Point Shot 02 - Game Misconduct (4 page)

“Yes. All I want is some help financially. What woman in her right mind would want to marry you, Kalinski?” Heather looked me straight in the eye when she spoke. I respected that. “No offense.”

“I’ve had much worse said to me.” I looked from Heather to my lawyer. “As soon as the test comes back and the kid is legally mine, get the papers drawn up. Give her what she wants. Make sure it’s in writing that I’m not to be contacted by her unless I flake on the support payments. The kid isn’t to contact me either.”

“Can I give him your last name?” she asked over the attorneys talking about who-knew-what.

“You really think that poor kid wants to be a Kalinski?”

She nodded.

“Do whatever lifts your skirt, Heather. Make it so, Number One,” I tossed at my lawyer, then pushed to my feet and left the conference room, and the kid who might or might not be mine, in my dust. I needed air, a looser tie and somewhere to think. By the time I found the flowerbed that I had admired from the inside, my pulse was slowing. I tugged my tie from around my neck. Breathing eased. The bumblebee was still working those lilies. I moved to stand beneath a swaying oak tree to check my cell before I got behind the wheel. No reply from Dan, not that I’d really expected him to hit me back so soon.

“Hey, Victor, are you okay?”

I looked up from texting. Heather was creeping up on me as if I were going to leap on her and rip out her throat. I slid my phone into the front pocket of my slacks, the repeated message of “
Talk to me, Dan—V
” unsent for now.

“I’m fine.”

“You didn’t look fine when you left,” she said, and stood beside me. “You’re upset about this—the baby—aren’t you?”

“You crosschecked me,” I said.

She nodded, then reached up to thumb a strand of hair from her face. “I tried contacting you, but you never replied.”

Fuzzy as my mind was, I didn’t recall getting any messages from her. Then again, since I hadn’t known her real name until the summons came, maybe she had tried and I’d blown her off.

“Sounds like me,” I finally admitted. The air was hot and humid. My dress shirt was stuck to my back and chest. I only wanted to get out of this suit and into something cool. Like a bathtub filled with Jack. Yeah. That was the ticket.

“You are a jerk of the highest caliber. I mean, the way you treated me the morning after was rotten.”

I looked down at her. She was about Dan’s height, but other than that there was no similarity at all between them.

“It’s my claim to fame. That and my wicked shot from point,” I tossed out, my gaze leaving her to find those lilies. What was so appealing about them?

“You
do
have a good shot from point.”

I inclined my head.

“They’re working out the date for the test,” she said.

I didn’t know what to say about that, so I said nothing.

“They can prove paternity before the baby is born now. It’s called a NIPP, or non-invasive prenatal paternity test. They can determine the baby’s DNA from a blood sample that I give them. They need the alleged father’s blood as well. It’s ninety-nine point nine percent accurate and very state of the art.”

“Okay.” Brilliant repartee for a man known for his scathing wit. “Fine. Just let me know when and where.”

“I’m sure the lawyers will handle things. We won’t even have to see each other again.”

“Okay.”

God above, if I say that one more time, smite me. I shit you not, God. Send down a bolt and turn my stupid pale ass to dust. Just don’t hit the chick and the kid.

“I need to ask you a question, and I really need you to be honest with me.” The wind gusted. The lilies blew and the bumblebee nestled more tightly into a yellow flower. It came to me then. Those yellow lilies were just like the ones on the window catcher I had bought for Mrs. Arou. “Have you slept with all the guys on the Cougars?”

“No.”

I glanced over at her. She looked like she was telling the truth, but who really knew with women?

“They tell a different story. Every one of them, including the married ones, told me that you fucked them.”

“Let them say what they want. The only player on that team I slept with was you,” she stated firmly. “Buttonwood tried a few times. I don’t do married men, ever. You were the one I had a crush on.”

“Still crushing?”

She laughed bitterly. “Oh
hell
no. Being treated like a two-dollar whore the morning after we had sex cured me of any feelings for you whatsoever.”

“Smart chick,” I said, and turned to face her. The wind blew my hair from my face. Rain was in the air. “For what it’s worth, I don’t trust any woman—it’s not just you.”

“Okay, thanks, I guess. That’s sad to hear. You need to get over that mistrust. You don’t want to be alone for the rest of your life, do you?” Her eyes grew sad.

My hackles rose instantly. Pity would come next. Nope. Victor did not ride the pity train. “Don’t waste any tears on me. All I need is hockey and a warm hole.”

