Chapter 23
MacAllister's Redux
Ella
In the back of our cab, I was squished between Lance and Ilya, the Brawlers' great big Russian goaltender. I threw my elbows into the two huge human masses, hoping to clear a little extra breathing room.
“Ow! Hey!” Ilya complained. “Her elbows! Man, she hits hard! Should give this girl a contract and put her on the blue line!”
“Tell me about it. She's the Honey Badger, man. She don't give a fuck.”
“Honey Badger?” Ilya asked. “What is a honey badger?”
“Ignore my idiot brother,” I snapped.
“Your sister is feisty,” Ilya said.
“Moreso than usual, too,” Lance agreed.
“Whatever,” I huffed. “Is there some other place we can go besides MacAllister's?”
“What's everyone's problem with MacAllister's all of a sudden?” Lance asked. “Besides, you're from New York, what would you know about it?”
“It's a sports bar and grill, right? I think we have them in New York, so they must be a chain,” I lied.
Great. One lie begets another. Where does it end? Will I have to lie to Lance for the rest of my life, just because of one mistake I made with Radar? I ought to tell Lance the truth. Just to end all this.
“Huh. No shit? That's weird. The restaurant was opened in the 70's by an old-time Brawlers legend, Vern 'Mack' MacAllister, so I always assumed it was Boston-only. I can't see why they'd open one in New York, since Mack was universally hated in NYC …”
Oh, great. It just figures that in the end, Lance's encyclopedic hockey knowledge will be my undoing.
“I can Google it,” Ilya said, reaching for his cell phone. But his phone was in the pocket closest to me, and I leaned against the Russian, hard, so he couldn't fish the phone out of his pocket without a serious struggle first.
“Who knows, maybe I'm thinking of something else,” I said. “No need to Google it.”
“Anyway, we're here,” Lance said as the cab rolled to a stop.
We climbed out. A line of cabs had arrived ahead of us, and a dozen athletes in suits and ties waited for us. I spotted Radar, huddled closely with another one of his older teammates, having what appeared to be a serious chat.
There's no way he'd tell any of his teammates about what happened, right?
Radar looked my way every so often, hoping to catch my eye, but still I didn't acknowledge him.
We entered the restaurant as a group. Bright and smiling at the hostess desk were two blonde girls—the same girls, I realized, that were working last night.
They greeted all the players that went past by name.
“Hi Brooks! … Hi Josh! … Hi Radar! … Hi Shea! … Hi Ilya! … ”
Then we walked past.
“Hi Lance!” one of the hostesses said. “And oh, you brought your little sister tonight! Ella, right?”
“That's right!” Lance said, giving her a wink. But then he turned to me with a suspicious look. “Now how the hell did she know you're my sister?”
“It's certainly not the family resemblance, thank God! Lance is a beast, but Ella?” Ilya joked—a joke which earned him Lance's fist to the gut.
“Remember what I said about Winnipeg,” Lance quietly mumbled at him.
Winnipeg must mean something to them … who knows.
Lance turned to me again. “No, but seriously, she knew your name was Ella. How'd she know that?”
“Maybe you mentioned me in an interview once upon a time? She's probably a huge fan of yours,” I muttered.
When in doubt, always appeal to an athlete's ego.
Lance smirked. “Heh. You're probably right.”
I'd gotten away with another lie. With each lie, it felt like I slowly transformed into someone else, something dark and monstrous, something I wasn't …
The hostesses led us to a private event room with a giant table. Lance sat at one head of the table, and I sat at his right. Their older teammate sat at the other head—I'd pieced together that his name was Shea.
Radar tried to sit next to Shea, but Lance wouldn't have it. “The hell are you doing down there? Sit by us, Radar. We've got the guest of honor over here.”
Radar neared. He sat on Lance's left, across from me. I couldn't avoid him now.
If eyes could speak, his said, I'm sorry I got us into this mess.
If my eyes could reply, they'd say, yeah, well, being sorry doesn't change a thing, does it?
“The reason I want you sitting by us,” Lance began, “is because I'm sure everyone wants to hear Ella's re-telling of Radar's night yesterday.”
“What? No!” I protested.
But my voice was drowned out by the approving grunts and jeers of twenty-some grown men. Once they quieted down, all eyes were on me in anticipation.
“I don't really want to tell it again,” I said. “I don't really remember what happened now. My memory's fuzzy.”
I was met with boos.
“Sorry …”
Lance frowned at me. “Seriously, sis? You're not going to tell them?”
“I don't want to, Lance.”
“Ugh, fine. Okay, for those who didn't hear the story this morning . . .”
While Lance launched into a re-telling of the events I'd made up this morning, I caught Radar's gaze from across the table.
If his eyes could speak, they were saying, remember when I told you making all that shit up was a bad idea? Welp, here you go—hope you're enjoying this!
And if my eyes could answer, they'd say, I don't want to hear it! You made me lie in the first place, remember? How the hell am I supposed to be good at lying? I never even do it! Before I met you, anyway … now I'm suddenly getting a lot of practice at it …
Okay, maybe he didn't get all that just from my eyes, but that was certainly what was going through my mind.
Eventually, Lance's story came to an end, and everyone joked around about Radar's bad game, and openly wondered what could've been the cause of it.
“Obviously, she was too great of a lay. Drained his nuts completely dry, and today he's got nothing left in the tank.”
“Look, he isn't even talking!”
“Is that why Radar's so moody today? He just had his mind blown all night, and today he's thinking about the one that got away?”
“The one that got away is the one that screams like a million wolves in hell?”
“Bwahahah!”
“Radar, you're never gonna live this one down!”
I frowned at Radar while he suffered his teammate's jokes in silence.
My eyes said to him, Okay, maybe I did take it a little too far.
You think? His eyes said to me.
“Do you think Radar might've fallen in love with this girl?” someone asked. “Like maybe he fell, legit, head-over-heels in love with this chick.”
Lance pointed at his teammate. “Yes! Thank you. That's what I said.”
I spoke up at last. “Oh, I certainly doubt that.”
“What makes you so sure?” Radar spoke, his eyes locked on mine with a burning intensity. “Who knows. Maybe I did.”
While his teammates exploded into delirious shouts and elated screams of ahhhh! and I fucking knew it!, I was left breathless, my heart and mind racing.
You don't mean it.
You can't just say that.
Don't fuck with my head any more than you already have.
Beneath the table, he touched his shoe against mine. I wasn't sure what it meant, but I knew it meant something.
When the excitement died down, Radar was inundated with questions about whether or not he got this girl's number, what her panties were like (what a strange question to be asking him; God, hockey players are weird), and how he intended to pursue her now that she'd escaped him.
“I don't know. I haven't quite worked that out yet.” His eyes never strayed from mine the whole time.
Stop it, Radar! You're going to get us caught!
“Radar—” Shea called from the far end of the table in a serious tone. “Maybe let's talk about something else, yeah? How's the butt model?”
“Lindsay's great! She's meeting us at the club tonight and I'll be spending the second night in a row at her place.”
Radar turned to Lance.
“Hey Lance. You mind if we chat outside for a few, bud?”
“Uh, why can't we chat right here?”
“I just gotta talk to you about something in private.”
Lance shrugged. “Alright, sure. Let's go.”
If eyes could talk?
Mine screamed, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! DON'T DO WHAT I THINK YOU'RE ABOUT TO DO!
And his said, you wanted me to tell the truth, right?
I was left at the table with their rowdy teammates. They barely noticed Radar and Lance had left.
With my pulse banging in my throat, I looked at Lance and Radar's suit jackets, draped around the backs of their chairs, and wondered.
How's this going to end?