Author: Rhi Marzano Censor: NC-17 A/N: [Thanks to Lynnmonster for beta! Apologies to Steve Larmer. Spoilers for The Blue Line and Eclipse; but this is an AU, yo. For the long-ass notes, click here, but I'd recommend you read them after the story.]

Being Joe Namath, James Bond, and John Lennon all rolled into one was not going to cut it.

I couldn't be Joe Namath because I wasn't two hundred pounds, I sure as hell wasn't 6'2", not to mention I was shit at football. I could do that James Bond charm but it didn't mean squat unless I had the guns and gadgets to back it up. As for John Lennon? Maybe I could be the Walrus, but fat lot of good it would do me. At the end of the day, I'd still be the skinny Polack kid sitting in a police station with piss-soaked pants.

I read the paper while I waited -- not because I was a freak or anything, but because maybe I didn't want to think about my pants or the bank anymore. At least not until I gave my statement. I bypassed the regular news sections, and read the sports section -- every line, every word. That's when the second part of my epiphany hit:

I could be Stan Mikita.

5'9", 169 pounds, Czech-born center -- he could kick your ass. And he did, a lot of it, too, until his daughter asked why he always sat in a box by himself. Then it was all, he could kick your ass, he just wasn't gonna, because he was better than that. I could be Stan Mikita.

So when I got home, I changed my pants, picked up the phone, and asked my cousin if I could have his old hockey equipment.

My first day of practice, I was scared shitless. The indoor rink was so much more threatening than the little ponds I'd been on. There were these lights, okay, fluorescent and horrible, a little box office with bars on the window, random benches and plants in the lobby, eight locker rooms, and two ice rinks. I stood, frozen, next to some kind of tree. Where did I go? What did I do? Why were there trees inside?

"Ray?"

I squinted at a girl walking out of a locker room. She was blond, she was pretty, she was... "Stella? What are you doing here?" I felt nervous, but my pants were clean and she thought I was a hero.

"Figure skating lessons," Stella said, gesturing with a small skate bag. "I've been taking them for four years. But I can't even do spins yet."

"I'm here for hockey," I said, then felt like a retard for saying it. Of course I was here for hockey, I had a freaking hockey stick and a freaking hockey bag and --

"That's cool," she said. "My brother wanted to play hockey, but my mother said it was a vulgar sport. So he took up tennis and golf." She blew a piece of hair out of her eyes. I thought it was weird that she had a hair out of place at all, impossible, you know. Because here she was coming out of practice, not sweating, hair pulled back into the perfect ponytail -- like, flawless except for this one hair. But then she blew it back into just the right spot.

What was I supposed to say? Tennis and golf were boring and long. It took forever for anything to actually get done. I guess I never was good at waiting. But I had to say something, so I managed, "That's great."

"Not very exciting to watch," Stella said. "But at least it keeps him out of the house for a while."

Just then I felt a thump on my back and I nearly dropped my stick. "You must be the new kid," boomed a voice.

I turned. The man had a mustache and a mullet, both grey. He was the kind of guy who looked like he should be smoking a cigar -- all the time. "I'm Ray Kowalski," I said, trying not to sound like a dork.

"Coach Downie," he said. He stuck out his hand and waited for me to shift my bag so I could take it. "We're in locker room 4. Why don't you start getting ready?"

"Sure, thanks." I looked back at Stella and waved weakly. "Catch you around, Stella."

As I walked to the locker room, I heard her ask, "Is it alright if I watch?"

At first Stella only hung around to watch if she'd had lessons that day. But then I started noticing her on days when she didn't have practice, and then at games. Sometimes she would bring her friends. They always sat center ice, right by the glass. If someone else was already sitting there, they'd somehow bully them out. You say charm, I say bully. Stevie Skwarczek called them my fan club. I didn't mind so much.

The night I scored my first goal, I found Stella waiting outside the locker room.

"You did really great tonight," she said.

"Thanks. I mean, I got a good pass from Stevie..."