She rolled her eyes. The wind shifted and thunder rolled in the far distance.

“And just when I was starting to think you were somewhat human. Whoever she was, she must have fucked you over but good.”

“You of all people should know better, and sister, you have no clue.”

I left her under that oak tree with the storm at her back.

That evening I had an unexpected guest. Someone who had the brass balls to venture outside in such wild weather. The electric was down and the radio had been reporting tornado touchdowns below us in Pennsylvania. I had lit a couple of fat candles when the power dropped off, poured myself two fingers of the good stuff and planted my ass on the coach. I had plans for the night. They included waiting for my cell to announce a text from Dan. When that did not occur, I planned to get shitfaced.
Here’s to you, Mom. Nature, nurture, tomato, tomahto.

Placing my cocktail on the coffee table, I rose and padded over to the door. Rain blew in when I opened it. Mike Buttonwood shoved into my space. I reached up to flick the rain off my chest, then slammed the door shut behind my team captain.

“Did the storms blow you off course or something?” I asked as he dripped on my carpet.

He shook his head. I waited. He stood there dribbling. “Are you going to ask me in?” he finally asked.

“You’re already in,” I pointed out, then stalked back to the sofa and my new bestie, Jack from the Yukon. I flopped down, kicked my feet onto the table and rested my libation on my belly. “What I need to hear from you is why you’re here making puddles on my carpet.”

He glanced around. I followed his gaze. It touched on shit, personal shit, images of Dan, me, some of Dan and me. Not that it mattered if Mike saw us looking like gay lovers. He knew about us. Or I should say he had super-strong suspicions. Mike and I had a lovely sort of blackmail friendship. He kept his trap shut about me and Dan being a couple. I didn’t run to Mrs. Buttonwood with what I knew about his extramaritals. One hand washes the other.

“Where’s Arou? I thought you and he were attached at the asshole.”

“Ah-ha-ha. Funny man. Because we’re partners and we fuck each other in the ass so my dick is up his ass. Yeah, I see what you did there.” I raised my tumbler in the air to salute his funny. Mike made a face. I took a long sip, sighed and then waved my glass in a circle. “Now that you’ve shown how witty you are, care to tell me why you’re here?”

“You’re not telling me where Arou is?” he asked, the candles flickering wildly as a wet rush of air blew through the apartment.

“Nope,” I said, then leveled a steely look at him. “This is the first time in my memory that you’ve graced us with your esteemed personage. Did you miss my rapscallion ways and mirthful play on words?”

“Not in the least.” He frowned, then moved from his spot. I watched him walk slowly around the room, looking at everything we owned. I crossed my feet at the ankles and nursed Jack. Mike would cough it up eventually. I had all night. Shit, I had about five weeks to fill until training camp started. He lifted a picture of Dan and me taken on that boat trip around Seneca Lake. “You two look happy.”

“You need to get on home now, Dorothy, before you get sucked back to Oz.”

Mike turned and threw a dark glower at me, his green eyes snapping with ire.

“You called me last night about Heather Pavlick.”

“Yeah,” I said, sipping gently. He put the picture back, then faced me. His sandy-blond hair was flat to his head, his jeans and T-shirt plastered to his body. “You want a towel or something?”

“Maybe.”

“First door past the bedroom.” I motioned with my drink.

He grunted in thanks, then disappeared down the dark hall. My eyes darted to my cell on the table. Mike tripping over something in the short hall brought my attention from the painfully silent phone.

“Watch those skis,” I tossed out.

“Thanks,” Mike mumbled from under the green bath towel he was scrubbing at his head with.

“I live to serve. So, you’re here about Heather Pavlick.”

Mike pulled the towel from his head and draped it over his shoulders. He was a good-looking guy, sort of. Midwestern features and mentality, but we all can’t be Canadian dwarves with eyes like a lapis lazuli gemstone. I tossed back a stout swallow of whiskey.

“Why were you asking about her?” Mike inquired.

If the lights had been working, I would have been able to see his face better. The angle he stood at made reading him difficult. The candles were jumping like mad. Undulating shadows danced across his face.

“She’s pregnant and she’s named me as the father. Papers are there if you want to read them to verify my statement.”

Mike blinked, then grabbed the papers off the top of the Xbox.

“You got any more of that?” he asked, nodding at the whiskey in my glass.

“Two full bottles await any man with the fine taste required to partake. In the kitchen.” I pointed over my head. “Glasses are in the dishwasher.”

