by R J Scott
They cheered. I shoved my tub of ice cream into the bank of snow along the drive, and settled into the net, the pipes resting on my back. Someone brought me an old wooden goalie stick.
“That’s all we got,” the young lady informed me. “It was my grandfather’s.”
Yes, I believed it was that old, but I thanked her anyway and got ready to block the rubber ball they were using instead of a puck. That was a mother’s touch—that pink rubber ball—I was almost certain. The next forty minutes was spent blocking shots, laughing, and passing on what knowledge I could with my good but not great English.
When it was time for me to go, they all waved and thanked me. I grabbed my ice cream and continued home, feeling like a hundred bucks. No. Wait. It is more than that. A thousand bucks! I was feeling like a thousand bucks all the way home. When I saw that my friend Arvy was there, my high spirits got higher. This was also good. Another way to keep the memory of what had happened in my kitchen with Erik shoved aside. Right now, I would take any kind of distraction to help me not think, because thinking had only made me edgy, upset, and confused beyond help.
I did not expect to see Erik sitting in my living room, smiling over something my sister had said. Damn. How did I do this? Walk past and grunt? Maybe. Yes. That was good.
“Stan, come see this baby,” Galina called as I stalked past after grunting. Lucy trotted out from the kitchen, weaving around my legs, meowing for attention. I bent down and picked her up with one hand and continued moving forward. Not once did I look back at Erik or Noah. Hearing the baby cooing made it hard not to go back. He was a sweet babe.
Lucy made spitting sounds.
“I know you are not football.”
I placed her on the counter alongside the tub of ice cream. She gave me a dark look, then sat down to tend to her ruffled fur.
“You will get good food. Meow, meow, meow, meow,” I sang like an old commercial for cat food I had seen on YouTube. I like those old commercials. They’re funny and have good songs and clever, snappy lines.
“Hey, you got a minute?” Erik. Damn the man. He had caught me singing the “Meow, Meow” song to my cat.
“I’m not sure I have many minutes. Must feed cat.” I waved a hand at Lucy, who was licking a personal girl-cat place.
“When you’re done feeding the cat, then. Maybe?”
“Maybe.” I moved around the kitchen for a few minutes, opening a can of tuna cat food and dumping it into the tiny bowl beside the water dish. Lucy jumped down to the floor and strolled to her dish, smelled the food, and then walked away. Such a cat.
When I glanced up, he hadn’t moved from the doorway. Looking too good. He wore jeans well. They fit him good. No baggy droopy pants on Erik. Always nicely fitted, a little snug on his powerful thighs. If he would turn just a bit his ass would be firmly held in soft denim.
“Stanislav, Arvy and I are going to the movies.”
I threw a fast look at Galina, who was handing off Noah to his father.
“But I have ice cream,” I stammered, because if she left that would mean I’d have to talk to Erik. I wasn’t ready for talking. Hand jobs, yes, it seemed, but talking, no. I was a fucking ham as Tennant would say. No. Wait. Ham is when you are upset. What is it when you are scared? Roasted chicken! I was a roasted chicken, by the General. Or Colonel? It was some military chicken man.
“Which we’ll have when we get back.” She ran over to me, rose to her toes, and kissed my cheek. “Don’t wait up. Proschay!”
Out she ran, shouting at Arvy to hurry up. Don’t wait up? But it was only maybe noon. What movie would last that long? Erik and Noah both looked at me.
“What do you want?” That sounded angry. Was I angry? No. Yes. A little. Not at Noah, though. “I would hold him please?”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” Erik came to me and passed over the little boy.
Noah smiled at me, said “Bah!” and slapped me on the nose.
“You want this ice cream put in the freezer?”
“Da, yes.”
“I know what ‘Da’ means,” he said offhandedly. A memory of Helsinki appeared unbidden inside my head. Erik spread out over me, riding me as I cried out “Da, da, da,” until I blew apart buried deep inside him. I placed the child on my hip and left the kitchen in a hurry.
“Stan, we need to talk.”
