[hockey] This is your time; this is your life (2/2)
continued from here.
This is your time; this is your life
"It was so fucking badass, man. Boll was going to, like, kill us, and Seabs here's all like bitch, what and took the fucktard down." Pat emphasizes his point by jabbing his elbow sharply into Jonny's side. Jonny doesn't think about the bruise he'll have there tomorrow and concentrates on not punching Kaner instead. This is already the fifth or sixth time that he's recounted the mission tonight, and the story seems to change with each recap.
"And then we had to jet, Seabs and me," Pat enthuses on, relishing the growing group of teammates gathering around to hear his version of the mission. "So we bust out of this window and there's totally glass everywhere and then we had to jump onto the van from, like, three stories up, and there were all these Blue Jackets chasing us, but we fucking got away, man. We didn't even have to shoot anyone, we're that fucking awesome."
Buff nods, his eyes wide with appreciation. "I pity the fool who gets in the way."
Sopel groans, tugging on his shirt, which says TALK NERDY TO ME. "A Mr. T reference? Buff, man, that is so 1985. Were you even alive back then?"
Jonny eyebrows are slowly creeping toward his hairline, but Kaner is blissfully unaware of any and all interruptions, and forges on, gushing about the mission. "Oh shit, you should've seen it! Fuckin' Buff destroyed the door where Al was! And Sharpie, dude, he's faster than a ninja! He's like ... a jaguar! And, like, combine that with his ace shot? He could kill anyone who gets in the way! He pretty much puts the laughter in manslaughter!"
A ripple of agreement travels through the group of congregated players, all except for Khabby, who snorts in dissatisfaction. "If we told Sharpie to kill, that would be first-degree murder; second-degree at least. What do they teach you in school these days?"
And then, for reasons unbeknownst to him, Jonny finds himself speaking up. "Yeah. Because manslaughter is, you know. Where you accidentally kill someone. And if the mission was for Sharpie to kill people, that would be, um, pre-meditated. Plus, killing people isn't actually funny, Kaner. It's serious business."
Silence falls over the group. Sopel looks down at his shoes. Duncan clears his throat nervously and takes a sip of his drink.
Jonny takes a deep breath, realizing his mistake. "That was supposed to be a joke?" he offers meekly.
There is another moment of awkward silence. Then, Duncan giggles hesitantly, and others join in until it blooms into real laughter; and Khabby is smiling at him, a real genuine smile, and Kaner's thwapping him on the back, and Sopel says, "Okay, that was actually pretty funny, but not as funny as your shirt!" and Jonny finds himself laughing, too, and realizes -- holy shit, he feels like one of them.
And hey, that's not so bad at all.
However, even Jonny has his limits, so when Kaner finally recovers from keeling over into a giggling heap on the floor, and breaks into yet another rendition of the Great Raid of Joe Louis Arena ("Boll tried to sic a pack of wild boars on us! And Pascal Leclaire was there too; he had a motherfucking flamethrower!"), Jonny decides that he should probably go find someone else to talk to.
He wanders past Barker, who's balancing a tray loaded precariously with a round of drinks, and Sharpie, looking slightly less-than-slaughterous as he double-fists from the bottles of beer in each hand. He's also stopped by Lang, who is headed out to the patio for another puff of the cigar, and offered a rare pat on the back. Jonny beams and opens his mouth to respond, but Lang's already disappeared, followed closely by Marty, who gives Jonny a thumbs-up sign on his way out.
Jonny scans the room at large and finally spies Wiz and Burish by the bar, wearing brightly colored t-shirts with I LIKE ANGLES ... TO A DEGREE and DECIMALS: THEY HAVE A POINT splayed across the front. Jonny smirks as he makes his way over to the stools where Wiz and Burish are perched, texting away furiously on their respective Blackberrys.
"That shirt looks good on you," Wiz says, after looking up briefly to nod in acknowledgement.
"You too," Jonny says sincerely. "So what are you guys up to?" he asks, more as a polite formality than anything else, really.
"Throwing down," Burish replies distractedly, tongue caught between his teeth as he punches in a few more keys.
Jonny waits for Wiz to tell him that they're kidding, that this is a joke.
