CHAPTER EIGHT
CARTER
Another night goes by with nothing to report on Wren watch. I’ve noticed she still snores—not a grand, lumbering hack, but a cute little wheeze she’s had since she was a kid. I watched her through a slit in the door last night. She had one leg in and one leg out on top of the quilt, just as I remember.
I could have stood there all night, but I went back to bed dreaming of her—one glorious thought after another slowly replacing the cluster-fuck that’s become the last few years of my life.
I thought about her only feet away, my hands sliding off those panties, hooking them down her milky thighs, my head in the hot space between her legs.
I pushed my boxers down. My hand closed around my cock as I pictured her mouth poised over it, the heat of her body.
“God,” I moaned, hoping to hell she wouldn’t wake and find me jerking off in here.
An image of her breasts flashed through my head, nipples diamond hard, and in that moment I stiffened, sliding off the couch, my fist pumping hard.
I knelt on the floor, one hand splayed out on the boards, hammering away at my dick until I found my release.
*
I make breakfast for us before heading down to the rink.
I arrive with a smile on my face.
Steve holds me up. “Hey, I saw you out there last night.”
“That’s funny,” I reply. “I didn’t see you.”
He points up to a spot in the roof beside the scoreboard. “I had a camera put up there so I can keep an eye on things after hours. I can watch it live from my La-Z-Boy if I like, twenty-four hours a day. Technology, hey?”
“Yeah, technology,” I nod.
He places his hand on my shoulder. “In any case, you’re looking like you didn’t miss a day of training. Those slapshots… Boy. You sure do load those up with extra hot sauce, don’t you?”
“I try.” I smile. “But I am out of practice. My stickhandling’s a mess, my puck control’s a joke…”
Steve makes a jerking-off motion. “I can tell you all about stickhandling, son.”
“There isn’t a Mrs. Steve?”
He laughs, gravelly voice echoing around the rink. “I was never a smooth operator like you, Crusher. Hell, you could walk into a room and leave with a girl hanging off your dick having never opened your mouth.” He points to his face. “But me? Bad genes. I look like Freddy fucking Kruger, and that’s with the lights off.”
I tap my chin with my finger. “What’s the saying? There’s someone out there for everyone?”
“You were supposed to tell me it’s not so bad.”
“But then I’d be lying.”
He shoves me, smiling. “Asshole, and how about you, big shot? You find yourself a nice, cuddly man on the inside?”
I smile myself, pull out my jeans pocket. “Why, you looking to switch teams?”
He shoves me again. “And on the outside?”
I take a seat in the first row. “There is this one girl, but it’s complicated.”
Steve takes a seat beside me, huffing. “Isn’t it always?”
“There’s complicated and there’s fucked up. She falls into the latter.”
“She into gang bangs? Sex change? Daddy complex?”
“She’s sort of off limits.”
“Sort of? Sounds like bullshit to me.”
“Like I said, it’s complicated.”
Steve rubs his hands together, blows into them. “Alright. Well, I ain’t Doctor Phil, so this little chat’s going to have to come to an end, but if you know what’s right for you, you’ll find a nice, regular girl and settle down.”
“What? My previous girls weren’t regular?”
People are arriving for the next session.
Steve stands and starts to back way. “Please, they were barely out of high school back then, most of them with air instead of a brain, bleached up to kingdom come.”
He has a point. Wren’s about as far from my previous partners as you could get.
Partners. That’s one way to describe it. Fuck buddies? Mistresses? Dick candy? All far more apt.
“I’ll see you later,” Steve calls. “Stay away from the barely legals.”
“I’ll do my best,” I call back.
“And say hi to the kid later. I signed a poster for him in the office.”
“He’ll love that,” I reply, smiling with the sarcasm.
*
I head home to the cabin after my shift. I can tell Wren’s been busy in the kitchen by the many and varied plates and bowls scattered around the place.
She hands me a plate. “I was going for lasagna, but somehow ended up with bolognaise?”
I take it, smiling. “Looks great.”
We sit down, eating quietly.
She places her fork down. “You seem tense.”
I shrug, try to act cool and in the process look ten times tenser for it. “I’m fine.”
“You’re nervous about this thing with David.”
I shovel another forkful of pasta in so I don’t have to speak.
“Carter, are you good with this?”
I swallow it down. “Never been better.” But truthfully I’m nervous as fuck. A sick kid? Teaching? It’s about as far from my radar as Sunday school.
*
We arrive at the rink with plenty of time to spare. The last session wrapped up an hour ago.
I unpack and prepare the rink, placing cones and pucks, waiting.
Wren, the cutest snow bunny there is in one of my down jackets, taps on the glass, giving me the thumbs up.
I’m starting to wish I was back at the cabin right about now.