I sat on the couch, placed Noah on my thighs, and stared at the child. His cheeks were round, his mouth a little bow, and his eyes big and green, like his father’s.
“Make talk. I listen.”
I heard him exhale. Noah reached for my nose. He seemed to like it. It was a good nose. Long but very Russian. A proud nose.
Erik sat on the other end of the couch. “I want to make sure you understand everything. Where I’m coming from.”
“From Sweden, this I know.”
Noah burbled and drooled down the front of his little yellow sweater. I made a face at him and got another smile.
“No, I mean my reasoning.”
I threw him a fast look. He seemed quite intent on this for some reason. I nodded at him, then went back to his son, who did not make me feel like my stomach was being pulled out through my left ear.
“You leave me. Get married. Have Noah.”
“Yeah, that’s the high spots, but it’s not that simple.” He blew out another breath. “Stan, last summer was… Helsinki meant so much to me.”
“Yes, so much you go off and marry woman. That is so much meaning?” I snapped. Noah’s smile faded at my sharp tone. “Sorry, little bunny,” I cooed, and the pout went away.
“I married her because I wanted to do the right thing. The adult thing. You understand that, right? Being responsible?”
“I do responsible much. Bring mother over maybe soon. I make responsible for her,” I said, in an even tone so not to upset Noah. I felt like I had a thousand shouts locked inside me. Each one had to be tamed so not to scare the precious one on my lap. “You marry woman after saying love me. I see pictures on Instabook.”
“Instagram,” he said softly. I nodded. “Right, well, I know you saw them. I was trying, Stan. Trying to be the father that Noah needed. Kids deserve a family.”
“Family made of lies? Or was words for me lies?”
That question made him leave the sofa. Erik paced the room, pushing his fingers through his curls, working on how to say what he needed to say in simple words for me.
“See you and Freja broke me,” I interjected into his circling laps of the couch.
He stopped pacing then, his hands dropping to his sides, and closed his eyes as if in pain. If he was, good. I wanted him pained. He should suffer as I had.
“I never wanted to hurt you but…I did what I had to do to make sure that Noah could be mine forever. I manned up. I left behind the most important person in the world at that time—the man I’d fallen crazy in love with—to be a dad.”
Noah tugged on my nose as I stared openly at his father. “You love me yet?”
“I never stopped. Ever.” He rushed around the sofa and sat beside me, his gaze now hopeful and green. Oh, so green. Like the forests of my native country. “She was talking abortion. I said if she kept him that he would stay with me. Be mine. I didn’t love her, but we married so it was official, that is all.” He reached out to run a hand over his son’s bouncy yellow curls. Noah made happy baby noises for his papa. The ice inside me, I think it started to melt a little.
“Now what is right for him?”
“I don’t know.” Erik fell back against the cushion. “I’m working my ass off to make a new life for him and me. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
“Being good papa is hard.” I had to give him that. Raising a child alone was nothing but work and worry, my mother would say.
“Yeah, it is, but all the hard stuff is worth it when he smiles at me.”
Okay, yes, I could see that. Noah’s smile made me feel bright inside, like someone had turned a beacon on in my chest. The light flo
wed out of me back to him. It was good and happy. And he smelled like baby shampoo, which made me feel brighter.
“Stan, you do understand why I did what I did now, right?”
My gaze stayed on the happy baby. “Yes, I understand.”
Erik sighed as if I had taken the weight of the world off his shoulders.
““Thank god. Are you still mad? I totally understand that you were hurt and that it will take time to get over that, if you even can. I’d like to maybe be friends someday.”
I bounced the baby to give myself time to think. Could I be friends with him? Did I want that, or did I want more? Or less? Smart people would tell me to accept his truths and then let him go live his life. Be polite in the dressing room, talk nicely to the press, and move on. Smart people would tell me that putting aside a hot summer of lust to work on a new and maybe better relationship in the future would make me as smart as they were. Galina would be one of those smart people. She never rushed into love as I had. My sister was flat-headed. No. Wait. That’s not right. Flat-headed would be like Herman Munster. I liked that show too.
