Black & Blue

I had 30 seconds left in the penalty box. From my bench, I could see the rows of puck fucks in the lower sections. “Once we go Black…” one sign read; a blonde was waving it above her head. I squinted my eyes. She didn’t know shit about going Black. The clock timed out and I jumped onto the ice. Only two minutes left in the game; the game we were going to win.
“Number 27, Wade Black, back in the game.”
I flew past 65, hoping to get another snarl in before the end of the game.
“Look who’s back for more,” he said. “You want another penalty, fucker?”
I laughed and spit in his direction. My teammate, 45, was already ahead of the blue line with the puck, about to spin it toward me for one more goal, one more slap in the face for the Flyers. I tapped my stick on the ground, waiting.
The puck skidded my way and I slapped it into the goal, fast, yelling as it coasted into the net. The goalie fell to his knees, trying to block it, but failed. Sweet victory. The sirens roared and so did the fans. I held my stick in the air and scanned the other team—fucking Flyers. Nice try boys.
Winning was glorious in Madison Square. Fireworks popped and the crowd was loud; decked out in jerseys to match us. Reporters hobbled onto the ice in heels, only to get rejected.
“Black. Just a few questions from WCBS news.”
“Outside the locker room,” I held my hand up in her direction. I took off my mask, skated off the ice, and onto the rubber tiles near the locker room. I was sweaty and my shoulders burned. I walked to my locker, loosening my pads as I neared the benches.
“Hey Black. Saw some ladies out there screamin’ at ya,” 12 said.
“Who?” I said.
“Once we go Black…” he said, laughing. “That was a hot bitch, bro.”
“Well you can have her,” I said.
“Oh really? She didn’t do it for you?”
“Who the fuck knows. Never seen her. You know I’m over that shit.”
“I swear you’re gay man. I know it.”
Outside the locker room, the reporter was waiting. She had taken a seat on the wooden benches amongst the 6-year-old boys, their fathers, and the puck fucks.
“Black. Questions?” she asked.
I nodded.
“What’d you say to 65 to start the fight?”
“Oh, I keep that to myself.”
“Okay…what did you think about tonight’s win?”
“It was expected. Even though we’re full of new players this season, we still come to win.”
“What will you do when you face your old team?”
“The Kings are any other team. This is my job.”
“That’s all I need. Thank you.”
I walked past the blonde and saw a boy wearing a tiny Black jersey.
“Hey buddy,” I knelt down. “You have fun tonight?”
He was silent.
“He’s a little shy,” said an older man with him.
“That’s alright,” I said. I patted him on the head and moved to the driveway, hoping to catch the team driver. It was too cold to walk back to my apartment in Chelsea.
By the time I got home, it was after midnight. I made it to my floor, empty as usual. There were only two other doors on the floor; one belonged to an older man, a writer who never emerged. The other to Kate, she styled clothes for a magazine. I walked past her door, 9, and tried to see if there was any light coming out from under the door. No luck.
My apartment was dark and quiet. It still smelled like paint. I flipped on the TV and sat on the couch. Sports Center.
“Rangers score second win over the Flyers this season. Black gets into his 98th brawl. We’ve got highlights on Sports Center tonight.”
“Who keeps track of this?” I asked the TV.
I coasted through the channels, drifting in and out of sleep. I tried to coax myself into the bedroom. I had practice in the morning. I rolled off the couch and moved to my bedroom. There was no beautiful woman by my bed. I slid between the cool sheets and tucked a pillow under my neck; it smelled of Icy/Hot. Back in L.A., when I first signed for the Kings, I never went home alone. My L.A. sheets didn’t smell like me, they were scented with Dior and Armani. Their perfumes lasted, but those women were states away, probably still at the Kings’ games. I drifted off to sleep and tried to remember the name of the last girl I slept with; it was after the Kings’ played Colorado…
We played the Wolverines in the Square three days after we killed the Flyers. I had just walked into the locker room when the usual pre-game banter sparked.