Wiz doesn't.
"Check it out," he says instead, waving his Blackberry in Jonny's face. "Badger here started it. But he'll regret it once he figures out that I'm going to smoke him. Like bacon."
Jonny blinks several times, trying to adjust his eyes to the tiny, pixelated font spilling forth in jumbled words and lines. He squints at the screen and mouths the last text message on the screen:
BADGER says:
they call me the badger and i'm dope as fuck
i'm slick, i'm sick; got a sweet setup
i'll get past your firewalls with wicked mad force
i'll creep up on you like a trojan horse
"But," Wiz says, reaching over and scrolling through the messages at a dizzying speed, "As you can see, I just put the bitch in his place. Check out my comeback, kid."
Jonny does.
WIZ says:
boy i'll fuck you up like i'm a polymorphic virus
i be processing your sorry ass like software by IRIS
wiz rocks the baddest encryption skillz that you ever seen
while you probably think christmas equals halloween
"Uh," Jonny says. What the fuck? he doesn't add.
"No offence to you," Wiz says, shaking his head. "Not implying that shirt isn't fuckin' awesome, 'cuz it is. But when you throw down, you do what you gotta do."
"Please," Burish sighs. He rolls his eyes impatiently and tugs Jonny closer to his stool. "Read it and weep. This schools Wiz's ass."
BADGER says:
your flow's weak, slow like a two-eighty-six
you probably think that COBOL and Lisp are new tricks
i throw rhymes as i program lines and i know i'm boss
cuz you're half my speed, still rockin' MS DOS
Burish nods assuredly when Jonny hands the phone back to him, amusement quirking at the corner of his mouth. "Word to your mother," he gloats victoriously.
Pausing to think for a moment, Wiz grins widely before grabbing his own phone and rapidly texting lines. As he waits for Wiz's next composition, Jonny wonders how many brain cells he's already lost, just by bearing witness to this deathmatch of nerdy wits and horrific raps. Before he can run through actual calculations, though, Wiz hands over his next offering:
WIZ says:
your shitty rhymes make me wanna hurl
it's hard for you to make VB say "hello world"
your syntax is whack and your w.p.m ain't fast
wiz'll ctrl.alt.del and reboot your ass
"Huh." Burish smiles vaguely as Wiz insists that Jonny bump fists with him. "Not bad, not bad. Tough shit, though, 'cuz I'm about to fuck you up," he says, and hits SEND.
Wiz's Blackberry notifies him of the text almost immediately; his ringtone is a rousing rendition of an old Daft Punk song. Jonny peers over his shoulder as he reads Burish's text:
BADGER says:
reboot me and i'll demagnetize your shit
fast as löthberg's connection you won't know what hit
step off and don't try messin' with me
bitch, you better go back to your IMSAI 8080
"Oh, snap," Wiz says finally, laughing appreciatively. "Harsh, dude. Way harsh."
Jonny whistles in agreement and solidarity, although he has to admit being slightly impressed by Burish for dragging in the ancient PC reference. Now that is some serious business, which, Jonny decides cheerfully, is unfitting for someone currently wearing a shirt that says OCT 31 = DEC 25.
Before Wiz and Burish can break out more references to esoteric, obscure computer programs, Jonny's eyes dart around the room for an escape -- somewhere, anywhere. He's still searching when someone grabs him by the elbow and spills beer on his shoes.
Jonny looks up.
Brent Seabrook. Of course.
"Sorry 'bout your shoes," Brent says, taking a drink from his mostly-empty cup. "Sup."
Jonny shrugs and grins; nothing can bring him down tonight. Unless, like, Rick Nash were to march in at this very second, sit on his chest and force-feed him laxatives. Because that would pretty much suck. But otherwise. "Not much. Wiz and Burish are having a throwdown," he says instead.
Brent cringes in sympathy. "Yeah, they do that. They're all about rhyming and dissing each other with their blueberrys. Whatever floats their boat, man."
"Blueberrys?" Jonny repeats, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah, blueberrys. You know, their phones?"
"Oh," Jonny says, realization dawning on him. "You mean Blackberrys."