“Stan?”
“I will take thinking time,” I informed him, then hugged his son tight to my chest. The boy snuggled into me. The light inside me glowed a little brighter.
“Really? Okay, that’s cool.” His rough chuckle pulled my attention from cuddling with Noah. “I thought you were going to beat me up and throw my body into the Volga.”
“Volga no flow in Pennsylvania. I throw body into Sus-key-hand-ah.”
Erik laughed again. “Susquehanna,” he corrected.
“Yes, that river.” Noah stopped moving so much. “Is he going asleep?”
Erik leaned around me, close to me, and peered around his son’s head. “Yeah, I think he’s finally giving up.”
My gaze lingered on Erik’s mouth, the way it moved when he talked. I liked the way his mouth moved.
“I’d take him home, but Arvy has my car seat in his car and he kind of…” He made a motion with his hand to indicate something moving. “I’ll just go into one of the other rooms and lay down with him so you don’t have to have my face in yours.” He started to rise.
“Sit.”
He sat.
“I will hold Noah for nap. We sit and watch TV Land. There is marathon for Andy Griffith and Opie.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Your face is fine while I have thinking time.”
Erik found the remote, sat down beside me, his hip next to mine, and turned on the TV. I whistled softly to the theme song, Noah sleeping on my chest, and used up two hours of thinking time not thinking at all, just feeling. And the feelings were toasty warm like one of Aunt Bee’s buttermilk pies.
A week later we were in Minnesota and things were not going well. We were in the middle of a losing streak that was filling all our heads with self-defeating thoughts. Despite what our coach and captain said, we couldn’t seem to find our stride, and this game against the Wild was not helping build confidence.
They’d come out strong and scored within forty seconds of the opening face-off. I hate goals so early like that. They shake up the team and prevent me from slipping into the mindset needed to remain focused. Think of it as being awoken gently by soft sounds of nature that lull you into the day or having someone blow a foghorn beside your head to wake you.
I hate foghorn games. After that initial goal, I felt off. The team fell into a shocked kind of dejection that found us scrabbling to keep up with the other team. The forwards were sloppy, the defense spotty. That opened gaping holes in front of my net that left me open and vulnerable, especially to deflections. After two more pucks snuck past me I began to get mad. Mad at myself, mad at the team for not scoring or protecting my crease, and mad at the coaching staff for not shuffling lines to find something that might work.
When the first period ended, I slammed off the ice and into the away dressing room, so mad I could shit. No. Wait. Spit. So mad I could spit.
“Stan, I am so sorry about the last deflection,” Dieter was saying behind me as we clumped into the dressing room. “That was totally on me. I should have covered my man better.”
“Dude, we’re all to blame. Not Stan. No way you get the blame for this,” Tennant chimed in.
“My job to stop pucks.” Pushing around them, I found my spot in the corner. I sat down, buried my face in my palms, and worked on breathing exercises. One long breath in, fill the lungs, then slowly exhale until the lungs were empty.
No one spoke to me. They barely looked in my direction. Coach talked about tightening up in the corners and finding our forecheck. He pointed out that the backup goalie for the Wild had only had to block three shots in twenty minutes of hockey, while I had been barraged with seventeen. Also, he was not happy about the slashing calls. Overall, Coach was quietly mad about everything and wanted us to pull our heads out of our asses.
The second period was better. Arvy scored a goal, and that swung momentum to us for several shifts. Minnesota got a tripping call and we went on the power play. Tennant found the back of the net on a slap-shot that bounced off the pipes behind the Wild goalie. I reached back to stroke the pipes and ask them to be nice to me even though they were Minnesota pipes and not Harrisburg pipes.
Just when we were starting to really feel the surge of confidence, one stupid move in front of me by Adler Lockhart set off a string of bad luck. Adler got mad and crosschecked one of the Wild forwards who was screening me. It was a stupid thing to do. He knew it. I knew it. Everyone there knew it. Once he was sitting in the penalty box, our penalty kill unit came out and the wheels started coming off the cart.
