fic: right to play
[right to play]
boston bruins, zdeno chara, andrew ference. short, sweet. fiction, fiction, fiction: i own nothing & no one, and this never happened, is not real, &tc. any references to game action do not refer to actual games, as this does not exist in real time.
happy birthday (belated version) to a certain housemate who inspires big zee to do great things (like beat the habs, and break hardest shot records).
Head bent over, shoulders hunched, and the little boy sitting in his mother's lap keeps staring at you. You wave. Smile. The little boy laughs and whispers something in his mother's ear. You're not sure whether he recognizes you or just thinks you're some kind of friendly giant. Like that cartoon robot from that movie Andy likes so much.
"I own you," Andy says. He slaps your arm. "You, Zee, are my bitch."
(You ruffle in your bag for a sharpie. Just in case. Andy mouths, "Softy." You very graciously do not punch him.)
The train stops between stations. Starts, stops again; the little boy keeps trying to get up, and his mother wraps an arm around him and grimaces. It's hot. You've gotten used to things running on schedule, and you glare at Andy. This is all his fault.
"This is your fault," you say. "You did this."
Andy grins. Bounces on the soles of his feet like some twelve year old kid. "Yup," he says.
*
There is no one better at making you feel guilty for a few normal luxuries (like driving to practices, games, little things that everyone does) than Andrew Ference. No one. (Not even your mother. It's all very embarrassing, and you'll never admit it to a living soul.)
"Global warming," he says.
You grin. "We can carpool." You're standing in front of the mirror, trying to keep an eye on Andy and fix your tie at the same time. Your tie is crooked, and Andy keeps pulling things out of your suitcase and threatening to toss them across the room. "I read that-"
"I can't believe you're that scared of the T," Andy says. "Big tough guy like you."
"Which is my point," you say. "The train is too small. I can't stand up straight."
"So duck," he says.
You give up. Leave the tie untied for the moment. "I can always drive alone," you say: an empty threat.
He laughs. "You wouldn't," he says, and, "Hey, I bet Savvy could use a lift." An old joke: Savvy's a great guy, a better teammate, but he's never quite figured out how to stop talking. "Or, hey, you could drive with Looch-"
Andy puts up a better fight than someone his size should, but that's mostly because you're laughing too hard to concentrate properly. (You get the takedown, of course; Andy snorting and refusing to surrender, wiggling and trying to buck you off. You hold him down--"zabijem ťa"--knees on either side of his body, his arms up over his head.)
*
Everything felt great during warm ups, but everyone's off-kilter and shaky once the game starts. A few stupid turnovers, dumb penalties, and nothing's clicking. A puck deflects off your skate and right through Timmy's pads.
You skate over to the bench. A quick reminder from Claude to "keep your heads up and stop giving the puck away," and you're back out there for another shift. You yell over to Wideman as you skate out. He yells back. Bergy wins the faceoff and you're off.
Things don't get any better from there. Looch manages a takedown, but that's about it. You're out-skated, outscored, out-hit. You head back to the dressing room down 3-0 at the first intermission, and it's only by the grace of Timmy that the game is that close.
"Fuck," Andy says, "That was brutal."
"We need to play better," you say. Sometimes it helps to state the obvious. "Concentrate, stop being so sloppy with the puck."
"Play hard," Savvy says, "And we're right back in this thing. We're better than this."
Wides grins. Punches Savvy--lightly, of course; Savvy's a skills guy--on the shoulder.
Everyone leaves Timmy alone. He's cursing. Hands clenched like he's holding himself back, twitching like he wants to break his stick. (Some of the younger guys keep glancing over at him nervously, and you're about to tell them not to worry when Savvy says, "Seriously, his bark is worse than his bite."
Tuukka sits perfectly still, staring straight ahead. You're pretty sure he's trying not to laugh.)
*
Your workout runs long, and Andy's waiting for you when you get back to the hotel room. He's sitting on the edge of the desk. Wearing a towel and poking at the giant black and blue mark on his left foot.
You sit down on the bed. Pull off your t-shirt and put it under your knees; the hotel is nice enough, but the comforter is as scratchy as every other hotel comforter on the planet.
Andy laughs at you. "I thought you were from one of those countries where you used newspaper as a blanket and were grateful for it," he says. "You know, in Soviet Russia the bedspreads watch you."
"You sound like you have no teeth when you talk like that," you say. You lean over to untie your running shoes. Toe them off and pull off your socks. Wiggle your toes and contemplate doing a few more pushups.
Andy hops to the floor. Folds his lips over his teeth and makes a ridiculous looking face. "I'm going to suck your blood," he says, a cross between Dracula and the grandfather from The Simpsons, as he lurches across the room like a zombie.
You laugh. Force yourself to stop, to frown. To lean back on your elbows and look unimpressed.
"You are not as funny as you think you are," you say, and Andy shrugs.