He walked off in the direction of the kitchen, my legal papers in his hand. Thunder made the house vibrate. Rain battered the siding. The door of the dishwasher creaked. When he returned a couple of minutes later, Mike had a full tumbler of Yukon Jack in one hand and my summons in the other.

“So she named you as the father. What a dumb bitch. I take it she doesn’t know you’re queer?”

“I’m bi.” Mike gave me that corn-fed empty gaze. “Bisexual, for those of you who are inbred. It means I like to stick my dinky into twat or ass with equal zeal.”

“I know what it means, Kalinski. I’m not a fucking idiot. Christ, do you have any kind of filter for that cesspool of a mouth?” He tossed back a big gulp, then gagged and coughed.

“Sorry, no filter. I ain’t a pool. So yeah, she named me. I did bang her a few months ago. Guess in my drunken state I forgot to cover the big man.” I reached down to grab my dick. Buttonwood looked disgusted.

He held the summons up to the measly light. “Do you think it’s yours? Maybe she’s trying to pass off some freak’s blow as yours.” He sipped this time and the wheezing was less. I dropped my dick and rested my hand on my abdomen.

“Yeah, I mostly think it’s mine,” I confessed. “She seemed pretty honest, but then again, women aren’t to be trusted.” I shrugged a shoulder. “Who knows? Blood test will prove it one way or the other.”

“She’s a puck bunny out to latch on to a player,” he said as he met my gaze. “They all act sweet and innocent until you put the ring on their finger. Then the inner bitch roars to the surface.”

“Speaking from experience, O Captain, my Captain?”

Lightning illuminated the windows.

“You could say that.”

“Well, she isn’t going to get a ring on it no matter how much she liked it. Sit down—you’re making me cranky hovering over me.”

Mike sat on the edge of the sofa cushion, sipping and reading the legal papers that had caused so much trouble.

“Because you’re gay.”

“Bi, remember? Vic pokes all holes. But yeah, that and I’m in it with Dan.”

“Right, bi,” Mike whispered into his half-empty glass. Silence fell. I began humming the
Jeopardy
theme song. He finally snapped out of it and found me staring expectantly at him. “Sorry, I was woolgathering. I thought something else was going on.”

“Oh yeah?” I really didn’t care what Opie thought, but I was being polite to the guest. Dan would have been proud. My gaze flicked to my cell. “What did you think I was calling and asking about her for? Possible ménage partner?”

“You need to just stop shoving your agenda down my throat. I’m working really hard not to be biased about you and Dan, but your gay shit is really hard to swallow.”

“That’s what he said.” Ba-dum-tiss.

Mike sprang to his feet. I couldn’t help but snicker at the repressed slice of corn pone.

“Okay, sorry. I’ll stop flouting my ‘agenda’ in your face.” I crossed my heart like the good ‘lil scout that I am. “Christ, you not only lack scruples and a chin, but you’re sadly lacking in the sense of humor department.”

“Fuck off, Kalinski.” He threw back the last wash of Jack, then shuddered. “I thought you were calling me to get a rise or start something. I know you hate me.”

“Hate is such a strong word. Let’s say I dislike you greatly. That way, you know, you can still harbor some hope that I might only dislike you a bit someday.”

“Great. Something to cling to,” he muttered into his empty tumbler as he sat back down. I snorted at the comeback. Maybe the uptight wad did have some wit in him. “I thought you were trying to stir me up about something. Wanted something, you know?”

“What the fuck would I ever want from you? Do you suck dick?” I lifted my glass to my lips.

“No, I meant something like a letter for your sweater.”

The spit-take was something Danny Thomas would have envied. After I was done spewing that whiskey all over myself, I broke into a laughing fit that ran on for about three solid minutes. Mike left as I was rolling on the couch howling, came back with a full glass, then tossed his wet towel over my face.

“Oh fucking hell,” I gasped when the fit slowed to mere titters. “That was one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard. You are a guilt-ridden son-of-a-bitch.” I sat up and used the wet towel to dry my face. He said nothing in reply. “No shit. You thought I was going to go to your missus with the news that you tapped Heather. You’re priceless, Spanky.” I reached over and slapped his meaty thigh.

“I didn’t want to think it. I mean, I could out you and Dan at any moment. But yeah, I thought you were setting me up,” he admitted, then downed his whiskey.

“Look, if there’s one thing that you can bank on, it’s that I don’t play that game. If I want to get at you, I will knock your ass down during practice and I will punch your face numerous times.” I glanced at the window when small hailstones started bouncing off it. “You good to drive?”

