I started this after Mike had that bad game Sunday night. After game 4... ugh. It'll be just a few chapters but there's no other way to get it out of my head. I just want to hug his face off.
I don't know why I'm here. But I don't know this girl either, not really. So what does it matter?
My car drove itself to her place. I could argue that it's on the way to mine, but I was never going home. The wheels would not obey common sense, they too sought only comfort. Why I thought I'd find it here is a mystery.
I shouldn't even remember the address. Or the apartment number, or the code for the side door that someone texted me before Thursday's party.
Well not party. Gathering. We were taking it easy, chilling on the roof deck as the first real heat of summer laid itself heavily across DC. There were some beers but mostly just relaxing, laughing, and regrouping. If we'd been partying we'd have an excuse to hang ourselves with.
We just lost game 2 of the second round of the playoffs. Check that - I lost it. Ovi may have gotten us to OT on a goal that I prayed into the net, but it shouldn't have been necessary. Not if the little shit St. Louis hadn't used me like a backboard and banked one off my skate to take a lead in the third period. If the Caps need a miracle, it's usually to bail out Mike Green.
And now I'm walking up the stairs. Her name is Sophie. She has dark hair, long legs and skin that probably tastes as good as it looks. Not the hottest girl - not even the hottest girl at that party - but there was something about her.
She's a neighbor of the girl who threw the party. The other girl met John Carlson in a bar, told him about the party and to bring friends. Don't think she was expecting half a hockey team. But there were plenty of chairs on the roof deck and only eight apartments, so we didn't bother anyone.
I noticed Sophie first talking to Nicky because he was laughing. His laugh is kind of awkward and it embarasses him, but she had him cracking up. She wore a green t-shirt, denim shorts and no shoes. That's how I knew she lived here.
I let Nicky introduce me.
"Sophie, this is Mike."
Not Mike Green or my teammate or my roommate. Just Mike.
"Hi Greenie," she said.
Game over.
I'm a sucker for a girl who knows who I am. It makes me feel like a big deal, like a celebrity. Like I won't have to work hard to get some. But it also eliminates the tricky moment where I mention hockey to someone who's never heard of a power play or a slapshot. Someone who thinks boarding is done only at an airport. If the girl's hot enough, or drunk enough, I don't even bother. But now I don't have to.
Her neighbor might have known about us, but not this much.
"Uh, hi," I said stupidly, staring into eyes that seemed lighter for the falling darkness. She had slight crinkles at the corner, only visible because she smiled. She was a few years older, maybe 28.
Nicky took a long pull from his beer, loving every second that I was retarded. He's a bastard like that.
"Nice place," was the best I could do.
Sophie shrugged. "Apartments are okay, deck sealed the deal."
I'd like to seal the deal.
We talked about the neighborhood and DC, about places to go and eat and walk. And we talked about hockey.
"I was telling Nicky that if he doesn't stop breaking right at the blue line on every single rush he'll put the wingers offside all night."
"Uh, that's what Bruce said."
"With a few more f-bmbs, I hope."
Other guys drifted over, pulling up seats. Hey, it's the playoffs. We live hockey. But while Sophie asked questions and offered some surprisingly astute criticism, I was watching her lips. They were soft- looking and tipped a little crookedly when she smiled.
"Right?" She was looking at me.
"Er yeah," I fumbled. Everyone laughed. Sophie reached out and smacked my knee.
"Don't worry, I'm a good driver."
Full night fell and the temperature never dropped. Sophie rubbed her legs together as if soaking the heat into her skin like moisture. People started leaving.
Inside I was frozen. I could tell every guy here wanted to ask her out. They seemed to be deferring to Nicky, or at least me, as we were sitting closest. But I couldn't concentrate on anything but the square of skin at the hollow of her throat. The last few months of concussions, frustrations, stress and recovery have left me a little scrambled. My timing is off and I overthink things until they all seem wrong.
At the end of the night, as I'm working out how to hug her goodbye, I see Carlson swing her up like she's a bag of groceries and she squeals. Then she hugs Alzer, beard and all. Well it seems kinda stupid now.
Only it's not. Sophie holds her arms out to me without prompting and I feel like she's giving me a gift. Her body is small against my chest so I wrap tightly around her and hold for a second. It feels nice just to hug.