The longer time ticks on, the more I want to be somewhere else. The bar is looking like a pretty good option, a sneaky Jack and Coke to take the edge off.
There’s another tap on the glass, voices.
Wren’s calling me over.
They’re here.
I take a long breath. You’re up, Crusher.
I skate over and step out of the rink.
“Carter,” says Wren, motioning beside her, “this is David.”
David’s mom cautiously ushers him forward. “Go on, honey.”
David stands with arms crossed in front of himself, lip turned up. He’s bald, the color of paper, skinny as a shed rake. There’s no questioning this is a sick kid.
“You were in jail,” he says matter-of-factly, his mom visibly squirming.
I look to Wren for support. She seems equally nervous.
This one’s all you, buddy.
I crouch down to David’s level, hand on my knee. I lift up the sleeve of my arm and point. “See this? It’s a prison tattoo.”
Now there’s a glimpse of curiosity in his eyes. He takes a step forward to examine it. “Really?” he says.
“Really. Go on. Touch it.”
He extends a finger, running it over my skin. “What did you do it with?”
“A ballpoint pen and a sharpened toothbrush.” It’s pure bullshit, but it sounds good.
“Cool,” he says, eyes ablaze. I doubt his mother shares his sentiment, but I need to buy some cred here.
“How many NHL players do you know who have a prison tattoo?”
He starts to light up a little, life filling his face. “None.”
“That’s right.”
“Why did they call you Crusher?” he asks.
I nod to the bag his mom is holding. “Why don’t you throw on your skates and find out?”
He can’t get there fast enough.
I wink at Wren. The mother, however, still looks like she’s a second from calling the cops.
I skate onto the ice and line up a series of pucks, firing off a series of rapid-fire slapshots.
That does it.
“Whoa!” David exclaims. “That’s insane! Did you see that, Mom?”
She nods, still uneasy.
“Are you faster than Zdeno Chara?” David asks. “He could slapshot at 108.8 miles per hour.”
“Zdeno who?” I joke, adding a smile. I fire off another. “You know what the secret to a great slapshot is?”
“What?” he says, genuinely curious. It’s been a long time since I had a captive audience like this.
I squat. “It’s all in the legs. They’re the first place you should go for power.”
I line up a puck for him. “Show me what you’ve got, superstar.”
A one-hour session turns into four, but it barely feels like work. For someone with the physique of a shovel handle, David’s actually got real talent.
Towards the end, he starts to wheeze. He’s starting to turn the same shade as the ice he’s skating on. I place my hand on his back. “How about we take five?”
He nods and skates off to his mother.
I meet Wren at the barrier.
“You’re good with him,” she smiles.
“He’s a good kid. What did you say he has?”
“Hodgkin lymphoma—cancer, basically.”
“But they have treatment for that right?”
Wren looks over to David. “He’s a rare case. He might have two, three years tops.”
“To live?”
“Yeah.”
I shake my head. “Jesus. That’s rough.”
“Have you ever thought about having kids of your own, Carter?”
The question comes from left field, like a blind snap you never see coming. I’m not prepared for it. I fiddle the tape on my stick. “Uh, sure. I’d love kids one day, but you kind of a need a partner to, you know…”
Wren smiles. “Do you remember what I want?”
“I do.” I nod. “A pigeon pair—a boy and a girl. You’ve been saying that since you were what? Six, seven?”
“Every little girl wants a baby of her own.”
I recall what she said about David pushing her for kids. It must have been hard.
David’s already skating back into the center of the ring.
“Go,” says Wren, with a jerk of her head. “Your biggest fan needs you.”
I skate away, turning in reverse to look back at Wren. “I thought you were my biggest fan?”
*
We head into town for dinner. Oatville’s not exactly the gastronomic capital of the world. There’s only a single bistro serving nothing but Canadian classics. They even do a smoked meat sandwich.
Wren laughs when the plate of poutine is placed down. “My god. I haven’t had this stuff in years. Looks more like a heart attack than a meal.”
“You used to love it. You could pack away a whole plate, which I always thought was your superpower given you’re so…”
“Small?” she offers.
“Height-challenged,” I counter.
She throws her napkin at me. “That’s no way to treat your dinner date.”
“So this is a date?”
She prods her fork in the air at me. “Watch it, mister.”
She selects a chip thick with curd and gravy. “I am so going to regret this.”
I pick up my own, scooping up extra gravy for good measure. “Just leave some room for the sugar pie.”
Peameal bacon, a shared bannock burger, and way too much sugar pie later, we both slump against the booth.
“Now I know what it’s like to be pregnant,” groans Wren.
“I can literally feel my arteries seizing as we speak,” I add, my face wrinkling.