"Right," Brent agrees, and gives Jonny a strange look. "Blackberrys. Isn't that what I said?"
"I ... " Jonny considers correcting him, but opts to simply shrug instead. "Yeah, probably."
Brent grins in response. "Okay, cool. Hey, I'm starving. Want to get out of here? Dinner's on me, to celebrate you being an official, serious badass."
"It wasn't like rocket science, you know. Kid stuff," Jonny says, and then hurriedly tacks on, "But yeah, dinner sounds good."
"You're a genius, kid," Brent says, throwing an arm around Jonny's shoulder and steering him toward the door. "And that's why we're gonna be keeping you around for a long time."
***
They end up taking jam-packed containers of gyros and souvlaki back to the house. As Jonny juggles Styrofoam and paper bags, Brent patiently opens the seven locks and carefully punches in the security code, one letter at a time, until the door beeps open in approval.
"You know, maybe we should change the security code," Brent says, slowly counting on his fingers and then brightening. "Hey, 'S-E-A-B-S-A-N-D-J-O-N-N-Y-A-R-E-C-O-O-L' is totally twenty letters! I think."
Brent looks expectantly at Jonny, and seeing his open, honest expression, Jonny feels something weird and unfamiliar, something new twisting in the pit of his stomach. He decides that Kaner's an asstard for elbowing him in the gut earlier; that, or he's really fucking hungry, which is probably totally it.
"Maybe," Jonny says, confusion momentarily deflected. Seabs beams in response and removes the take-out containers from Jonny's care, heading for the kitchen.
They discuss the mission in between bites of chicken and beef, with Mister Fluffy at their feet, munching at a bowl of kibble and staring hopefully at Brent and Jonny, as if waiting for scraps of meat to fall to the floor. Jonny mentions Duncan's rendition of "It's Raining Men," which causes Brent to spray beer clear across the table, which in turn makes Jonny laugh so hard that he ends up dropping a slice of potato down the front of his shirt, and it just kind of sticks there, which sets both of them off all over again. They take turns doing impressions of Khabby that go from bad to worse, and contemplate the sheer ridiculousness of the fucking inflatable octopus stuffed chock full of over-the-counter drugs.
In between bursts of laughter and bites of food, Brent leans forward earnestly, staring Jonny straight in the eye, and confesses, "You know, we didn't even really have to jump out of any window. We used the fucking fire escape. The Batman shit happened when we almost ran into a bunch of rabid Wings fans, so we jumped into a tree to get away from them. But don't tell Kaner I told you that, okay?"
Jonny grins. "Was the Boll part bullshit, too?"
"No, the Boll thing was very, very real. Except for the flamethrower. Oh, and the boars, too," Brent adds, taking another swig from his beer. "We're not that crazy -- boars could fucking kill you!"
"But couldn't you stop them?" Jonny wants to know, scraping up the last bit of sauce from his plate. "Like, couldn't you just shoot a boar? Wouldn't it just be like when you have to shoot someone?"
"Nah." Brent's face goes bright red, and he suddenly becomes very interested in the pattern of the kitchen tiles. "Well, sort of. Not with, like, a real gun though. I don't carry one of those."
Jonny is genuinely confused. "Wait, what? What do you pack on missions, then?"
"Um, horse tranqs," Brent admits sheepishly.
"What the fuck?" Jonny raises his eyebrows. "I thought you guys were, like, assassins?"
Brent sighs and offers a somewhat rueful grin. "Sort of, yeah. But we don't really, like, kill. We go on missions, we fuck shit up. We try to stop bad things from happening because the NHL's a screwed-up place sometimes. And sometimes, yeah, we gotta shoot to protect ourselves. What Kaner was saying about Sharpie wasn't a lie; he really does pack heat, and he's got a wicked shot, because it's good to have ace back-up. The rest of us, we're not really allowed to do that real assassin shit anymore."
Jonny's almost sorry he asked, but he can't help but push further, dig deeper. "But you used to?"
"Yeah," Brent says. "We're more about the spy stuff now. Savvy tips off Langer, and then Langer tells us what to do. He says we have a new agenda: We try not to kill anyone, because that's kind of fucked up, you know?"