To my surprise she kisses my cheek. I wonder if she did that for everyone. "Nice to meet you, Mike Green."
"Nice to meet you, Sophie. Are you coming to the game tomorrow?". Please say yes please say yes.
"Yeah, John offered to set me up."
Why didn't I think of that sooner?
"Cool. Well, see you tomorrow." I'm such a dork.
"I'll be loud so you can hear me."
Now the only loud things are my footsteps in the empty hall. It's nearly midnight on a Sunday. After the dead quiet of the arena after the puck went in off my skate, or the library-like silence when we lost in OT, this feels appropriately devastated.
I thought about her last night. I turned her face over in my mind until she was so beautiful, until I'd shined her up like a dime. There's a chance that I'm making her more than she is. But her presence, the calming almost tranquilized effect she had on me could not be exaggerated. I hurt now and I need to heal. It drags me to her door.
The knock is terribly loud. It echoes: the unwanted sound rejected from every surface surrounding me. I feel it hit me on its way back, suddenly panic. What am I doing here? If she hadn't let me use her bathroom I wouldn't even know her apartment number. And now I'm turning up like a stalker from a scary movie.
My legs tense like they might run off without my head. But the lock is sliding open.
"Mike," she says softly.
All at once I know I haven't overestimated her. I haven't done her justice at all. Her dark hair is a messy ponytail more falling out than holding up. She pulls the hem of a soft-looking grey shirt down toward little shorts with black and pink stripes. She's wearing socks but no bra. Sophie is absolutely stunning and I am completely, arrogantly and unwantedly invading her life.
"Hi Soph... I... sorry," I stutter.
She takes a step toward me, pulls the door closed behind her. And then it hits me - the possibility, no certainty, I never considered. She's not here alone. Look at her: light eyes drowsy with sleep, hair flat at the back from her pillow. How could she possibly be sleeping alone?
"I'm so sorry, you've got company, I don't know why I... sorry to bother you." I retreat. "I'll just go. I'm going."
Backpedalling isn't enough - I start to turn away from her. I shake my hands to show I mean no harm.
"Mike, wait."
Freeze.
“It’s okay. It’s just my dog - if he gets excited he’ll keep me up all night.”
I’d like to keep her up all night.
Shut up, I tell myself. That it not why I came here, though my arrival was just as driven by pure gut reaction. Something about her - the threadbare look of that t-shirt she’d had for years, the bright color of her oversized socks - says that everything is going to be okay.
We’re still in the hall. I’m out of excuses.
“I just wanted to see you.”
Something happened at the end of tonight’s game, as I dragged myself into the locker room knowing the entire game could have been different if not for me. I wanted nothing more than to disappear. No one even asked if I wanted to talk to the media - they were so mad or ashamed or frustrated they just sent me off like a kid with no supper. In the equipment room, the secret place where bad hockey players change so no one will interview them, I thought of Sophie.
I thought of the way she held her beer bottle by the neck when she wasn’t drinking, not wanting to make the bottle warm with her palm. The way she put her feet under Nicky’s leg so she could make room for someone to share her seat. The way her hand tossed the hair from her face when she leaned forward laughing.
I just wanted to see her.
“Come on in,” she said.
Her apartment is small but cozy. As she locks the door behind me, the tick-tick-tick of nails sounds of the hardwood floor. A Boston Terrier looks up at me from the hallway.
“That’s Papes.” Then she tells the dog, “This is Mike.”
The dog tilts its head, considering whether or not I was worth getting out of bed to inspect. Eventually he gives in, trots over and sniffs my shoes.
“Show Mike where to sit, P.”
Instead I lead the dog to an overstuffed couch that looks like it could swallow me whole. How I wish it would. Amid her soft throw blanket, the TV remote and a copy of Vanity Fair, I sit down like a kid picking up his prom date, waiting to meet her dad. Never has a five thousand dollar suit looked so out of place. With the dog’s permission, I take off my coat and hang it over the back of a chair. The tie that’s been choking me all night gets loosened but not removed. I’ve been presumptuous enough just coming here.
Sophie carefully places two steaming mugs on the coffee table, then sits down not too far from me.
“It’s Sleepy Time, hope that’s okay.” She lifts the cup to those perfect lips and blows gently onto the surface of the water. A little waft of flower smell passes between us. Tentatively she takes a sip. “I drink it when I can’t sleep.”
