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“Holy cow, Sarge, looks like Huda is having breathing trouble and Newley is giving him mouth-to-mouth!”
“And that’s why everyone should take a course in basic lifesaving skills, Buggy.”
Once I was on my skates, prick aching inside the two cups that were pressing on it tightly, I skated to my net to the cheers of the Comets’ fans. I picked up my mask, bowed, and skated off the ice to let Ooni take my place. I knew there would be penalties for fighting as well as an instigator call on me for crossing the red line to fight. We’d both removed our masks so penalties for that would be heaped onto the tally as well. I was escorted off the ice to the rabid calls of praise from the Comets’ backers at the same time that Baskoro was led off.
The refs were all done with our stupidity, it seemed. By the time calm was restored, the penalty boxes were stuffed to overflowing. Smiling at the encounter that had served to rile up Baskoro—his gaze during our encounter had been hot with lust—and given the fans some red meat to masticate, I made my way to the locker room. That should keep the team and the press off my back for a few weeks. The crush to create new media for this stupid rivalry was wearing me down. I was tired of the videos, the snipes online, the reels, and the blogs. It had gotten totally out of hand, and while the fans and teams were thriving on the chum, those involved were feeling the strain of living a lie. Or at least I was. I’d not spoken to Baskoro about it, other than a few comments that I’d dropped over the past week that could have been taken in a dozen ways.
As I peeled off my sweater and dropped it into a laundry cart in the corner of our dressing room, I felt the jubilation of the faux fight ebbing away. Now all I wanted was a shower and a hasty exit stage left. I wanted to go home, see my girls, and introduce them to the man who had occupied my thoughts for weeks now. I wanted Zada to meet Baskoro, and Kyleen too, and then I wanted to take him to my room and love on him. Was that asking so much?
The dressing room suddenly filled with Comets, the sounds of the team exiting the ice not registering. And that was nothing new. I’d been slipping off into fantasy moments like that all the time of late. Focus was hard to find on the ice, and I’d been called on my wandering thoughts by the coaching staff.
“Amazing shit! Holy hell you took Huda down!” Crispy bellowed then thumped me on the shoulders, his fists hitting thick padding to block any impact. “Shame you missed the goal by Templeton at the end. Polkman didn’t have a chance! That’s two points for us, men!”
The team—and Templeton, who was a rookie and shy as a fawn—shouted in glee. I played along, cheery for the guys then the press, talking big about how I’d wanted to show Huda just who the top dog was in this league. The reporters packed around my cubicle, gobbling it up like Kyleen does ice cream. After I gave them what they wanted, I slipped off to shower. I lingered under the water, letting the hot spray wash away the sweat and the lies. Sadly, all the soap in the world was not able to scour away the deceit.
I dressed quickly, tossing out smiles and jibes against the Gladiators to my teammates, and then slipped off with the excuse that Kyleen had the sniffles. The guys all sent her hugs and get well wishes. Lying about that made me feel crummy too, but in order to cover one lie you generally had to spin another one. That was how a lone untruth soon became a growing ball of deceit.
It was nearly dark when I exited the arena. Ugh, short winter days were the pits. Tiny snowflakes were flitting downward to pepper the cars parked in the players’ lot. I rushed to leave, eager to get home and spend some time with people who didn’t expect me to be what the world had molded me into.
My car was cold. I cranked the engine over, flipped the heater on high, and scrolled through my texts. After about three minutes, the one I was waiting for rolled in and my stupid heart sped up.
Leaving in five. Text me directions to your house again. Can’t wait to eat pie. ~ B
I replied far too quickly. It wasn’t at all cool to be this cranked up to see a guy. Yet, here I was, sending my address to the man, my thumbs shaking. There was a lot riding on this post-Thanksgiving meeting.
Unable to wait out the heater, I scrubbed at the thin sheen of condensation on the windshield and backed out of my parking slot. Assuming the impatient winter driver position—head pulled in like a turtle as I tried to see through a clear spot the size of an envelope—I made my way home, amused that by the time I pulled into my drive the windshield had cleared off. Typical.
“Daddy, you won big!” Kyleen shouted as she met me at the door with hugs and loud kisses on my cheeks. She was in white leggings—or they had started their life as white and were now an off-white with magic marker scribbles—pink slippers, and one of my old jerseys. The sweater hung to her tiny feet, but she always wore it when they watched our games.
“We did,” I agreed, kissing her back as I toted her into the kitchen. Aunt Zada was removing containers of holiday leftovers from the fridge. Today was hot turkey—tofu turkey obvs—sandwiches with all the leftover trimmings.
“Daddy, can I eat all the creamy corn?” my baby asked as she sat on my hip, light as a dove feather.
“That child does not need to eat all the creamed corn,” my aunt replied. “All she has done is run to the bathroom today.”
“Aunty Zada says corn makes me poop like a goose,” Kyleen proudly announced.
“How about just a little corn and some other stuff as well?” I suggested and got a nod of agreement from my baby. “Speaking of dinner, do you think there’s enough for a guest?”
Aunt Zada looked up from one of the containers in her hand, the one with wibbly-wobbly gravy, in surprise.
“Of course, that turkey breast would feed your whole team for a week,” she answered. That was an exaggeration, of course. The tofu turkey roll had been a big one, though. “Is Ooni still on that low-carb diet?”
“No, it’s not Ooni. Or Crispy.” I placed Kyleen on the floor, then hunkered down to speak to her face to face. “Can you tidy up your toys in the living room? We’re having company.”
“Okay, Daddy!” Off she went, surprisingly agreeable to picking up her stuff.
I rose to find my aunt studying me over the top of her bifocals, the cold gravy container still in her hand. When Kyleen was busy—she always sang when she was cleaning—I turned to face her, face hopefully blank.
“I’ve invited one of the Gladiators over to eat,” I confessed. Her white eyebrows flew up to her hairline. “We’ve kind of become friends over the past couple of months, and I wanted him to meet you and Kyleen.”
She regained her composure, placing the cold gravy on the counter so she could focus all her energy on her evasive nephew. I could sense that she had read through my poor lie. Those new glasses of hers aided her already keen insight.
“You always bring friends from other teams home to meet your family?”
I blew out a breath. “No, obviously, but this friend is…” That delay was all she needed. The woman was sharp as a Ginsu knife.
“Marcus, are you dating one of the enemies?” she asked in a whisper.