The Wild converged on my net. Shots came in so fast I was working on instinct to keep them out of the net. After a flurry that lasted over a minute, Tennant finally managed to clear the puck to other end of the ice. Our side changed out one PK line for another. I caught my breath and tried to lock on to the Minnesota forward charging over the blue line with the puck. Assuming he would slip around our defense, I crouched down, and then he drew back for a slap shot. The puck was a black blur.
It hit Arvy right in the leg, and down he went. This was nothing unusual. Blocked slap shots happen often. The pain is intense but fades after several minutes, leaving a big bruise and swelling. Arvy pushed up to his skates, his face a mask of agony, and pushed along on one skate. The Wild were buzzing like African bees—there was no way he could leave the ice—and so he played on until Adler was released from the penalty box. The puck was iced, and Arvy barely made it to the bench. As soon as he was through the door, the head athletic trainer was on him, helping him down the tunnel to the locker room. A TV timeout occurred.
I skated to the bench, got fresh water in my bottle, and made eye contact with Erik. We’d not spoken much over the past week. He was giving me room to think. It was a funny situation we were in now, and I wasn’t sure how much longer we could keep it up. Everyone looked deeply worried about our injured teammate.
“You good, Stan?” I nodded at my coach, took my water bottle from a trainer, and went back to my crease.
“Minnesota pipes,” I murmured as the game was about to start again. “I am good man. Strong Russian. Love pipes much. Be good to me.”
I rubbed them as one would a lover’s bare thigh. Then I turned to face the ice.
The Minnesota pipes didn’t love me like my home pipes did. They were callous and uncaring. They deflected a shot into the net behind me and did not send any away. When the game was over, I spun on my skates and flipped the net and the evil Minnesota pipes over. Then I whipped them with my stick until the stick shattered.
The locker room was quiet as a church. We were all worried about Arvy. He’d been taken to the nearby hospital for X-rays of his right leg. The ride back to the hotel was dismal. There was no laughter or teasing on the bus. Just big, silent men humped up in their seats. When we got to our lodgings, everyone scattered, going to their rooms to sulk or think. Erik was in front of me i
n the elevator. I stood behind him, inhaling the scent of his shampoo while enjoying the way gold curls danced on the nape of his neck.
When we filed out on the fourth floor, I followed him to his room, which was the opposite direction of mine. He tossed me several curious looks as we walked down the nicely carpeted corridor.
“Is there something you want?” he asked as he scanned his card. The lock beeped and the door opened.
I shoved him inside, slammed the door shut, and rounded on him. “You. I want you.”
Eleven
Erik
I hit the wall with as much force as being pushed into the boards by the biggest D-man in the league, and my breath left me in a whoosh.
“Stan—”
He gripped my hair tight, twisting his fingers into my curls, and yanked me toward him for a kiss. I was off balance, gripping him hard to stand upright, and he pulled my hair to get me to tilt my head, devouring my neck with kisses and bites that I knew could leave marks.
“Your fault,” he muttered between kisses, and held me even tighter, as if he wanted to hurt me, as if it was the only way he could get off, using anger and pain.
A loud thump echoed in the room and I realized it was the door.
“Erik, you okay in there, man?”
The captain right outside my room. Stan released his hold on me, and I scrambled to stay upright before catching the material of his jacket. He looked stricken, as if someone had thrown an entire bucket of water over him, cooling his furious passion.
“I’m good,” I called. “Knocked into the table.”
Stan took another step away, the tightness in his expression slowly turning to remorse. He was going to leave—I could see the panic in his eyes, and then the sadness.
“Jesus,” Connor called, “mind your legs. I don’t want anyone else in the hospital tonight.”
I winced at that, and the fact that Stan was even further away from me, practically in the freaking bathroom. I was so hard; Stan knew every button to press, every word and gesture, pushing me around and making me feel every time. Being shoved around every so often, Stan using his weight and strength against me…fuck, it was the best thing about whatever toxic mess we had going between us.