mesmerized me. I haven’t a clue what their names are, but the hunt for them relaxes me and takes my mind off my random nightmares and bouts of insomnia.

  Stargazing is my version of cloud-gazing. Some people find shapes in the clouds and create stories about them. I do the same with stars when I don’t know what constellation I’m looking at. I’m not the most creative person in the world, but mentally connecting the glowing dots keeps my mind busy, especially on nights like this, when I’m woken up by nightmares that send me spiraling toward depression.

  On social media, I saw one of those demotivational posters that said, “When you wish upon a star, you’re actually a few million years too late. That star is dead. Just like your dreams.”

  I looked it up, because I’m the person who looks up everything before I pass it on. It’s not true. The dead star thing, I mean. Sure, some are dead, but there are millions of stars still active and alive, waiting for our silly wishes.

  But even if the dead star thing were true, imagine having a life span as long as a star that’s already dead. It’s been there for thousands of years, and people on earth can still see it thousands of years later. A dead star “lives” longer than a human.

  I don’t want to live as long as a dead star. I just want to grow old.

  Yes, I want to grow old. I want wrinkles and hip replacements and bladder issues. At least, I want to live long enough to experience those things. When I was a kid, I dreamed of white weddings and happily-ever-afters. I dreamed I’d grow old with someone, just like all of my friends, because my parents never talked about the shortened life expectancy that goes with a cystic fibrosis diagnosis.

  Nope. Didn’t know about that until my high school boyfriend. Who broke up with me because we had no future. Scratch that. I had no future, and he couldn’t pursue a serious relationship with someone who would knowingly—not willingly or purposely, but knowingly—die.

  I don’t need to live as long as a dead star. I just want to be the light that someone will remember long after I’m gone.

  I touched the cotton fabric covering the scar on my stomach. The scar from a surgery I had when I was eleven months old. The scar kids used to tease me about when I was young. The scar that reminded me not to let anyone get close because I couldn’t let someone love me. Not when I knew we’d only have a few years together before I left him widowed and our children motherless. I didn’t even know if I could have kids, because I never let myself research it.

  We’re all dying every day. But I’m still going to die first.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, calling on all the inner strength I’d built up over the last twenty-two years of my life. I could go months and months without letting my mind get carried away analyzing all the bad things about being born with CF, so why would I let it rattle me in the middle of paradise?

  “Is this seat taken?” Pasha’s voice cut through the thick, sad silence.

  My eyes flas
hed open and I swallowed back a yelp of surprise. “Nope.” I patted the chair next to me. We had our pick of poolside seating at this time of night. “What are you doing up?”

  “It’s my vacation.” He collapsed next to me, an empty plastic cup clutched in his hand. “I party up.”

  I pointed to the cup. “You’re empty.”

  Pasha leaned back and lifted his butt to straighten his legs, digging a hand into one of the pockets of his gray cargo shorts. He pulled out a small bottle of vodka. “Always be prepared.”

  “You’re like an alcoholic Boy Scout,” I quipped, though the reference seemed to be lost on him.

  He offered me the bottle. I accepted it and propped myself up on an elbow before unscrewing the cap. There wasn’t a smell, but the bottle itself was warm, and the thought of drinking body-temperature vodka made me want to puke.

  Instead of taking a swig, I replaced the cap and handed it back to him. “I can’t drink warm vodka.”

  “Warm. Cold. Up. Down. Life. Death.” Pasha shrugged and took a sip. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Truth.” I lay back and resumed gazing at the stars. Pasha adjusted his chair so that it flattened into a lying position like mine.

  We sat in silence, two sets of eyes fixed on the sparkling stars above.

  “Do you believe there’s life out there?” I asked. My words came out in a whisper.

  “Life? Yes. Death? No.”

  The intensity of his answer stunned me into silence. I didn’t know if he wanted me to say anything. I wasn’t sure what to say.

  Pasha continued, “When people die, they die. They are not up in sky, in some happy place with other dead people. They are nowhere. They are gone.”

  “They’re always with us. No matter where you think they end up.”

  “You believe this?”

  “Yes. If someone who died helped shape who you are, then yes. I have my mom’s cheekbones and eyes and my dad’s nose and hair. They’ll always be part of me, even when they aren’t on earth anymore.”

  “Are they dead?” Pasha turned to face me, his fingers clutching his plastic cup until it was crushed in the middle and the rim formed an infinity symbol.

  “No.”

  He turned his head and focused on the stars again.

  “Are your parents dead?” I asked.

  He released his death grip on the cup, which bounced off his stomach and onto the chair. “Yes.”

  —

  “Oh. Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry,” Kristen said quickly, averting her eyes.

  I sat still, listening to my heartbeat thrum in the silence between us, before I spoke.

  “We go through this life in a hurry. When we are young, we want to grow up fast. We hope for what comes next. Go go go. All the time, yes?” I sighed. “What if there is no next thing? What if—” I clapped my hands, the sharp sound slicing through the monotone of our conversation. “Boom! Everything gone.”

  She wanted to speak—I could tell by the way she squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed. “Just say it,” I urged her. “I like when you are blunt.”

  She took a breath and opened her eyes. “True. At some point we’re all going to die. And it’s not up to us. You just have to live the best you can while you’re here.”

  “I think I’d die happy if I got to be in you tonight.”

  I’d like to blame my comment on all the vodka I’d downed when we parted ways after dancing, but it had little to do with alcohol and everything to do with self-sabotage.