“If you are trying to disable me for some ninja pick-up routine, you’re going the right way about it. I bet this is what you did to all those girls—dinner them up, bundle them over your shoulder, and stomp on through the snow back to the cabin.”
“I’m not a yeti, you know.”
She looks me over, casting her eyes down to the tabletop. “Yes, I don’t recall you being too hairy.”
“And how would you know?”
“Don’t play it like that, buster. I’ve seen you in your birthday suit a couple of times.”
“When we were barely into puberty.”
“Are you saying you’ve somehow matured since?”
I laugh. “I’ve probably regressed if anything.”
“Into a child-like state of wonder and fascination?”
“Into a manboy with an unhealthy appetite for Ruffles and Crush soda.”
She shakes her head. “Could we pack any more nostalgia into this night?”
“The bar’s right next door,” I offer, “and yes, I know you don’t do tequila anymore, but I’m sure Louie can whip up a nice Shirley Temple for you.”
“You’re on,” she says as she winks.
Louie is more than surprised to see Wren walking through the doors. Even a few of the regulars manage to drag their heads from the bar.
Louie smiles, his zipper lips wide. “If it isn’t little Wren Banner.”
“That’s not PC any more, you know, Louie,” she says, taking a seat.
“Can I see some ID?” he asks.
Wren gives him the bird. “How’s that for ID?”
He shakes his head. “Sassy as ever. By the way, I was sorry to hear about David.”
The mention of my brother’s name puts an instant dampener on the mood, but it’s short-lived, Wren simply thanking Louie and asking him what’s good.
He shrugs, his chin to his shoulder. “It all goes down the same.”
“It all gets you drunk?”
“It does.” Louie nods. “But in its defense, I’ve done some pretty stupid shit sober, too. I’m sure your boy here can relate.”
I give a wry smile. “Perhaps a whiskey for me tonight, Louie.”
He looks to Wren before looking back to me. “You sure, Crusher?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“And for the lady?”
“A Moscow mule,” I reply.
“Vodka, hey?” she purrs, those red lips destined to be wrapped around my cock.
“’Hello vodka, goodbye dignity.’ Isn’t that what you used to say?”
“I used to say a lot of things,” I laugh.
But one mule turns into a whole pack, one whiskey into four. Before I know it we’re stumbling out of Louie’s into a taxi, the driver, at first apprehensive, bobbing his head with enthusiasm when I hand him an indiscriminate wad of notes.
Wren and I are laughing in the back, collapsing on top of one another. Through my drunken haze I can smell her, the soft, feminine scent of her body I’ve missed for so long, the warmth of her skin, the life in her eyes.
It’s starting a different kind of life in my pants. But even though I’m drunk, something holds me back, refuses to let my inhabitations, and pants, drop.
We stumble into the cabin, my hand hunting across the wall for the lights.
I miss and suddenly I’m falling, both of us falling, slamming into the floorboards together, me on top of her, one hand planted beside her face in the semi-dark.
Everything becomes quiet.
“Carter,” she whispers, the laughter gone, her voice syrupy sweet. It’s not simply my name; it’s a request.
We’re so close. I feel her hot breath on my lips. I know all I have to do is lower my head to kiss her, but I can’t move. Something holds me back.
Him.
I lower myself a little, feel my hardness press against the crotch of her jeans, and I’m sure she’s wet. I picture pulling her panties away and burying my tongue inside the slick heat there, tasting her completely. It’s so clear, but it’s not going to happen.
It can’t.
“Carter,” she beckons again.
Fuck.
I roll off her, breathing hard, the room spinning.
I cup the side of her face. The corner of her mouth lifts.
My head dips down and before I know it our lips are pressed together.
She gasps against them. I start gentle, but when I feel the way her body responds, I apply more pressure. My touch grows more demanding, my hand moving up her side, her shirt and sweater bunching with it.
I groan, sliding my hand around to the back of her neck. I drink her in, devouring her as my mouth and tongue explore her sweetness.
Need shoots through my body. It’s everything I imagined and more—intoxicating.
I pull back and somehow, in that small passing of time, I realize I’ve gone too far.
“I’m so—” But I can’t even get that out.
I pull back slightly, finding the distance I need for clear thought.
“Carter,” she moans, drunk. “I want this.”
Does she? Will she feel the same way when she’s sober? I’ve come too far to lose her now.
You’re going to regret this.
Somehow, I manage to stand and stumble off to my room, muttering “good night” quickly before I close the door and press myself up against it, my cock so hard it’s practically pewter.
*
I wake up with a monster of a headache, a cage fight happening right between my temples.
While drugs ran aplenty inside, alcohol was a rare commodity. I haven’t felt its effects in years.
Now I remember why.
I splash water on my face, notice how bloodshot my eyes are in the mirror.
When I finally dress and manage to make my way out to the kitchen, Wren is already waiting with freshly brewed coffee.