Jonny just stares at him. A long, stifling silence stretches between them as Jonny tries to process everything Brent has just said, his head whirling, the reality of the situation hitting home for the first time.
Then Brent says, "Um," and takes a deep, audible breath, pushing away the last of his food and taking another swill of beer. "So, what does your shirt mean anyway?"
Jonny snaps back to attention, and looks down at the inverted OCT 31 = DEC 25 plastered across his chest. "What do you mean?"
"October-thirty-one equals December-twenty-five. Halloween equals Christmas? That doesn't make any sense," Brent offers hopefully.
Grateful for the distraction and the change of subject, Jonny cracks his knuckles and, after grabbing a pen and some discarded napkins, begins scribbling diagrams and number charts in an elaborate explanation, excitement growing with every moment. " ... And OCT is the base eight system called octals, and DEC is the decimal system and, like, the base ten system because it's so much easier to use, and if you ... see, look in these two columns here ... multiply this column ... and don't multiply this other column ... and add them together ... what do you get, man?"
He looks up at Brent, who stares back, eyes glazed over. "What?" he says.
"Twenty-five!" Jonny crows excitedly, waving the newspaper around in the air. "See? You get twenty-five in the decimal system! It's the same thing as thirty-one in the octal system! And that's how Halloween equals Christmas! Pretty awesome, right?"
Seabs, eyes still glazed, nods several times. "Yeah." He pauses. "Really awesome."
Grinning, Jonny puts down the paper, and leans down to scratch a sleepy Mister Fluffy between the ears. Brent is probably the worst liar he's ever met in his life, but Jonny really does appreciate the effort.
He's just about to say as much, but he's interrupted by a loud, ungainly crash against the side of the house. Jonny half-falls out of his seat, and Mister Fluffy yowls pitifully and covers his eyes with his paws.
Brent just looks behind his shoulder, in the direction of the patio, a knowing grin replacing the expression of blank confusion from moments before. "Dude, it's just Kaner," he says, sliding out of his chair, beer still in hand, and crossing the kitchen to flick on the patio lights and unlock the back door.
In the new light, the black toque, black gloves and ski goggles smudged up against the sliding glass door should have been a dead giveaway. Jonny sits dumbfounded as Kaner tumbles into the kitchen. Mister Fluffy yawns and gives Jonny's hand a final lick, as if to say, que será será, and trots over to greet Kaner. Against his better judgement, Jonny leaves the aftermath of Greek food on the kitchen table, and follows suit.
"Why are you dressed like that?" Jonny greets, bumping Kaner's proffered fist with his own as Brent tries not to laugh and Mister Fluffy noses at Kaner's knee. "You look like a douchebag. Seriously."
"I come bearing gifts!" Kaner exclaims, grinning with all his teeth and ignoring Jonny's comment entirely.
Brent's eyes light up with anticipation, and he turns to Jonny, saying, "Oh my god, you're gonna like this." Jonny is skeptical, recalling the painful jab of Kaner's elbow, but bites down on his retort and follows the other two as they weave their way up the stairs.
He can't quite keep the alarm bells in his brain from going off, however, when Brent leads them into his bedroom and throws open the window, motioning for them to climb outside.
Jonny knows it's a terrible idea, but before he can protest, Kaner skips past and boosts himself up, and then Jonny has no choice but to follow him and prevent certain death.
"What the fuck, you're going to fall off the roof and die," is the first thing Jonny says after squeezing through the window.
"I can't fall off the roof," Kaner replies matter-of-factly. "I'm wearing ski goggles."
"The dude has a point," Brent affirms, appearing behind Jonny. There's nothing on his face to indicate mockery.
Jonny doesn't really know what to say to that, so he takes a deep breath and settles down on the slope of the roof, which isn't as steep or treacherous as he'd feared. The air is calm and numbing outside, and he hasn't felt this clearheaded since before the mission; now, with the last swaths of autumnal warmth blanketing around him, Jonny closes his eyes and flushes away his thoughts.