  Kristen should hate me. I wanted her to hate me without having to admit I hadn’t told her the truth up front.

  She bolted upright, just as I’d expected. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m speaking English,” I slurred, but set my gaze on the stars instead of her, because deep down I didn’t want to offend her. “You understood me.”

  She didn’t speak. And I shouldn’t have, either. I should have gotten up and left. But I couldn’t let my final words to her be something sexist and degrading. Even if she hated me, I didn’t want to treat her that way.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “That was rude.”

  That’s where I should have stopped. Apologize, drag myself back to my fucking room, drink more vodka, and pass out.

  Instead I gave in to the thoughts bouncing around in my head like runaway ping-pong balls and continued, “My mother was the most important person in my life. She only wanted best things for me.”

  I picked up my cup and tossed it toward the garbage cans located a few feet from our chairs. It missed. It missed so badly that I realized there was probably only one can to shoot at for someone who hadn’t consumed the amount of alcohol I had tonight.

  “Sounds like you and your mom were close,” Kristen said in a soft voice, as if consoling a child. “I’m really sorry.”

  I sighed and sat up. “I wish I could switch with her.”

  “What?” she asked. “What do you mean, you wish you could switch with her? Why?”

  “Why do I deserve this cruise—to be in the sun, to be happy—when she’s dead?”

  Kristen swiveled to face me, then reached over and grabbed my hands. “Why don’t you?”

  “Fucked up. Arrogant. Selfish. That’s what people think.” Because that’s what I show them.

  “Who gives a flying fuck what people think? They don’t know you. They don’t know what a good person you are on the inside.”

  How could she say that? Out of all people, she should have known I wasn’t a good person. I should have told her I wasn’t a good person.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head. Then I opened my eyes and looked at her, ready to confess everything…until she let go of my hands, put her palm on my cheek, and rubbed her thumb along the skin under my eyes, where dark circles regularly form.

  “You know what I see? A speckled golden rim around your pupil that spreads into the chocolate brown of your iris. Light reaching into the dark.” She smiled at me as warmth radiated from her eyes and her hand. “I see hope.”

  Fuck the consequences. I wanted to spend the entire week doing everything I possibly could to make her happy.

  “You were sweet enough to recognize I didn’t want to be around Spiros and save me from him, though I have no clue why.” She laced her fingers through mine. “You have a good heart.”

  “Who are you?” I said, but her penetrating gaze didn’t let up.

  “Kristen,” she said, drawing it out as if she didn’t think I remembered her name.

  “Kristen. Yes.” I dropped my eyes and squeezed her hands. “The beautiful Greek goddess planted on this ship to torture me.”

  “Torture?” she asked, irritation coating the word.

  “I want what I cannot have.”

  “You want me?” She lifted her head and moved closer, so close to the edge of the chair that she’d have fallen off if she moved another inch.

  But I’d never let that happen. I’d never let anything bad happen to her.

  Instead of answering with words, I dropped to my knees in front of her and ran my tongue over my lips. She slid her fingers into my hair and parted her legs, allowing me to move closer. Then I slipped my hands under her dress, skimming my palms up the outside of her thighs as the bottom of her sundress gathered around my forearms.

  Kristen clenched her fists and tugged my head back before leaning down and pressing her lips on mine. Her initiating the kiss was the permission I needed to deepen it by dipping my tongue into her mouth.

  I tightened my grip on her thighs but removed my mouth from hers. I wasn’t a good person. How could she be so insistent that I was a good person when the fact that I was here, in between her legs, was proof that I wasn’t?

  I dipped my head into her neck and kissed her shoulder. After placing several soft kisses against her skin, I lowered my head and pressed my cheek into her lap.

  “How do you know I am a good person? Why would you say this?” My voice wavered. What could she possibly see in me after one day?
>
  The lull of concern replaced the carnal energy radiating from her a moment ago. She stroked my hair, transferring her peace to me and alleviating my inner turmoil.

  “You’ve been really sweet to me. I haven’t seen anything different.” She paused. “But I guess I only see what you allow me to see.”

  “There are people who don’t let the past go. They hold things against me no matter how much I’ve changed. If they always think of me as something, why should I try to be anything else?” I asked.

  By people, I meant everyone. Unfortunately, I’d gained a reputation as an arrogant punk, which was what some of the old-school hockey commentators called me because I’m knowledgeable about the game and play with a pride they don’t appreciate. I’m supposed to be humble and boring, like a good Canadian boy. But I am Russian—a new Russian. I’m confident because I can back it up.

  I saved the stoicism for my personal life. Not many people knew me outside of the rink. With the exception of a few teammates, I kept to myself.

  “If you’ve changed for the better, then you can’t worry about those people. There’s nothing you can do to convince them. If they can’t get over how you were in a snapshot of your life, then screw them. You know who you are, and you’re the one who has to live with yourself,” she said.

  I lifted my head from Kristen’s lap and gazed at her, blinking multiple times to focus on her beautiful face. Her kind, soft eyes took me back to my childhood, when my mother had looked at me that way. With kindness—and hope.

  “Why do you taste salty?” I asked.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Your skin tastes salty. Why is this?”

  Silence sat thick in the air. She didn’t answer right away.

  “The truth,” I commanded when she still hadn’t answered the question after an exceptionally lengthy pause.

  She curled her finger and beckoned me closer. Then she whispered, “I’m an alien from Planet Pickle disguised as a human.”