Just the she leaned and kissed me. It was soft and dry but it was Stella. She stepped back and smiled nervously. "You were great," she repeated.

After that, she kissed me after all my games. And then my season ended, and I'd find myself at her house, and we'd sneak off to the park.

My life was Stella and hockey, but school reared its ugly head every once in a while. If I dropped below a B average my dad would stop paying for hockey, and probably I'd be grounded to boot, which would mean no Stella. So Stella started helping me to study once we started high school, but it was always at her kitchen table, so her parents wouldn't freak. And her mom would think it was nice that she was helping an underprivileged boy with his studies, as long as that was all she was helping me with, and don't make her spell it out. Every time her mom was in sight we acted perfectly innocent, and when she left, Stell would start it up again, skimming her foot up my leg.

The first time we had sex was junior year, and I'm not gonna lie. It was pretty horrible. It was awkward and we had no idea what we were doing, and then we didn't do it for another six weeks because she was paranoid about being pregnant. That time was better, a lot better. Stevie Skwarczek gave me some tips, not like I asked for them, just he started yakking off on the bench. But I took some of his advice, not that I'd ever own up and admit that to him.

The University of Michigan started recruiting me heavily, and it didn't sound like a bad deal.

"Michigan," my dad said approvingly. "Good school."

"My baby's going to college!" my mother exclaimed, pressing a hand to her chest, making this strange combination of a squeal and a sob.

"I'm going to apply there, too," Stella said casually, like she'd been planning it all along.

I signed my letter of intent. It was time to grow up. I'd go to school, get a degree in something, and get married. Oh, and along the way I'd get to play some hockey. It sounded good in my head. In practice it didn't work so well.

One, Stella didn't get into Michigan. This was weird, because she got into U of Chicago, which I thought was a lot harder to get into. But apparently Michigan's admissions staff are all crazies. "It's only five hours away," she said. "Only four years."

Two, four more years of school was starting to sound like an expensive sort of hell.

Don't get me wrong, playing hockey at Michigan was great and all. I just still had to do the school thing. I couldn't focus in classes. It's not like I didn't try, I did. But I looked at the boards and I couldn't see the words. An "I" would become one goal and a "b" would become the other, and then other letters would become defensemen and forwards. Then I could see the play develop -- the "a" would skim up the left boards, cross ice pass to the "j," "j" takes it in, watch out for the "c" 'cause he's a good backchecker, drop pass to "a", shot low on the right side, rebound, stuff it in. And so maybe my letters had scored a goal but I had no fuckin' clue what modernization theory was.

I came home for winter break and my dad held up my first semester transcript, which, let's face it, wasn't pretty. "These have got to get better," he grumbled and I said, yeah, I knew, of course I'd do better next semester. But really, I didn't see how I could. I just wanted to play hockey.

The second semester started and I began seeing pro scouts at our games. At first I was pretty confused.

"Where are they from?" I whispered to Dan one night on the bench.

"Detroit. Chicago."

"Why are they here?"

"You."

"What do they want with me?"

And then Dan stared at me funny. "You're eligible this year." It still didn't mean anything to me, so he clarified, "For the draft."

"Wait, so if I get drafted--"

"You can play here until they think you're ready. Or you can forfeit your NCAA legibility and play for their minor league affiliate."

I didn't tell my parents until I came home.

I had planned a speech, a really nice one, that would ease them into the situation or whatever. But the minute I saw my family, I just blurted it out. "I'm dropping out and entering the draft."

My father pratically combusted, my ma couldn't stop crying, and my brother just smirked because he was restored to his rightful position of perfect son. My dad wanted to kick me out of the house, but my mom kept wailing, "My baby, my baby," and so he let me stay.

June 11, 1980. Draft day. It was the first year that the NHL was allowing 18-year-olds to be drafted, and so all the teams were pouncing on them first. I was nineteen and I felt ancient. First round, nothing. Second round, nothing. Third through fifth rounds, no bites. Not even a nibble. But 6th round, 120th overall, the Chicago Blackhawks picked one Stanley Raymond Kowalski, and I was one happy boy.