His eyes snap open again when the distant drone of traffic is broken by the snap of a lighter, and he blinks, trying to fathom the sight and scent of the crudely rolled blunt, pinched loosely by Kaner's outstretched fingers and now hovering right in front of his nose.
Jonny glances over at Brent, who is smiling serenely, like this isn't all just some huge cosmic joke. But it's a smile that Jonny suddenly can't refuse, so he gingerly accepts the joint from Kaner and takes an uncertain drag.
Although Jonny knows it's technically impossible, he swears he can still feel each molecule of THC swirling down into his lungs, killing all sorts of necessary cell life along the way. But Kaner's and Brent's faces break out into identical expressions of glee, so Jonny refrains from grimacing. Instead, he offers a little smile and tries to pass the joint to Brent.
For some reason, Brent doesn't take it, and Jonny pleads with his eyes for a few futile seconds until Kaner pipes up. "Naw, dude, that one's all yours. You earned it, kid."
"Kid? He's like twice as big as you are!" Brent crows delightedly, and then Jonny is thankful for Kaner's indignant retort and Brent's high-pitched giggle, the squabbling between them diverting Jonny's attention from the sudden revelation of heat rising in his cheeks, defying the slight evening chill.
His gaze wanders to the joint still burning between his thumb and index finger, and after considering the object very seriously for a brief moment, he shakes his head slightly and brings it back up to his lips.
"Oh man," Kaner is saying. "You guys missed it, Duncs was on fucking fire at that party." He takes three puffs of his own joint in quick succession, and Jonny is struck by a dull sort of panic at the thought of Kaner passing out, rolling off the roof, and landing himself in the ER, or worse -- getting them all arrested.
Brent rolls his eyes. "What, did he break out the bootleg of Langer and Marty playing DDR in the office again? That shit gets depressing right when Langer tries that bump 'n' grind move and tweaks his back."
Kaner sticks out his tongue and says, "Whatever, you don't even realize the awesomeness you're in for." He pulls out his iPhone and presses a few buttons, shoving the screen under Brent's nose. Jonny scoots closer, and over Brent's shoulder, he can see a YouTube video loading and starting.
There's a glob of text spinning in circles, and when it finally stops, Jonny reads the title out loud: "BLUE LINE PRODUCTIONS AND DJ D.K. PRESENTS." An explosion of sparkles and lens flare effects transitions into a frenzied mishmash of what looks like security tape footage -- little men scurrying along an endless maze of corridors, shot from a curious angle above their heads, time code in the corner.
Maybe it's the weed, or simply the absurdity of what he's seeing, but it takes a few moments for Jonny to realize:
The video is of the field unit. In the Joe Louis.
Set, unmistakably, to the disco beats of "Wild Thang."
"Um," he ventures, as tiny Buff gives tiny Kaner a noogie, and tiny Khabby slaps them both upside the head. Though in miniature form, the goalie's hostility is somehow undiminished, a pixelated frown spreading across his craggy face.
Beside him, the real Kaner is bobbing his head up and down, but not quite matching the rhythm of the song. "Yeah, isn't it amazing?"
Brent adds his approval, sounding positively dazzled. "He's such a fucking artist."
They both look at Jonny expectantly.
He licks his lips, scouring his brain for an appropriate adjective while gazing warily at the screen, where the Weather Girls are still bellowing their diva hearts out. Jonny thinks he can see tiny Buff breaking a handle completely off of a door, and suddenly feels like a horrible person for not feeling the same sort of manic enthusiasm that seems to permeate the group at times. From Lang's quirky style of leadership, to the single-minded dedication of the tech crew, and even Duncan's neuroses and Khabby's gruff and uncompromising demeanor -- to be honest, sometimes Jonny feels a little left out. Even Kaner and Buff, who are just as much rookies as Jonny, have their own code, it seems, even if sometimes it's like watching two idiot savants grappling with reality.
And then there's Brent.
There's something about him that makes Jonny stop and look a little harder, past all the silly antics and circus glee, past the vague imbalance Jonny feels -- like water sloshing from ear to ear inside his head -- when he's not playing hockey. Like the way Brent is sitting now, hands folded loosely across his knees and a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth -- Jonny thinks maybe Brent has never felt an ounce of resentment or ill-will in his life.