“Or when someone wakes you up.”
A tiny smile. “I was awake. In bed, but awake.”
Bed. Her bed must be soft, like this couch, and probably still warm. My shoulders and back ache, the cramps spearing down from my neck. It’s just tension and stress but it feels like a bruise.
“Sorry about the game,” she finally says. I try to look at her, but stop. Turn away. My face must be red with shame, even in the single dim light she’s turned on. It’s worse than the pain. I just shake my head.
“Oh Mike.” I feel her touch on my neck - my skin must burn her skin. But her hand is cool as a compress and feels just as soothing. I rock toward her involuntarily. She puts the mug down and slides over.
Then Sophie puts her arms around me. Like I’m not half again her size and twice her weight. Like I’m not some pampered professional athlete while the rest of the world has real problems. Like she knows me. Sophie touches me like she knows me.
I give up right then. There is no dignity left after coming here, no cool way to play this. There’s just me, coming apart and asking her for help. I sag against her: she leans back and I pull my feet up until I’m laying in her arms.
My head is on her chest, and I remind myself not to remember she’s got nothing on under her t-shirt. She gingerly touches my hair, which for once I haven’t bothered to style. And I’m grateful - her fingers feel wonderful as they stroke my scalp and around my hairline. I’m so tired I could sleep right here, like this, for a week. Maybe a month. I’d wake up and we’d have won the Cup; just put my name on it I don’t care if I’m nowhere to be found.
Her fingers undo the knot on my tie. She opens the top two buttons of my shirt, each one like she’s relieving dangerous pressure from my system. I sink further into the couch, into her. Sophie puts her hand on my chest, just inside the collar of my shirt, like she’s checking my heartbeat. It’s the single most soothing thing anyone has ever done.
“I’m sorry, Mike,” she says quietly.
How could I have ever doubted coming here? She’s barely spoken and already I feel a million times better. At the side of the coffee table, the dog lays down but his eyes don’t leave me.
“What’s his name?”
“Papes.”
“What is that?”
“He’s black and white, like a newspaper. So we call him Papes.”
Oh, that’s cute. But..., “Who’s we?” I ask of the girl that has let me into her house, onto her couch and into her arms, holding me like a lifeguard who knows a drowning man when she sees one.
“Me and my brother. It’s from a movie an old Disney movie called Newsies.”
“Ah.”
She goes back to tracing along my ear, just once touching the still-raised scar that caused part of my head injury problems. Sophie would know all about it, since she knows all about us. I wonder what she’s thinking about.
“What did you drive here?”
“My truck.”
“Okay.”
“Why?”
“If it was something fancy, I’d give you my parking spot. I would feel bad if anything happened.”
Seems we’re both on the same page: I’m not leaving tonight.
She's a neighbor of the girl who threw the party. The other girl met John Carlson in a bar, told him about the party and to bring friends. Don't think she was expecting half a hockey team. But there were plenty of chairs on the roof deck and only eight apartments, so we didn't bother anyone.
I noticed Sophie first talking to Nicky because he was laughing. His laugh is kind of awkward and it embarasses him, but she had him cracking up. She wore a green t-shirt, denim shorts and no shoes. That's how I knew she lived here.
I let Nicky introduce me.
"Sophie, this is Mike."
Not Mike Green or my teammate or my roommate. Just Mike.
"Hi Greenie," she said.
Game over.
I'm a sucker for a girl who knows who I am. It makes me feel like a big deal, like a celebrity. Like I won't have to work hard to get some. But it also eliminates the tricky moment where I mention hockey to someone who's never heard of a power play or a slapshot. Someone who thinks boarding is done only at an airport. If the girl's hot enough, or drunk enough, I don't even bother. But now I don't have to.
Her neighbor might have known about us, but not this much.
"Uh, hi," I said stupidly, staring into eyes that seemed lighter for the falling darkness. She had slight crinkles at the corner, only visible because she smiled. She was a few years older, maybe 28.
Nicky took a long pull from his beer, loving every second that I was retarded. He's a bastard like that.
"Nice place," was the best I could do.
Sophie shrugged. "Apartments are okay, deck sealed the deal."
I'd like to seal the deal.
We talked about the neighborhood and DC, about places to go and eat and walk. And we talked about hockey.