"So you're staying in Chicago!" Stella said, and she grinned, and I hadn't even known she could smile like that.

"Eventually. I mean, hopefully. I mean..." I watched her smile falter, but what could I do? I wasn't going to lie. "They gave me a contract, so that's good news, but until they call me up I'll be playing in New Brunswick."

And then she was pale and she started rubbing at her eyes, and Shit, don't cry, I can't handle the crying... I had to say something, anything.

"Look, if I don't get called up within two years, I'll quit. I'll quit, okay? I'll come back to Chicago, finish up school at UIC, and it'll be okay. It won't be any different than if I'd stayed at Michigan."

"It'll be plenty different," she shot back, furiously wiping at her tears. "You'll be in another country!"

"Stell--"

"Don't," she said. "Just don't, Ray."

The next day I went to her house and asked her to marry me. She said yes.

My dad was upset that it hadn't been a Catholic wedding, my mom was upset that a) she hadn't been invited and b) she didn't get to plan anything. My brother seemed shocked that I'd landed Stella at all. They came around after a few weeks, mainly because they liked Stella, 'cause she was a nice girl and all that.

The in-laws were much more pissed. They thought about ordering us to divorce, but ultimately it came down to damage control. Stella had already told everyone she'd ever met that she'd gotten married. If we divorced, they'd have to somehow explain how their perfect daughter could have had such a large lapse in judgment and explain why their marvelous parenting skills had failed. On the other hand, it was much easier to pretend they'd supported our marriage all along. Because Stella's folks believed love conquered everything, or at least that's what they started telling their friends.

Thankfully they didn't have to talk about it for long, because Stella's brother saved our asses. He got engaged to this soup company heiress, and took the focus off of us. Plus, we got free soup.

Chicago called me up after one season, and good thing because I was going batty in NB. The people talked funny, the metric thing confused me, and -- oh yeah -- I saw my wife a total of four times. So when I got the call, I was bouncing around the room. Stella and I got our own apartment, and our own stuff, and it finally felt like we were married. I put up some pretty good numbers for the 'Hawks, and so after two years, they gave me a fairly hefty contract. We moved to a house, a few blocks from her parents and not even a block from Mr. and Mrs. Beef Vegetable. Not that I had a problem with that; her parents had warmed up to me (and my money), and we still felt indebted to the Soupsters.

That year Stella started law school and I got more ice time. We were living our dreams together. It was perfect.

I wanted kids. You know, two or three kidlets -- I wasn't talking like six or something, although that would be cool -- three forwards, two defense, and a goalie. But I knew she would never go for that many, so I figured we'd have one and I could talk her into a couple more. I wasn't really picky about gender, either. I just wanted some little Kowalskis afoot. We could turn one of our three guest rooms into an actual bedroom, maybe make the study a playroom. Maybe I could make a rink in our backyard in the wintertime.

More and more I felt I like I was living in a sterile hospital room, never really touching anything or anyone. Kids would mess up our perfect Gold Coast house, spread dandelions in our impossibly green lawn, and wreak a little havoc in our lives. At least then we'd know we were living.

I put the question to Stella on a regular basis. Not right now, Ray, she'd say. Maybe next year, Ray. It's not a good time, Ray. It was never a good time, and there was always a reason. She was in law school, then she'd just passed the bar, then she had a career, and Christ, she couldn't justify maternity leave when she didn't know what cases she'd be working on nine months from now.

I was leaving for three-day Western Canada trip when she said, "Really, Ray. You're gone on road trips all the time. You'd hardly see the child."

That was when I finally understood that there would never be a right time. "Maybe a dog, then?" I asked.

"That might be alright," she said.

When I got home, she'd bought me an aquarium.