She’s wearing a nightgown with her initials, W. W., tied neatly around her waist.
“You always did fare best the morning after,” I say, taking a seat, thankful it too is no longer spinning.
“Drinking’s a problem for you, isn’t it?” she asks, no malice there or accusation—just a simple statement of the facts.
“Look,” I begin. “I want to apologize for last night.”
She shrugs it off, gripping her mug tight. “There’s nothing to apologize for. We’re both adults, aren’t we?”
“You’re right, but still… I shouldn’t have tried to… you know.”
You can’t even verbalize it.
“It’s nothing, Carter. Seriously, we’re good.”
I take a seat. “Alright then. I’m glad we got that sorted.”
Wren seems eager to get onto the next topic. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
Tasting those sweet lips again. “It’s the weekend. You tell me.”
She looks down into her coffee, as if trying to discern her fortune. “I don’t know. I suppose I should call the lawyer again, try to piece back together something of my old life. God knows what drivel the media’s drumming up about me. I’ll probably be burned at the stake when I show up in New York next.”
“Give it time. You’ll get the sympathy you deserve in good time.”
“You think so? You said it yourself. I’m guilty by association, the wife of a criminal.” She looks at me, realization crisscrossing her features. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
I put my hands up. “No, you’re right. I am. A jury of my peers declared it so. Technically, I am a criminal.”
She spins her mug, still staring down into the hot liquid. “Why won’t you tell me more about what happened that night?”
“Because there’s nothing to tell.”
“I highly doubt that. What were you doing in that part of town? You can tell me. I won’t judge.”
I should tell her. It would help bring us together, prove to her I’m willing to place my trust in something other than a bottle of bourbon, but I can’t do it. I don’t know why. My lips won’t move to make the words come out. I’m Dr. Fucking Freeze.
Do it. She’ll understand.
She won’t. No one will.
I attempt to change the subject. “Your kid had talent out there tonight.”
“Yeah, he’s had it really tough—in and out of hospital since he was six. His mom had to take on two jobs and a second mortgage to pay the medical bills. It makes you appreciate the kind of environment we grew up in, doesn’t it?”
But that’s where she is wrong. Yes, we had wealth and security growing up, but when it came to emotional support and security, my family in particular was especially lacking with its ‘every man for himself, kill or be killed’ attitude. Sometimes I think my father ran our family like a business, forever pushing and prodding, trying to improve the bottom line.
Things improved…
….and then they got fucked up.
I moved out. I had no other choice. David and Wren were together. I couldn’t bear to be around them, watch him kiss her, feel her up. I was so fucking jealous it drove me away, but I still trained. I made the NHL, made it into one of the best ice hockey teams in the world, but it wasn’t enough for the old man.
The injury took even that away.
I remember the collision like it was yesterday. We were five up heading into the second quarter. It was looking good. I was in great form, the crowd at Rogers Arena gifted me with the nickname ‘Crusher’ after I sent one of the Flames’ wings through the glass in my first game.
It was a fluke, really. There was no dirty play. The opposition player smashed into me from the right, enough to take me off my feet. It was when I landed, skidding across the ice, I knew something was seriously wrong.
There wasn’t a great deal of pain per se, but the fact I knew I couldn’t move my knee told me everything I needed to know. If anything, I was filled with a deep and bitter frustration.
Watching the replay, it’s easy to see what happened, the moment my left leg went one way and my left knee the other. There’s a pop, audible even on the footage, but not like opening a soda can. No, it’s a strange, stretching sound, like firing off a rubber band. I tried to put it straight, right there on the ice, but it was no good.
The first week was hard. I told myself I just had to live through it, but I couldn’t let it go. I watched the team go on to win after win, wanted so bad to be a part of it. Five weeks in and the Stanley Cup was looking more and more likely.
I stopped training, starting spending more time at bars and clubs than the rink. Even when I was showing for training or therapy, I would come late and leave early. I avoided spending time in the locker room with my teammates. I was a power fucking forward on my way to greatness only to have it pulled from under my feet in the cruelest of ways.
I cursed my knee, slapped it with my hand at home, a bottle of gin or Johnnie in the other. Coach stopped calling. My teammates no longer came around for a joke and a laugh. I barely knew what day it was, let alone where I was or who was sleeping beside me.
My knee was busted, but I could still fuck like a pro. There was a different girl every night. I didn’t even care what they looked like after a while, happy simply to have a warm place to stick my cock and forget about my worries for an hour or two. But the moment I came, the moment I let go, it would all come hurtling back—the pain, the frustration. I’d kick them out, go back to boozing, and so the cycle was born. When David came to me that night, I was ready for something, anything, to direct that attention to—something to explode at. He simply shunted me in the right direction.