Comforting a Goon
"I can't believe what I did last night, Ingrid."
Marcel shook his head. His eyes, usually the bright blue of a glorious spring day, were now gray with sorrow.
"Everything was going wrong last night. We were blowing the game. I lost my one fight. Our goalie got knocked out. One son-of-a-bitching thing after the other. And then my guy wouldn't agree to a rematch..."
He pushed himself out of the armchair and stalked over to the living room window, its curtains opened wide to reveal the sparkling city lights below. His broad back, tightly encased in a black turtleneck, was turned from me...right now, he felt undeserving of even my presence.
"I should have ignored my itch to fight again. That's what a smart player would have done. But at that moment, all the crap that had been going down just boiled over...it took over my two hands. Whack!"
His onomatopoeia made me clutch my black velvet pants with both hands.
"I was sorry the second after it happened. When he fell down...his head bouncing off the ice...I felt like throwing up. I asked myself, Marcel, what the hell is wrong with you?"
Nothing, I wanted to say. I respectfully stayed silent until he was done talking.
"The other team started coming after me, and I should have let them kick my ass. It was no worse than I deserved. I can still hear the fans booing; still hear the garbage falling to the ice...I never expected to be loved in opposing arenas. But it still hurt, Ingrid. I'm not a dirty player."
I
stood up and embraced him from behind, pressing the swell of my breasts against his back.
"I know you're not, Marcel."
At this moment, it seemed that the whole hockey world -- the whole world in general -- was against my man. I read the hammering newspaper editorials, listened to the zealous talk-show callers, gazed at the vicious name-calling web posts. Bill Clinton had received much kinder treatment during his impeachment ordeal.
People wanted to see Marcel suspended for the rest of the season. more >>