I packed up the GTO with my gear, some clothes, and some records. My dad gave a quick look under the hood and proclaimed it good to go. "Not much room for Stella's things," my ma said, "or Stella for that matter." Stella wasn't coming, I had to tell her. No, we weren't having problems, it was just that the trade had been a surprise, and I didn't know if Minnesota would sign me again come summer. For all I knew, I could be back in Chicago next season. Once my agent knew a little more, that's when we'd deal with the house and Stella finding a job in Minneapolis. We were just being careful, was all.

Every word that came out of my mouth was something that Stella had said to me -- good reasons, they were always good reasons. But as I climbed into the car and made my way to the interstate, all I could think about was how empty the car seemed without her.

Maybe it was our mutually unfortunate names, or maybe something else, but Jude and I got along well. We had this connection. On the ice, I knew where he was without looking and his passes reached my stick perfectly. Off the ice, we were finishing each other's sentences and food. I hadn't had a friend this close since Stevie Skwarczek, except we were closer.

I moved into the extra bedroom of his house after about two weeks. I didn't want to get my own place; that would make the move seem permanent. Minnesota was temporary, I kept telling myself, until I could get back to Stella and the Hawks and my life. Minnesota was temporary.

Jude was temporary.

The divorce papers came in September, and I was numb. I tried calling her, but she wouldn't answer. I left messages at the firm, with her mother, with everyone I could possibly think of. And finally I just gave up and signed them.

"I'm sorry, Ray," Jude said. "Can I do anything?"

I looked up, wiped my eyes. "Get me a beer?"

"Except that," he said, getting me a tissue instead. "We've got a game tonight."

"Nice shot."

"It was, wasn't it?" He let out a little "woop," which I was just about to laugh at him for -- because Christ, who really says "woop"? -- when he leaned down and kissed me.

That wasn't normal.

But it was a dream, right, and who the hell knows where they come from. I blamed it on bad beans and tried to forget about it.

The next night, I had another dream. This time it wasn't Jude's mouth on my mouth, it was Jude's mouth on my cock, and there were no beans to blame it on. Once the dreams started, they didn't fucking go away. And then they started bleeding into reality, and I couldn't look at Jude without seeing him naked and panting.

"Kowalski," he said one day, "do you want to do something about this?"

"About what?" I started to say, but then I realized the way he was looking at me was just how I'd felt looking at him.

"Yeah," I said instead. "Yeah, I do."

Until he freaked out in our kitchen.

"I can't do this, Ray," he said, staring moodily at his plate.

"It's pretty easy. See, you take the fork, stab the spaghetti, twirl it a bit--"

"You know what I'm talking about."

And I did. "What's the problem? We've been doing it for months now."

"The problem is that my career could go down the toilet, and you know it."

"That's bullshit."

"It's not, okay? You can stave off the rumors, you were married for ten fucking years. But I've never had a steady relationship, I don't go off with the puck bunnies. Someone gets a whiff of 'Jude's a cocksucker' and I'm finished."

"So you're dumping me for your career, then."

"Hey," he said sharply. "I'm not like her. Okay?"

I didn't say anything.

A week later, Jude was traded to Hartford for Mark Smithbauer.

Smithbauer plopped down on the other bed and slung his feet up. "Give me the clicker, eh?"

The words didn't register at first, because they were so ridiculous. "What? No."

"You might as well. I'll be insufferable until you do."

"It's on SportsCenter. What more could you want?"

"I want the clicker."

I waved the remote at the TV. "Hockey highlights. What's better than hockey highlights?" I turned it up just to make my point.

"And who scores the winning goal but Hartford's newest Whaler, Jude Andersen," said Chris Berman. I flinched as Jude's picture popped up on the summary sheet. "Andersen was Minnesota's top-scoring defensemen until traded last week."

"Now that, I don't get," Mark said abruptly. "I know why I was traded -- same reason I'm always traded. They have to pay me too much money because I'm good, and yet the management and coaching staff always hate me. The prospect of trimming payroll and getting rid of my ugly mug is attractive."