“Who you gonna piss off tonight, man?” 58 asked.
“I heard Carmen was pretty irritable. I bet I can shake the fucker up,” I told him.
“Dude you really know how to sell tickets,” he said.
“What do you think pays the bills?” I asked.
“Well shit, with all the women who come in this place wearing number 27 maybe your dick could pay the rent.”
“No man. Maybe in my twenties, not when I’m 34.”
The younger teammates got a kick out of the women in the crowd—I did too, when I was 26. Most of the guys my age were married. They’d been through the routine. Sometimes it was fun, other times it was tiring. Of course it was flattering, but the women couldn’t handle anything past a decent fuck. I wanted substance. I suited up and got onto the ice.
I found Carmen two minutes into the first period and asked him about his sister—how was she in bed? It didn’t settle well and he tried to sever my skull with his stick. I handed him a black eye and we both ended up with a couple of roughing penalties. From the box I could see the team wives, in their usual spot. There were younger children surrounding them, all cheering for their dads—the names on their miniature jerseys. I wondered what Kate was doing. Two sections above the wives were the p-fucks; loud and exposed.
I took a long shower in the locker room; it was quiet when I got out. I walked home that night. It was almost December in New York. I’d been in town two months, but my social circle didn’t extend beyond my doorman or the team. I was lonely, but I didn’t miss L.A. Getting signed to the Rangers came at a good time; sometimes the West proved itself a little too crazy for me.
When I reached my floor, I stopped in front of Kate’s. I reached my hand up to knock on the door, but stopped when the door opened. She had a puzzled look on her face.
“What were you doing?” She asked.
“Oh…I…well I was just getting home from th-”
“The game?” she asked. “Yeah, I saw it was over on TV.”
“You watched it?”
“Well, no, a friend came over and she’s a sports fan.”
“Oh, I see,” I said, not knowing where to go next.
“Well I was actually heading to your apartment just now,” she said.
“Really?” I asked. I didn’t know her well, but I wanted to. She was gorgeous. I assumed she was smart; she worked long days and could afford our building.
“Yeah. The Fed Ex man dropped off a painting here the other day. I opened it, thinking it was a dress I’m waiting on, but it definitely isn’t,” she said. She pulled a giant canvas toward the door. It was painted black with the white Chanel symbol in the middle, joined by a blue-haired woman who was topless.
“Wow. I’m somewhat embarrassed,” I said, although it cost a fortune and was an amazing piece of work. It was too early to be talking over tits.
“Don’t be,” she said. “I just wouldn’t place you as someone to have this in their apartment, but to each his own I guess.”
“What makes you say that? You think I’m some kind of hard-ass?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said. “I didn’t think athletes had a creative side.”
“Ouch,” I said. “Well I do. Would you like to come over and help me decide where to hang it?”
“Are you going to give me a black eye if I say no?” she asked, smiling.
“No…I’m not lik-“
“I’ll think about it Mr. Creative,” she said, pushing the canvas out the door. “Have a good night.”
Shit. I couldn’t remember the last time I heard those words from a woman. I mouthed them with my lips, “I’ll think about it.” I grunted to myself as I picked up the painting with one hand and reached into my pocket for my keys with the other. I leaned the Chanel piece against my living room wall. I’d hang it another night. I crawled into my Icy/Hot sheets and wondered if Kate was sleeping with someone.
We practiced in a smaller rink right outside the city. Practice began at nine and after warm-ups, drills, and weights; I was out by one and ready for food. I headed back to the apartment after I picked up lunch. I did my drill as I walked past Kate’s door, but I didn’t see or hear anything resembling life inside. I hung the Chanel piece over my couch and stepped back to admire it. I was still mouthing Kate’s last words, “I’ll…think…about…it.” Obviously a ‘no’ since I’d just finished hanging the thought in question.