And the knowledge that Jonny was once able to push Brent over the edge -- to change him, however fleeting the shift had been -- is excruciating.
He deserves more; they all deserve more. Jonny says, "It's ... incredible, really, it is," and means it. Not just about Duncan's bizarre little tribute; no, Jonny is talking about the whole damn thing.
Brent seems pleased, like he understands what Jonny's trying to communicate, even though only five words were said. He grins and nudges Jonny's shoulder lightly (thankfully, since he's beginning to feel a little lightheaded, slightly outside of his own body) before turning his attention back to the extraordinary fruition of Duncan Keith's imagination.
"Ugh," Kaner grunts, after the clip ends. "I would kill for a Pop Tart right now."
He glances at Brent, who picks up on the joke quickly. "Who would go first?"
"I'd shoot, like -- " Kaner pauses to think. " -- any mascot. Seriously. Any of them."
Brent scoffs, "With your fucking horse tranqs?"
That sets off another round of good-natured arguing and joking, and Jonny allows himself to drift off in a thoughtless daze. His introspective mood from moments before has definitely vanished, but he doesn't really miss it.
Later, when they finally decide to go raid the pantry, Kaner will inexplicably get himself stuck in Brent's window, and Jonny will murmur a low I'm sorry at Brent's back, unsure whether Brent can hear him at all over Kaner's muffled squawks.
But for now, he's profoundly content, and laughs loudly, filling the air around them, just because he can.
***
The next mission is in Montreal, and that's all anyone will tell Jonny after he goes down in L.A. on New Years.
"Sorry, Jonny," Marty says. "Rules are rules, and being on IR means you're off the case now." Burish swears to Jonny "on the totem of the great Badger spirit," whatever the hell that means, to carry out the mission proudly in his stead. Wiz, being in the same boat as Jonny, sends a sympathy card that says: SORRY YOU HAD TO DISGUISE YOUR COMPUTING INJURY AS SPORTS-RELATED. Brent is absolutely livid after it happens, and spends several days ranting at the walls about how the Kings are obviously "in cahoots with the enemy."
Jonny isn't sure what to say to that, so he tries to ignore the strange glow of gratitude he feels every time Brent asks him if his knee feels all right, if he needs any pillows, if he wants Brent to make him some soup, although he can only manage to heat up chicken noodle out of a can, and passably at best.
"You realize I'm not a total invalid, right?" Jonny laughs one night.
Brent shakes his head vehemently. "It doesn't matter. You're my roomie, you're my guy! I just want to help -- "
Jonny has to bite his lip to quash the sudden specks of affection igniting inside his chest.
"So just let me make you some soup," Brent concludes. "We also have bacon!"
Jonny can't do anything but sigh and nod, and then remember to breathe when a grin feathers across Brent's face and he almost skips to the kitchen.
Relenting to Brent's clumsy care is the most action Jonny can take, with his knee in the condition that it's in, but despite the doctor's orders to stay stress-free, nothing can stop Jonny from hobbling anxiously around the house throughout the entirety of the Montreal trip.
He's so nervous he can't even concentrate on reheating the lumpy mashed potatoes Brent had made that morning and left in the refrigerator with a post-it note ("EAT ME, YUM YUM YUM!!!") before leaving for the airport -- the microwave nearly explodes, and then they lose the game in overtime, and Jonny maybe feels a bit like crying, but he knows he should be there when the team bus arrives back from the airport, so he drives down to the United Center, lets himself in, and stares at the dull drip of the coffee machine in the break room until he passes out.
Jonny wakes up in a warzone when the door is flung open to release a flood of teammates and words, loud urgent words that Jonny is too bleary-eyed to decipher just then. He stumbles out to the sight of Khabby and Duncan half carrying, half dragging Kaner down the hallway, the goalie's stream of Russian phrases coloring the commotion going on all around them, and Duncan's eyebrows knitted together in worry. Kaner himself is drenched in sweat and slurring -- 'm fine, leggo me, motherfuckin' shit -- and Jonny can see a patch of blood smeared out and drying on his cheek. Then Sharpie comes into view behind the stumbling trio, and although there's a beaten-down look in his eyes, he gives Jonny a reassuring smile. Buff and Brent are the last to enter. They both look furious, and Jonny can't help but notice how white Brent's knuckles are, how rigidly his jaw is set.