I clenched my teeth and tried to pretend I cared about basketball. Drop it, or I'm gonna punch you in the face. If I thought it hard enough, and long enough, maybe he'd get the message.

He didn't.

"Little Judy, there. You two have been the bane of everyone's existence for the past few months, playing the best hockey of your careers. And from what I hear from everyone, you were best friends off the ice, too. So tell me, Kowalski -- what makes a guy like Judy request a trade?"

And I couldn't help it, I couldn't stop myself, I just launched my fist straight at his head. Maybe my hand stung but I knew his nose stung a hell of a lot more.

And he was grinning back at me.

I couldn't believe it. "You did that on purpose."

"You needed to hit someone," he said like it was completely logical, "and he's in Connecticut."

"You made me hit you."

He looked thoughtful. "Yeah, I did. Now go get me some ice, eh?"

I filled a little bag with ice in the bathroom and brought it back to him. "You got a place yet?"

"I'm looking around, but I don't know if I really want to buy something," he said. "I tend to get traded a lot. Selling is a pain."

"If you're interested," I said, "I've got this house. And I've got some extra bedrooms." And ghosts of Stella and Jude, echoing everywhere.

"Sure," he said, and that's when I noticed he'd stolen the remote.

"Maybe you've finally found your game," he countered.

Maybe I had.

We made the playoffs in 1990 by the skin of our teeth, more like the little hairs on the skin of the teeth. And it had to be Chicago, because God hated me. I had to face down guys I'd played with for years. Add to that we had to stare down Eddie Belfour, but that kid wasn't fucking blinking. The series went to game 7, but they sent us packing.

Our co-owner, George Gund, wanted to move us to San Jose; the NHL said, "No, sorry. Not so much. But if you sell your half of the team, we'll give you an expansion team after '90-'91." Gund said sure. Norm Green became our owner.

Everyone loved Norm. Norm was the savior of Minnesota hockey. Norm was a saint.

We got a new coach, too -- Bob Gainey. He was a first year coach and somehow, he knew what to do with us. How to motivate us. We made the playoffs and faced the Hawks again in the first round. That's where the similarities ended. All of a sudden we had this discipline. Our power plays were textbook, our line production soared, and everything was going right. We put Chicago away after six games. Then after another six with St. Louis and five with Edmonton, we were in the Stanley Cup Finals, and closer to the cup than I'd ever been before.

We won game one, and game three. A two-one series lead -- two games away from the cup. But then Pittsburgh came back and won three straight, and we were eliminated.

We'd been eliminated before, but not like this.

There was going to be a press conference in an hour, but Gainey had called a meeting to let us know beforehand. We all sat in the locker room -- where else would we go? And no one was talking, no one could breathe. There was so much oxygen in the room, but who could find it? The captain and Mark tossed a puck back and forth, and somehow found the energy to split the air.

"I heard Dallas," Tinordi said. His words rang horribly until he flipped the puck back to Mark.

"California, I heard." Mark caught the puck and turned it over a few times before his return throw. "But what difference does it make, eh? Anywhere's warmer than here."

Yeah, maybe warmer weather, but not warmer people. Say what you want about fans from Michigan, and Massachusetts, and Maine, but to Minnesotans, hockey is religion.

The only sound for the next ten minutes was that of vulcanized rubber and human palms. I just... waited. I couldn't stand waiting. I tried not to move because I was pretty sure my stomach or something was going to burst, and my entire body was going to be engulfed by acid, and then I'd turn into this horrible heap of grossness. And really. I didn't want to give Norm Green the satisfaction.

"Move, sell, or both, Coach?" Tinordi said when Gainey walked through the door.

Gainey looked like he'd been run over repeatedly by a semi. "Dallas didn't work out," he said. "California wasn't serious. Norm got sick of deliberations. I'm sorry, boys. It's a both."

Mark finally broke the silence. "Who's our new owner?"

"Frank Zuko."

Zuko, Zuko, Zuko. Zuko Enterprises? My head snapped up. "As in the Zukos of Chicago? The ones who own half of the South Side?"