I didn’t think she’d ever been to a hockey game. She said she’d seen the game on TV, but only because her friend was over. I doubted she was impressed with my 98 fights or whatever SC said it was. She was better than that. Kate was witty and creative; she was more than sex. She wasn’t running after me like a fan. She presented a challenge.
That night, I showed up at Kate’s door with a cheesecake I had gotten a few blocks over. She gave me a weird once-over when she opened the door.
“Well hello again,” she said.
“Hi there,” I replied. “I brought you something.”
“Oh no, Fed Ex really has us mixed up. Great,” she said.
“Well, no. I brought…it’s from me,” I said, pointing at the white box. I handed it to her. “Here.”
She opened its lid slowly. “An entire cheesecake?” she asked.
“I was thinking we could share it,” I said. “You know, eat some of it together.”
She laughed. “Alright. Now?”
“Sure. If you’d like,” I said.
She opened the door wider, inviting me inside. Her apartment was bright and colorful. There were clothes everywhere, but they were neatly stacked and it looked like they were organized somehow.
“Yeah, I bring my work home,” she said. “I know it looks overwhelming.”
“No, don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s kind of cool.”
I followed her through the entry that opened up into a wide space, a living room shared with a giant dining table under an old chandelier. She put the box down and moved into the kitchen. She was quiet.
“I didn’t mean to impose on you,” I said. “I can just leave this here for you.”
“No, really, it’s fine,” she said, digging for forks.
“You sure?” I said. “I just wanted to thank you for keeping my painting.”
“It was no problem,” she said. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
She walked back to the table carrying a bottle of white and two glasses. Relief. She was tiny; but her blond hair was full and rich looking. She had tan skin and short, dark nails like they were painted with tar.
“So what do you do all day?” I asked. “I know you told me you were a stylist, but…”
“Well, I work at YM, which is almost a very young Cosmo-type of magazine, you know?” she looked up from pouring the wine. “Anyway, I pick and style the clothes before they take pictures for the fashion spreads.”
“That’s cool,” I said. “Is it the same thing everyday, or what?”
“Well it depends on what week we’re in as far as deadlines. I travel to different sets around the city and sometimes I’ll go to events or parties for the magazine.”
“That sounds interesting,” I said. She smiled and sat down, pushing a plate toward me.
“So…hockey?” she asked.
I laughed. I hated talking about work. Then I hated myself for asking her about being a stylist.
“Yes, I play hockey,” I said. “What about it?”
“Well how’d that start?” she asked.
“I played when I was younger and through high school. I went to UCLA, kept playing, and got signed with the Kings when I was 26. I just got traded and moved to New York in September.”
“How do you like it here?” she asked. She took a tiny bite.
I shrugged. “It’s what I thought it would be. I love playing in Madison Square; really neat place. Have you been to a game in there?”
She shook her head. “I’ve been to some concerts, but no sports.”
“Aw, that’s too bad,” I said. “You should think about it. You might have a good time.”
“Maybe. I don’t know if I’d fit in with those wild fans over there,” she said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”
I left two tickets with Kate for my next home game. I told her she should bring her friend and I hoped to see her there. I enjoyed talking to her, but didn’t know if it was mutual. If Kate hadn’t already heard about my penalty box habit, she was about to see it for herself. After the small progress I made with the cheesecake, I wasn’t sure how it would go over with her. I didn’t even know if she would show.
I looked for her after my first few spats on the ice that landed myself in the box, like always. Her tickets were for section 94; right behind the goal. They were the best seats in the house—better than the ones for the p-fucks. I didn’t see her, but I hoped she was watching. After the game, I showered quickly. Maybe she’d be waiting outside the locker room.
When I raced through the door, my eyes scanned the mob of women. No Kate. I kept walking just to make sure. Someone pulled my sweatshirt from behind. I turned around. It was the sign-holding blonde from a few games before.
“Hey Black,” she said. She was grinning. Her lipstick was smeared and her eyes looked droopy. She was drunk.
“Hi. Do I know you?”