"A little help, please," Khabby grumbles, when they get to the door of the break room, and with Jonny's assistance they haul Kaner onto the table, where he flops bonelessly onto his side and curls into a sheaf of printer paper.
Jonny hates being in the dark once more, hates not knowing anything. Most of all, Jonny hates feeling useless, and his inquiry of "WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON" comes out too loud and more pained than he'd intended. Everyone jumps and stares at him in varying degrees of shock.
Someone clears his throat in the back of the room, and the clutter of bodies breaks apart when Lang starts speaking, his demeanor as composed as always. "Everyone, please calm down."
Seeing that no one is on the verge of doing anything drastic, he continues, "We may have encountered some, ah, resistance tonight, but we were able to fulfill our mission objectives, and everyone is fine. I'd advise you all to go home and get some sleep, like the little one over there." He nods in the direction of Kaner's motionless, softly snoring body.
"What -- " Jonny begins, but someone pinches the back of his neck, and he whips around to receive a pointed glare from Brent. Later, he mouths.
Slowly, the players scatter out of the room and into the parking lot. Brent drives in silence, with his eyes trained on the road ahead, and Jonny suddenly finds himself too tired, too overwhelmed, and his knee in too much pain to demand any sort of explanation. He's half asleep by the time they get home, and barely notices when Brent slips his palm into the crook of Jonny's elbow to guide him upstairs and into bed.
***
Jonny sleeps for a century and a half, or maybe it's just the better part of a day, and when he wakes up, Brent is sitting next to the bed, surrounded by a small land mass of snack packages, flipping through the comics section of the paper.
"Eeeegguhguargh," Jonny says -- croaks, really. His knee throbs disagreeably when he hoists himself into a sitting position, legs dangling limply off the edge of the bed.
Brent wordlessly hands Jonny a bottle of Gatorade, and hesitates for a moment before sitting down next to him. He has this look on his face -- something like worry, something like determination -- but then he cracks a crooked smile and the look is gone. "Sup. Thought you died on me or something."
Jonny takes two seconds to relive all the events from the previous night, and feels like throwing up from all the questions piled up at the bottom of his throat, fighting each other to be asked first. He has to concentrate in order to ask, "What did Lang mean by 'resistance'?"
Brent scratches the back of his head. "Oh, um, we got caught. Big time. Someone must have tripped a wire or something. And then security showed up, and Kaner was like, 'Yo, Imma be the decoy' so he led them in the wrong direction. Then he doubled back and said he lost them, and uh. It wasn't too bad, but he used up a lot of energy so he didn't play very well."
Jonny stares. It's not that he thinks Brent is lying, but he knows it isn't the whole truth. He says, "But he was bleeding."
"Huh? Yeah, he got that during the game. I think that Higgins dude, like, bit him or something. He had stitches, but I guess they fell out."
Jonny stares harder, trying to put the pieces together. "But everyone looked so -- I thought someone had died. Fuck. And you, you looked like you were going to punch a hole in the wall or something."
Brent frowns a bit and thinks for a moment before launching into an explanation. "Well, Khabby was shitting bricks because Kaner stole his stash of vodka during the plane ride. It was kinda hilarious, I don't know, you had to be there. And then Kaner accidentally locked himself in the bathroom and it took Duncs and Sharpie like an hour to get him out. And Buff borrowed my hair gel and then fuckin' lost it, and I was like, damn, why you gotta mess with my stuff like that. And I don't even know about him; maybe he had to shit, 'cuz we had burritos for dinner."
Jonny thinks that maybe, if he concentrates hard enough, he can make lasers come out of his eyes. It would be a useful superpower to have at the moment, when he sort of wants to kill Brent -- and everyone else, actually, but Brent is the closest representative -- or at least cause him a modest amount of physical pain.