"That's them," said Gainey.

Oh, god. We were bought by fucking mobsters.

"Chicago's already got a franchise," Mark protested.

"Yeah, well, New York's got two, and Buffalo's got another, and Zuko wants to prove Chicago's dick is just as big."

"Chicago any warmer than here?" someone asked, and someone else said, "Not by much," and everyone laughed. We could all breathe again. So we wouldn't be playing in Minnesota anymore, but at least we'd be playing at all.

And finally, I was going home.

Not home to Stella, or to the Hawks, or even to my parents, since they'd moved to Phoenix the year before. But there was something to be said for being able to go skating somewhere you'd skated twenty years ago, and to watch the kids who were learning just like you had. And you go to the pro shop to get your skates sharpened, and it's the same crotchety guy, except now he's 80 instead of 60. And he remembers you, and you realize your jersey's hanging up on the wall, right next to your rookie picture.

Home.

Now as for finding a new home in Chicago, that was a different story. Mark found a fancy penthouse near our new arena, and I knew, left to his own devices, he'd fill it with ugly overpriced artwork and way too much booze. It was also larger than any one human being could possibly need. "I'm taking the bedroom that faces the lake," Mark said to me, "but if you want one of the spare ones..." Getting my own place sounded like a hassle I didn't need, and plus I was no good at living alone. So I took up his offer, and left Minnesota behind.

The time was, I don't know, seven-thirty maybe. It was an off-night, no game, and since the next game was home, no travel, either.

The place would be an Italian restaurant owned by -- surprise, surprise -- Zuko Enterprises. Not my choice; Mark had made me go -- "'Cause we're professional athletes, Ray, we can't just order in pizza." Which made about as much sense as eating pizza in the first place. Lord knew the trainer was going to bitch us both out for it tomorrow.

The person had the most gorgeous ass I'd ever seen. Not that the rest of him wasn't gorgeous, because it was. But that ass belonged to one Constable Benton Fraser, an old friend of Mark's from BlechBlahBluk -- somewhere very cold, very north from the sounds of it.

Childhood friends of current buddies were off-limits, but tell that to my dick.

BEEP BEEP BEEP, screamed my head, and then Mark's pager started going off, echoing the wrongness of it all.

Mark glanced down. "Damn, it's Nancy."

Had I missed a change of girlfriend? Not that it wasn't impossible, or even unlikely -- Mark was always dating some new girl, who pretty much always looked like the old girl. It was just I was already feeling like a bad friend with this whole lusting-after-his-childhood-friend thing, and adding the fact that I didn't even know who he was dating was not something I needed. "Weren't you dating a Stacy?"

"Tracy, that's her name," Mark said, not even bothering to sound embarrassed. "I'm going to call her real quick. Ben, I'm sure you can handle Ray on your own?"

"Actually I just came over to say hello," Ben said. "I'm here with my partner, and I'm afraid he might be put out if I leave him much longer."

"Well, feel free to drop by the apartment any time you like," Mark said. "Let me write down the address." He scribbled it on a napkin, handed it over, and headed off to find a phone.

Despite what he'd said, Ben lingered. "I just wanted to say that you're a terrific hockey player," he said.

Oh Christ, no blushing. "I got lucky. But thanks."

"All the same, it's nice meeting you." He meant it, and I could tell.

"You, too."

Then he smiled at me, and really, God was punishing me. On a scale of one to ten in not fairness, this was a fifty billion. I forced a smile in return, and off he went.

Out of my life.

"Are you defaming the Goat?"

"I'm not defaming it--"

"I hope you're not, because if you were, I would have no problem letting you call a taxi--"

"--it's just you have plenty of money, and I'd think you could afford a new car."

"How many times do I have to tell you?" I slid into my seat and fastened my seatbelt. "New cars--"

"New cars have no soul, right," Mark said, sighing. "And probably a million times."

"You want me to stitch it on a pillow for you?"

"You know how to do that?"