“Well, maybe not yet,” she said. She swayed back and forth.
“Oh right,” I said. I looked past her face and behind her, still looking for Kate. “Do you know my first name?”
She put a finger to her lips and furrowed her brow. I kept looking while she mumbled different names aloud.
“Derrick…no…Jason…hmm…Chris?”
“No,” I said. “Keep guessing.”
Someone tapped my shoulder. I spun around to see a brunette wearing a jersey.
“Wade?” she asked.
“Yes, hi,” I said.
“Wade!” the blonde shrieked. “See, I knew it.”
“Um, yeah. I’m Amanda,” the brunette said. “I came to the game with Kate.”
Amanda pointed a finger behind her. Kate was standing there, cradling a Styrofoam cup.
“Cool. It’s nice to meet you,” I said. “How did you like the game?”
“I loved it. I’m a big fan,” she said. She was eyeing the blonde.
“Good,” I said. “Really glad you guys came out. Is Kate alright?” I wondered why I was talking to Amanda and not Kate.
The blonde interjected. “Wade gave you tickets?” she asked.
Amanda nodded. Great.
The p-fuck tugged on my shirt. “I want tickets.”
“You already have tickets,” I said. “You come to all the games.”
“So you have seen me!” she said.
“Well, it was really nice meeting you,” Amanda said. “And thanks again for the tickets.”
“Hey…wait…er…you’re welcome. Maybe I’ll see you later.”
Shit.
“Look, it’s time for me to go,” I told the blonde. “Have a nice night.”
I turned my back and walked out of the Square and into the cold night. I really fucked it up. I shouldn’t have even talked to the blonde. But I did and Kate saw. I didn’t know how I was going to get myself out of that one. I didn’t know Kate that well. Maybe she didn’t care; maybe she didn’t like me more than just a neighbor so she wouldn’t be upset. No chance in hell. I’d heard the guys in the locker room talk about their wives enough to know women got pissed over everything. When I got upstairs, I didn’t look at Kate’s door.
The next day, I got a call from The New York Times. The sports section wanted to do an interview with me in light of the Kings’ game that weekend. I was less than thrilled. They had written a short piece about me when I got signed to the Rangers. The writer made me look like a dick. It was the same story every journalist wanted to cover: “Black really is the bad guy.” Everything I said was going to be taken out of context. But I went anyway. I agreed to meet the writer in the coffee shop downstairs.
The reporter, Ed, was waiting with a mug of coffee. I’d guessed he was running under a tight deadline. Mostly, we talked about the upcoming game. I told him it wasn’t a rival like everyone made it out to be. Hockey was my job and it just happened to be competitive. This, of course, brought up the anger issue and the number of fights I’d been in. I tried to keep it short, knowing he was going to blow it out of proportion. He asked me about money and politics. He asked me about women, blushing a little when he brought up the girls that danced on the zamboni during half time.
After the interview, I was done for the day. Ed told me to expect the story Friday—the day I would kill the Kings. I went upstairs and threw something frozen into a pot for dinner. While it simmered, I thought of ways to approach Kate again. I needed to go back over there and see why Kate didn’t talk to me at the game. I ate and went next door. Kate answered the door, but didn’t say much. She gestured me in, but I didn’t feel like she really wanted me there. She followed me in the house but went to work on a stack of clothes. She was putting shirts with pants and then taking pictures of them.
“You can sit down,” she said.
I took her word and sat on the couch.
“Did you have fun at the game last night?” I asked.
“Um…it was okay,” she said.
Lie.
“Well, I met your friend Amanda. She seemed to have had a good time.”
“Yeah,” she said. She was eyeing an outfit.
“Kate, ok,” I said. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said.
Another lie.
“No, seriously,” I said. “I know you’re upset. Come here.”
“Really…why are you insisting that I’m mad at you?”
“Look. I’m so-,” I said. “Wait…you’re really not mad?”