"Funny enough," he says. He crawls onto your lap, knees on other side of your hips, and you let him push you onto your back. His towel slips up and partially off; it doesn't cover anything. You cuff him upside the head, and he grins (wild, like the man he is on the ice; you almost expect to see blood).
*
You keep a closer eye on the speedometer than usual. Andy drums against the dashboard, singing along to the college radio station he insists on listening to. You're exhausted. Angry with yourself. You refuse to take it out on Andy's horrible taste in music.
(Tomorrow is another day. Practice tomorrow and another game on Tuesday. Every point counts, even the ones you really didn't deserve. You reach over, put your hand over Andy's. He stops drumming. You don't move your hand back to the steering wheel; you have two of them, after all, and this is a straight stretch of road.)
"Stop it," Andy says.
"Stop what?" you ask.
He squeezes your hand. Lets go to switch over to one of your favorite CDs. You put your hand back on the steering wheel. "Now is the time on Sprockets when we dance," he says, silly accent and complete nonsense, and, "So stop moping over one bad turnover."
You're not moping, and you tell him so; you're planning your workout for tomorrow, looking ahead to the next game, trying not to fall asleep. And if you give any thought at all to the mistakes you made it's only to remind yourself that the bounces aren't always going to go your way.
(Andy just turns up the music and starts drumming again. "We won," he says, "C'mon, get us home safely and I'll blow you in the garage." You force yourself not to respond. Concentrate on the road.)
*
You're on the phone with Mark, confirming a meeting and discussing a few ideas for publicity, and Andy keeps throwing things at you: a paper clip, a coffee stirrer, a pen. Just keeps pulling things out of his pockets, like some sort of demented magician.
You hold the phone away from your mouth. "Choď do piče," you say, "It's Brender."
Andy drops a pen cap on the counter. "Oh, hey, put him on speaker."
You do; Andy did get you involved with Right to Play in the first place. Mark's mid-sentence, something about the Olympics, and you almost feel guilty when Andy interrupts to say hello.
"Oh, hey," Mark says. "Let me start over, okay? Sorry for making you listen to this twice, Zee."
"Not a problem," you say, "This is important."
Andy smirks. He walks over to the fridge, takes out the water. Refills his glass and passes the pitcher across the counter. You finish off your tea in one swallow, pour some water into the empty mug. You leave the pitcher in front of you.
(Andy is taking notes on a napkin; tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth as he frowns in concentration. He asks thoughtful questions. Makes suggestions. You pick up your spoon. Tap it against the back of your hand.)
*fin.
boston bruins, zdeno chara, andrew ference. short, sweet. fiction, fiction, fiction: i own nothing & no one, and this never happened, is not real, &tc. any references to game action do not refer to actual games, as this does not exist in real time.
happy birthday (belated version) to a certain housemate who inspires big zee to do great things (like beat the habs, and break hardest shot records).
Head bent over, shoulders hunched, and the little boy sitting in his mother's lap keeps staring at you. You wave. Smile. The little boy laughs and whispers something in his mother's ear. You're not sure whether he recognizes you or just thinks you're some kind of friendly giant. Like that cartoon robot from that movie Andy likes so much.
"I own you," Andy says. He slaps your arm. "You, Zee, are my bitch."
(You ruffle in your bag for a sharpie. Just in case. Andy mouths, "Softy." You very graciously do not punch him.)
The train stops between stations. Starts, stops again; the little boy keeps trying to get up, and his mother wraps an arm around him and grimaces. It's hot. You've gotten used to things running on schedule, and you glare at Andy. This is all his fault.
"This is your fault," you say. "You did this."
Andy grins. Bounces on the soles of his feet like some twelve year old kid. "Yup," he says.
*
There is no one better at making you feel guilty for a few normal luxuries (like driving to practices, games, little things that everyone does) than Andrew Ference. No one. (Not even your mother. It's all very embarrassing, and you'll never admit it to a living soul.)
"Global warming," he says.
You grin. "We can carpool." You're standing in front of the mirror, trying to keep an eye on Andy and fix your tie at the same time. Your tie is crooked, and Andy keeps pulling things out of your suitcase and threatening to toss them across the room. "I read that-"
"I can't believe you're that scared of the T," Andy says. "Big tough guy like you."
"Which is my point," you say. "The train is too small. I can't stand up straight."
"So duck," he says.
You give up. Leave the tie untied for the moment. "I can always drive alone," you say: an empty threat.
He laughs. "You wouldn't," he says, and, "Hey, I bet Savvy could use a lift." An old joke: Savvy's a great guy, a better teammate, but he's never quite figured out how to stop talking. "Or, hey, you could drive with Looch-"
Andy puts up a better fight than someone his size should, but that's mostly because you're laughing too hard to concentrate properly. (You get the takedown, of course; Andy snorting and refusing to surrender, wiggling and trying to buck you off. You hold him down--"zabijem ťa"--knees on either side of his body, his arms up over his head.)