"I was telling Nicky that if he doesn't stop breaking right at the blue line on every single rush he'll put the wingers offside all night."
"Uh, that's what Bruce said."
"With a few more f-bmbs, I hope."
Other guys drifted over, pulling up seats. Hey, it's the playoffs. We live hockey. But while Sophie asked questions and offered some surprisingly astute criticism, I was watching her lips. They were soft- looking and tipped a little crookedly when she smiled.
"Right?" She was looking at me.
"Er yeah," I fumbled. Everyone laughed. Sophie reached out and smacked my knee.
"Don't worry, I'm a good driver."
Full night fell and the temperature never dropped. Sophie rubbed her legs together as if soaking the heat into her skin like moisture. People started leaving.
Inside I was frozen. I could tell every guy here wanted to ask her out. They seemed to be deferring to Nicky, or at least me, as we were sitting closest. But I couldn't concentrate on anything but the square of skin at the hollow of her throat. The last few months of concussions, frustrations, stress and recovery have left me a little scrambled. My timing is off and I overthink things until they all seem wrong.
At the end of the night, as I'm working out how to hug her goodbye, I see Carlson swing her up like she's a bag of groceries and she squeals. Then she hugs Alzer, beard and all. Well it seems kinda stupid now.
Only it's not. Sophie holds her arms out to me without prompting and I feel like she's giving me a gift. Her body is small against my chest so I wrap tightly around her and hold for a second. It feels nice just to hug.
To my surprise she kisses my cheek. I wonder if she did that for everyone. "Nice to meet you, Mike Green."
"Nice to meet you, Sophie. Are you coming to the game tomorrow?". Please say yes please say yes.
"Yeah, John offered to set me up."
Why didn't I think of that sooner?
"Cool. Well, see you tomorrow." I'm such a dork.
"I'll be loud so you can hear me."
Now the only loud things are my footsteps in the empty hall. It's nearly midnight on a Sunday. After the dead quiet of the arena after the puck went in off my skate, or the library-like silence when we lost in OT, this feels appropriately devastated.
I thought about her last night. I turned her face over in my mind until she was so beautiful, until I'd shined her up like a dime. There's a chance that I'm making her more than she is. But her presence, the calming almost tranquilized effect she had on me could not be exaggerated. I hurt now and I need to heal. It drags me to her door.
The knock is terribly loud. It echoes: the unwanted sound rejected from every surface surrounding me. I feel it hit me on its way back, suddenly panic. What am I doing here? If she hadn't let me use her bathroom I wouldn't even know her apartment number. And now I'm turning up like a stalker from a scary movie.
My legs tense like they might run off without my head. But the lock is sliding open.
"Mike," she says softly.
All at once I know I haven't overestimated her. I haven't done her justice at all. Her dark hair is a messy ponytail more falling out than holding up. She pulls the hem of a soft-looking grey shirt down toward little shorts with black and pink stripes. She's wearing socks but no bra. Sophie is absolutely stunning and I am completely, arrogantly and unwantedly invading her life.
"Hi Soph... I... sorry," I stutter.
She takes a step toward me, pulls the door closed behind her. And then it hits me - the possibility, no certainty, I never considered. She's not here alone. Look at her: light eyes drowsy with sleep, hair flat at the back from her pillow. How could she possibly be sleeping alone?
"I'm so sorry, you've got company, I don't know why I... sorry to bother you." I retreat. "I'll just go. I'm going."
Backpedalling isn't enough - I start to turn away from her. I shake my hands to show I mean no harm.
"Mike, wait."
Freeze.
“It’s okay. It’s just my dog - if he gets excited he’ll keep me up all night.”
I’d like to keep her up all night.
Shut up, I tell myself. That it not why I came here, though my arrival was just as driven by pure gut reaction. Something about her - the threadbare look of that t-shirt she’d had for years, the bright color of her oversized socks - says that everything is going to be okay.
We’re still in the hall. I’m out of excuses.
“I just wanted to see you.”
Something happened at the end of tonight’s game, as I dragged myself into the locker room knowing the entire game could have been different if not for me. I wanted nothing more than to disappear. No one even asked if I wanted to talk to the media - they were so mad or ashamed or frustrated they just sent me off like a kid with no supper. In the equipment room, the secret place where bad hockey players change so no one will interview them, I thought of Sophie.