The corners of Brent's eyes and mouth are bursting with laughter, and he's saying something like "It was fuckin' nasty" in between shakes of amusement, and Jonny would laugh -- he should laugh, giddy with relief -- but instead he feels ill, feels crestfallen and betrayed and worst of all, foolish.
"I was so fucking worried," he says quietly, wincing at the dismay in his own voice. "Don't you understand? It's so different from hockey, and that scares me. These stupid missions, fucking Special Ops, everything we do -- there could have been an accident. Nobody called or texted or told me anything, and I -- "
Jonny knows he's being pathetic, and he can feel Brent's eyes fixed intently on him now, so he takes a deep breath and tries not to tremble. "You could have been fucking killed, and I wouldn't have been able to do a thing about it. I wouldn't have been there for you."
Brent doesn't say anything for a long time, until: "Oh." He pauses, hesitates for a moment. "Um. But we're okay?" he ventures tentatively.
"And then what about next time?" Fingers twitching, Jonny exhales a surprisingly shaky breath. "What if you're not?"
Brent flashes a lopsided grin of reassurance. "Nothing's happened yet! Oh, no, wait. I fell down some stairs at the Scottrade Center one time and fucked up my back real good. It was kind of funny, I guess," he confides, watching Jonny expectantly for a reaction.
Jonny hazards a glance upward. "Oh, good," he manages, his face still dour.
Brent's smile fades a little as he sits there. Another long pause, and then suddenly, like he realizes something important, he says oh again, softly, and then he leans over and puts his head on Jonny's shoulder, and the weight is real, but Jonny doesn't know what it means until Brent's murmur, partially muffled by the crush of his cheek against Jonny's arm, reaches him in a soft rumble.
"Hey, I'm here."
***
epilogue.
On Patty Lalime's last day in Chicago, Jonny drives him to the airport with the windows rolled down. He takes a quick glance into the rear-view mirror: Patty's baby in the car seat, drooling cheerfully on a stretched-out Mister Fluffy, who's gazing up at her with big, adoring eyes. He gently pushes his wet nose against her tiny hand; she shrieks and gurgles happily in response.
"I think Seabs's dog has a new best friend," Patty remarks from the passenger seat as they pull into the parking lot. "Looks like Kaner's out of the job."
Jonny grins, cutting off the engine and letting the car shudder into silence. "I'm sure he'll get over it. Eventually."
Patty just beams in response. "So you're gonna be all right, kid?" he says, leaning back to give the dog a few scratches under the ears.
"Yeah," Jonny says, nodding. "Yeah, I think so. You?"
Patty's smile widens. "Always." He clasps Jonny's shoulder. "You're doing real good work, kid. Keep it up!"
It's then, at this very moment -- Patty's hand on his shoulder, a babbling baby in the backseat, Mister Fluffy's expressive tail wagging at six hundred miles an hour -- that it occurs to Jonny: Patty's beaming at him with pride. Pride. Patty's proud of him, and Jonny can just barely contain the swelling sense of delight inside his chest.
As Patty is walking off towards the departures area, he offers a glance back at the car that Jonny’s leaning against and a parting wave from both himself and the baby snuggled in his arms. Jonny watches them go with a twinge in the pit of his stomach, a feeling that something even bigger (and better) is about to begin. The realization that he's going to be doing this without Patty's calming, constant presence in the background of his life hits him; an awareness synonymous to brief terror.
The Blackberry in his pocket vibrates, stirring him back to reality. He pulls out the phone: there are four new text messages.
KANER says:
WHERE R U, UR MOMS ALL GAY
And --
LANG says:
TARGET PRACTICE 2NITE. FUCK THE PREDS!!!
And --
WIZ says:
We gotta hack Oil database on Fri. RMBR: don't drink and derive!!!
And --
SEABS says:
Dinner!! I made pancakes HAHA LOL
Jonny squints at the screen, scrolling through the lines of text: a mishmash of ridiculousness, a whirlwind of insanity.
Strangely, he's very okay with that.
He smiles and turns back towards the car, reaches through the window to give Mister Fluffy a scritch or three, and he could swear that the old boy's smiling too.
"Come on, Mister Fluffy," Jonny says. "I'm hungry. Let's go home."
end.