“Is that your way of telling me to go home?” Mike sat staring into his empty glass, his elbows on his knees.

“It’s as polite as I get. I can call you a cab or I can run you home.”

“How does it work with two guys? I mean, is Dan the same as he was when you first hooked up?”

I exhaled. Great, he was looking for someone to be Dr. Phil for him. Did I in any way, shape or form resemble anyone who might give two flying fuck-toads about Mike Buttonwood and his marriage problems? I had my own relationship assfuckery to try to straighten out. There was whiskey to drink and text messages to wait for. I closed my eyes and counted to thirty-four, which was exactly how many fucks I did not give. I looked over at him. The dude looked like a puppy that someone had just kicked in the chops.

“Nachos go good with Jack.”

Mike lifted his gaze from his glass to me and nodded.

“Got any clue how to make them?”

“You suck, Kalinski.”

“That’s what he said.”

Buttonwood heaved his frame up from the couch and stumbled into the kitchen. I cocked an eyebrow at his sloppy show of booze stamina. He’d had what? Two drinks? What a lightweight. It took me a good three-quarters of a bottle to feel a buzz. I wondered if being able to hold your liquor was genetic, and if so whether that little fetus sleeping under Heather’s heart was doomed already. I swirled the last dollop of Jack around, then tossed it back. The microwave pinged. I closed my eyes and listened to the rain falling and the wind ripping at the siding. It was one of those nights when one storm after another rolled over the area. The radio was keeping a tight eye out for funnel clouds in between playing some pretty decent classic rock. I prefer my music heavier and newer but I could live with old-school shit like early Sabbath and Tull.

“The chips were questionable,” Mike said, startling me out of a light sleep.

“Yeah, I haven’t been to the store since Dan left.” I yawned, my tumbler rolling from my bare chest to the couch as I slowly sat up. I let it lie.

Mike sat down beside me, a steaming bowl of nachos covered with cheese in one hand and a full glass of my good whiskey in the other.

“So, this is cozy. Want to make out later?” I joked as his leg nestled beside mine.

“Let me get this drink down and maybe,” he replied, never looking at me as he reached for a chip. The guy was coming around. Either that or he was getting plastered and his true self was slipping out. If so, Buttonwood needed to be drunk more often. I, on the other hand, probably didn’t, given where I tended to bury my dick when I was soused. “Did you hear that Ailo Grahn is running a pre-camp conditioning clinic?”

“No,” I said, then crammed in a nacho. “When?” I asked around my mouthful.

“Starts next week,” he replied, then washed down his last chip with a big swig of Jack. Maybe I needed to start pumping some coffee into him. Lonely and heartbroken I might be, but I wasn’t looking for a sleepover buddy. “Team says that it strongly suggests all of us attend.”

“No shit. Took them long enough.” I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until food hit my gut. When had I last eaten? “Who do I contact to sign up for it?”

I was all sorts of up for conditioning with Ailo Grahn. He’d been one of the premier power forwards in the nineties. His camps were famous for getting the body into top shape. I had to perform this season. If I lost my spot on the Cougars, I honestly didn’t know what I would do.

“Call Lambert,” Mike said, belched, and started to cry.

No warning or anything, just a burp and then the waterworks commenced.

“Sorry, shit. Sorry.” He dragged his forearm across his face a moment later. I sat with my cheesy chip dangling over the bowl, staring at him.

“There’s no crying in hockey,” I said as he worked to get his shit together.

“That’s baseball, you stupid Pole.”

“Whatever. You need some tissues or…balls or something?” I inquired as I shoveled stale nachos into my pie-hole.

“No, it’s okay.” He waved my offer away, then slammed the tumbler of whiskey. My eyes widened. No shivers or sputters now, just waffle those babies back. “She’s talking divorce.” I stopped chewing. He fell backward on the couch with a sigh. “Ten years and it ends like this.”

“Well, can you blame her? I mean you
do
fuck around behind her back. I’d leave your cheating ass too.”

My words bounced off Mike, who seemed about to pass out, and hit me in the face. The impact of what I’d said was like a slap shot to the groin, meaning it hurt like hell, for those who’ve never had the privilege. Mike murmured something, then fell asleep. I sat beside my team captain, reeling and unable to blink my fucking eyes. For two days I’d been after Dan to stop making such a big thing out of it. Stop being a pussy. It was only a chick. Meant nothing and please just come fucking home and I will never do it again.