She put the camera down and sat on the other end of the couch, so she wouldn’t touch me.  “No,” she said. “What would I be mad about?”
“The blonde last night,” I said. “When she was talking to me.”
Kate laughed. “Seriously,” she said. “I think you need to get over yourself some.”
I was confused. Part of me wished she’d been jealous that I’d talked to someone else.
“Alright, I get it” I said. “But I didn’t invite that girl; just so you know.”
“I’m really not worried about it,” she said.
“Well, not even a little?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Nope.’
“I’m going to be completely honest,” I said. “I’m disappointed.”
“Oh, look at that,” she said, pouting her lip. “The sexy-badass isn’t being chased after.”
I laughed. “Wow, okay, I see how this is going to be,” I said.
She nodded. “I don’t chase after guys.”
“So I’ve noticed,” I said. “Well, I can let you get back to work.”
“You don’t want to stay?” she asked.
“You’re going to let me hang out with you Ms. Conceited?” I asked.
“Consider yourself lucky,” she said.
Friday came and I was relieved. Practices had been running over the past few days in order to prep for the game. The Kings had us beat in the standings; coach kept telling us over and over. It was going to be a tough game. I could easily pick apart my old teammates, since I knew them. But I needed to actually be on the ice for this one. I was going to have to squeeze in a few jabs past the ref. Coach pulled me aside after practice. He dropped the Times’ sports section on his desk in front of me. “Black vs. Kings: The Most Anticipated Fight of the Season.”
“Nice article,” he said. “The game is sold out.”
“Oh yea?” I asked. “I hadn’t seen this yet.”
“What do you think? You’ve never played against any of those boys before.”
“I played with them for seven seasons,” I said. “I know their moves.”
“Good,” he said. “We could use it. The new guys are nervous. Don’t get your ass in the box the entire first period.”
I nodded.
“Let the others get the penalties. Use your head.”
“Got it,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Should be a good one.”
When I got back to my apartment, there was a newspaper in front of my door. A section of the story was circled with a red pen. It read:
Black is quiet on the subject of women. Despite the obvious female crowd he draws in Madison Square, he said its just part of the game.
“As with most professional sports there are women around,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean there’s one by my bed every night.”
Black puts women in a category with his Kings’ days, as part of his early hockey career.
“I’m not saying it isn’t flattering,” he said. “It is. What man wouldn’t want it? It’s just not as extreme as it seems. I’d like to think I could get laid without my hockey record.”
Thanks Ed. Written below the article was, “Didn’t I tell you to get over yourself? –K.” I’d given her another set of tickets along with a promise not to get analytical again. I was making progress. I sat on the couch and hoped to fall asleep until game time. But I had no such luck; my mind was racing. I couldn’t get too many penalties that night. I knew it was going to happen; it was a habit for me when I got on the ice.
Hours later, I put on my suit and began the walk to Madison Square. Walking usually cleared my mind, but it was still buzzing when I reached the stadium. The lines into the building were the longest I’d seen. It was going to be loud in there. The locker room was noisier than usual, too.
“Black, bro, this is it,” 32 said. “Beat that ass.”
“Planning on it,” I said.
“Dude, you hook up with that chick finally?” 45 asked.
“Oh c’mon man,” I said. “No, and if I did, now isn’t the time to bring it up.”
“So you did then?” he asked. “I saw some new bitches in your 94 tickets, what’s that about?”
“Seriously man, it’s a big game,” I said. “Pull it together.”
I needed to take my own advice. I couldn’t tell if it was because Kate was coming again or because of the Kings. The stadium was packed. I hadn’t played for a crowd this size in a long time. When I took my place on the ice, front left, the Kings paired me with a new player. Figured.
“Bring it on, fucker,” he hissed.
I kept my mouth shut. I was the night’s target. I didn’t need to say anything. Whoever the motherfucker was, he’d been warned about me all week. He could see the bruises on my neck and my leftover black eye. It was going to be a long game. We got the puck first and were gaining on the Kings from the start. One of our rookies roughed up their wingman, sending them both into the box. The Kings always went straight up the middle, so I tried to keep the puck on the side. It was working.