*
Everything felt great during warm ups, but everyone's off-kilter and shaky once the game starts. A few stupid turnovers, dumb penalties, and nothing's clicking. A puck deflects off your skate and right through Timmy's pads.
You skate over to the bench. A quick reminder from Claude to "keep your heads up and stop giving the puck away," and you're back out there for another shift. You yell over to Wideman as you skate out. He yells back. Bergy wins the faceoff and you're off.
Things don't get any better from there. Looch manages a takedown, but that's about it. You're out-skated, outscored, out-hit. You head back to the dressing room down 3-0 at the first intermission, and it's only by the grace of Timmy that the game is that close.
"Fuck," Andy says, "That was brutal."
"We need to play better," you say. Sometimes it helps to state the obvious. "Concentrate, stop being so sloppy with the puck."
"Play hard," Savvy says, "And we're right back in this thing. We're better than this."
Wides grins. Punches Savvy--lightly, of course; Savvy's a skills guy--on the shoulder.
Everyone leaves Timmy alone. He's cursing. Hands clenched like he's holding himself back, twitching like he wants to break his stick. (Some of the younger guys keep glancing over at him nervously, and you're about to tell them not to worry when Savvy says, "Seriously, his bark is worse than his bite."
Tuukka sits perfectly still, staring straight ahead. You're pretty sure he's trying not to laugh.)
*
Your workout runs long, and Andy's waiting for you when you get back to the hotel room. He's sitting on the edge of the desk. Wearing a towel and poking at the giant black and blue mark on his left foot.
You sit down on the bed. Pull off your t-shirt and put it under your knees; the hotel is nice enough, but the comforter is as scratchy as every other hotel comforter on the planet.
Andy laughs at you. "I thought you were from one of those countries where you used newspaper as a blanket and were grateful for it," he says. "You know, in Soviet Russia the bedspreads watch you."
"You sound like you have no teeth when you talk like that," you say. You lean over to untie your running shoes. Toe them off and pull off your socks. Wiggle your toes and contemplate doing a few more pushups.
Andy hops to the floor. Folds his lips over his teeth and makes a ridiculous looking face. "I'm going to suck your blood," he says, a cross between Dracula and the grandfather from The Simpsons, as he lurches across the room like a zombie.
You laugh. Force yourself to stop, to frown. To lean back on your elbows and look unimpressed.
"You are not as funny as you think you are," you say, and Andy shrugs.
"Funny enough," he says. He crawls onto your lap, knees on other side of your hips, and you let him push you onto your back. His towel slips up and partially off; it doesn't cover anything. You cuff him upside the head, and he grins (wild, like the man he is on the ice; you almost expect to see blood).
*
You keep a closer eye on the speedometer than usual. Andy drums against the dashboard, singing along to the college radio station he insists on listening to. You're exhausted. Angry with yourself. You refuse to take it out on Andy's horrible taste in music.
(Tomorrow is another day. Practice tomorrow and another game on Tuesday. Every point counts, even the ones you really didn't deserve. You reach over, put your hand over Andy's. He stops drumming. You don't move your hand back to the steering wheel; you have two of them, after all, and this is a straight stretch of road.)
"Stop it," Andy says.
"Stop what?" you ask.
He squeezes your hand. Lets go to switch over to one of your favorite CDs. You put your hand back on the steering wheel. "Now is the time on Sprockets when we dance," he says, silly accent and complete nonsense, and, "So stop moping over one bad turnover."
You're not moping, and you tell him so; you're planning your workout for tomorrow, looking ahead to the next game, trying not to fall asleep. And if you give any thought at all to the mistakes you made it's only to remind yourself that the bounces aren't always going to go your way.
(Andy just turns up the music and starts drumming again. "We won," he says, "C'mon, get us home safely and I'll blow you in the garage." You force yourself not to respond. Concentrate on the road.)
*
You're on the phone with Mark, confirming a meeting and discussing a few ideas for publicity, and Andy keeps throwing things at you: a paper clip, a coffee stirrer, a pen. Just keeps pulling things out of his pockets, like some sort of demented magician.
You hold the phone away from your mouth. "Choď do piče," you say, "It's Brender."
Andy drops a pen cap on the counter. "Oh, hey, put him on speaker."
You do; Andy did get you involved with Right to Play in the first place. Mark's mid-sentence, something about the Olympics, and you almost feel guilty when Andy interrupts to say hello.
"Oh, hey," Mark says. "Let me start over, okay? Sorry for making you listen to this twice, Zee."
"Not a problem," you say, "This is important."
Andy smirks. He walks over to the fridge, takes out the water. Refills his glass and passes the pitcher across the counter. You finish off your tea in one swallow, pour some water into the empty mug. You leave the pitcher in front of you.
(Andy is taking notes on a napkin; tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth as he frowns in concentration. He asks thoughtful questions. Makes suggestions. You pick up your spoon. Tap it against the back of your hand.)
*fin.