I thought of the way she held her beer bottle by the neck when she wasn’t drinking, not wanting to make the bottle warm with her palm. The way she put her feet under Nicky’s leg so she could make room for someone to share her seat. The way her hand tossed the hair from her face when she leaned forward laughing.
I just wanted to see her.
“Come on in,” she said.
Her apartment is small but cozy. As she locks the door behind me, the tick-tick-tick of nails sounds of the hardwood floor. A Boston Terrier looks up at me from the hallway.
“That’s Papes.” Then she tells the dog, “This is Mike.”
The dog tilts its head, considering whether or not I was worth getting out of bed to inspect. Eventually he gives in, trots over and sniffs my shoes.
“Show Mike where to sit, P.”
Instead I lead the dog to an overstuffed couch that looks like it could swallow me whole. How I wish it would. Amid her soft throw blanket, the TV remote and a copy of Vanity Fair, I sit down like a kid picking up his prom date, waiting to meet her dad. Never has a five thousand dollar suit looked so out of place. With the dog’s permission, I take off my coat and hang it over the back of a chair. The tie that’s been choking me all night gets loosened but not removed. I’ve been presumptuous enough just coming here.
Sophie carefully places two steaming mugs on the coffee table, then sits down not too far from me.
“It’s Sleepy Time, hope that’s okay.” She lifts the cup to those perfect lips and blows gently onto the surface of the water. A little waft of flower smell passes between us. Tentatively she takes a sip. “I drink it when I can’t sleep.”
“Or when someone wakes you up.”
A tiny smile. “I was awake. In bed, but awake.”
Bed. Her bed must be soft, like this couch, and probably still warm. My shoulders and back ache, the cramps spearing down from my neck. It’s just tension and stress but it feels like a bruise.
“Sorry about the game,” she finally says. I try to look at her, but stop. Turn away. My face must be red with shame, even in the single dim light she’s turned on. It’s worse than the pain. I just shake my head.
“Oh Mike.” I feel her touch on my neck - my skin must burn her skin. But her hand is cool as a compress and feels just as soothing. I rock toward her involuntarily. She puts the mug down and slides over.
Then Sophie puts her arms around me. Like I’m not half again her size and twice her weight. Like I’m not some pampered professional athlete while the rest of the world has real problems. Like she knows me. Sophie touches me like she knows me.
I give up right then. There is no dignity left after coming here, no cool way to play this. There’s just me, coming apart and asking her for help. I sag against her: she leans back and I pull my feet up until I’m laying in her arms.
My head is on her chest, and I remind myself not to remember she’s got nothing on under her t-shirt. She gingerly touches my hair, which for once I haven’t bothered to style. And I’m grateful - her fingers feel wonderful as they stroke my scalp and around my hairline. I’m so tired I could sleep right here, like this, for a week. Maybe a month. I’d wake up and we’d have won the Cup; just put my name on it I don’t care if I’m nowhere to be found.
Her fingers undo the knot on my tie. She opens the top two buttons of my shirt, each one like she’s relieving dangerous pressure from my system. I sink further into the couch, into her. Sophie puts her hand on my chest, just inside the collar of my shirt, like she’s checking my heartbeat. It’s the single most soothing thing anyone has ever done.
“I’m sorry, Mike,” she says quietly.
How could I have ever doubted coming here? She’s barely spoken and already I feel a million times better. At the side of the coffee table, the dog lays down but his eyes don’t leave me.
“What’s his name?”
“Papes.”
“What is that?”
“He’s black and white, like a newspaper. So we call him Papes.”
Oh, that’s cute. But..., “Who’s we?” I ask of the girl that has let me into her house, onto her couch and into her arms, holding me like a lifeguard who knows a drowning man when she sees one.
“Me and my brother. It’s from a movie an old Disney movie called Newsies.”
“Ah.”
She goes back to tracing along my ear, just once touching the still-raised scar that caused part of my head injury problems. Sophie would know all about it, since she knows all about us. I wonder what she’s thinking about.
“What did you drive here?”
“My truck.”
“Okay.”
“Why?”
“If it was something fancy, I’d give you my parking spot. I would feel bad if anything happened.”
Seems we’re both on the same page: I’m not leaving tonight.
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