I got my first penalty in the top of the second period. It was minor—persisting in an altercation—but it still cost me two minutes. It was obvious the Kings had been told not to fight with me. Anything I tried to stir up; they ignored. In the box, I studied the game. It was 4-3, Kings. My lip was bleeding. I was waiting for the Kings’ goalie to pull a low blow—he’d done it before. He’d pull his mask off in the middle of the play to start the whole thing over. But we had one more period to tie it up and then win in overtime.
My teammates were able to sneak a play behind them and score while I was in the box. We were tied 4-4. I spent the rest of the second period actually playing—but we didn’t score. At half time, I looked for Kate again, but didn’t see her. I knew she had to be there; we were on good terms this time. In the locker room, coach warned me about penalties in the third period. He said they were probably going to gang up on me, since they hadn’t done much in the first half. He was right.
We lined up before the puck dropped and the banter began.
“Black, you still a badass?” 24 said. I gritted my mouth guard.
We got the puck after the drop and tried to pass it to the goal from the side. But 12 was blocked—tripped by a stick. But now we had the advantage: Power Play. Only four Kings were on the ice.
“Why don’t you get yourself in the box Black?” 35 said. I didn’t look at him. I was waiting by their goal, hoping to slap it in at any moment.
“Well, well, look who’s a badass now,” he said. “Did mommy tell you to ignore the bad boys?”
Damn. These motherfuckers wouldn’t let up. I wanted to swing at him; knock him out like I usually would. But there wasn’t much time left in the period. If we scored, we’d win without having to go into OT.
Two more minutes. I skated to the middle of the rink and found myself back in front of 24.
“Fucker, you’re back?” he said. “Back for more 24…”
“More of what?” I said. “You haven’t done anything. Pussy.”
He did nothing.
I looked behind me to see 12 with the puck again. He was crossing the blue line and there was a clear shot to the goal if he passed it to me. He saw I was open, made the pass, and I skated forward to the goal. The Kings’ goalie wobbled back and forth, ready to block. I went to the side and brought my stick back, ready to shoot. But as I slapped the puck forward, I fell. Someone had pushed me. When I hit the ice, my chin caught me; I bit my tongue. Blood. I heard the sirens. Goal. I opened my eyes and looked at the clock. 10 seconds. Game over, we won.
We skated past the Kings and shook their hands, all mumbling the same thing: “Good game.” It wasn’t the way I’d pictured seeing those guys after skating with them for nearly eight years. But it was work; people got traded and then had to compete against each other. We’d play them again and maybe they’d win. Yeah, right.
I hurried through my locker room routine and went outside to see if Kate was waiting. I searched for her; I didn’t want to talk to anyone else. Through all the jerseys and foam fingers, I saw her. She was standing heels that made her average height, and her hair was down and thick. She was wearing a Rangers button.
“Hey there,” I said. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”
“Hey, just because I’m not chasing after you doesn’t mean I’ll give up free tickets,” she said as she hugged me. She smelled good.
“Nice button,” I said. She laughed.
“I’m conforming to the masses.”
“Don’t change too much,” I told her. “I like you like this.”
“You alright?” she asked. “That last fall looked pretty painful.”
“I think I’ll be fine.”
“What now?” she asked.
“Home,” I said. “You coming with me?”
“Sure,” she said. “You walking?”
“Of course,” I said. The reporters were just leaving the ice and making their way toward me. “Hurry.”
I took her hand and we walked out of The Garden fast, quick enough to escape the mob. I wasn’t going to deal with it this time. When we got back to the apartment, Kate came inside. We sat on the couch under the Chanel painting. She’d insisted I put ice on my chin; I appeased her. Soon, my sheets stopped smelling like peppermint. Instead, they smelled like Kate—and I hoped they would for a while, a long while.