"No," I said as I turned on the car. "But it's an important life lesson, and I'd learn how to cross-stitch if it meant you would stop bugging me about my car."

Mark shut his door, and for about a minute I thought we were actually going to have a quiet ride over to the arena. As usual, I was wrong.

"You ever think about retirement?"

I shot him a look. "Yeah, if I want to be depressed."

"I'm serious," he insisted. "I'm thirty-four, you're--"

"Thirty-four." God, did he really have to bring this up now? My head was already aching, and the subject wasn't going to make it any better. "And the going rate for wingers like me is another three or four years, until I'm too slow to be useful. You, on the other hand, are big enough that they'll put you on defense for a couple of years, which means you can probably milk the league until you're forty." Hopefully this would shut him up.

It didn't. "I know, I know. But... what happens when we're done?"

"You could settle down with one of your million girlfriends, have some kids, play some golf." I kept one hand on the wheel and brought the other to rub my forehead. It was like there was some kind of knot in there, one of those tricky knots developed by sailors who had nothing else better to do.

"I guess." He was still looking at me though, and I knew he wasn't done. "What are you going to do?"

"Well, I'm sure your new wife would object to my presence, so I'd have to find a new roommate--"

"Seriously, Ray."

"I don't know. I'm no good at being alone, but it seems I'm no good at being in love, either."

"Maybe you haven't met the right person."

I could already see the wheels turning. "I don't need you to be my own living Hallmark card, and I don't want you to fix me up with one of your exes. Leave me alone, Marky."

"Okay," he said. "Okay." But knowing him, it wouldn't be the end of it.

"Oh my god," said the kid, looking and sounding like he was going to faint. "You're Ray Kowalski."

"That's me," I said, and even though my head was pounding I tried to remember his name. "Phelps, right?"

He beamed and I knew I'd made his week. I'd been in his spot -- first game in the majors. The most terrifying and exciting day of your life, all rolled into one. A little niceness on my part would help make that terrifying bit a little smaller.

"Tom Phelps, yeah, oh my god. It's just -- it's just I'm from Duluth and you were my favorite hockey player growing up and I wore your number in junior and I have all your cards and, oh my god, do you think you could sign something for me?"

Yeah, I could sign something, and I did, feeling older and older by the minute.

"Kowalski, you don't look good," said one of the assistant coaches.

"Headache," I mumbled, and started putting on my gear.

My legs decided to tell me that I was too old to be getting this much ice time, and it had to be a mental thing, because I never felt this tired. I had an assist early in the game, but from then on I was useless. Fanning on the puck, taking dumb penalties. When I nearly puked on the bench, I went back to the locker room, praying that Doc Marvin wouldn't say, "I'm afraid you're getting old, Ray."

He looked me over, took my temperature. "I'm afraid," he said slowly.

Don't say it. Don't say it.

"--you've got a nasty bout of flu, Ray."

And relief just punched me in the gut. "Really?" I barely made out, and he nodded. And then I threw up on his feet.

"--for coming over. He's not contagious or anything, but the doctors don't want him traveling, let alone playing. I'll be gone for three days, Rangers and Devils. Take good care of him, eh?"

"Of course. Do you have a number where I can--"

"Um, yeah. Here's my pager..."

"Thank you kindly. I'll let you know if anything goes amiss. Good luck, by the way."

"Thanks again, Ben."

"Anything for an old friend."

It hurt too much to keep listening, and sleep just sounded better and better, so I gave in.

(In the back of my head, I knew it wasn't real. Underneath it all I knew it'd been at least two years since I'd moved back to Chicago, and that I'd sold the house to a girl who'd looked kind of like Stella. But I accepted it, because you accept all sorts of crazy things when you dream. On a scale of one to blazing nuts, frying eggs in Minnesota rated pretty low. Maybe only a 'weird.')

It was pouring outside, just buckets and buckets of rain. I flipped my eggs onto a paper plate, one at a time. But the doorbell rang and threw off my timing, and all of a sudden there was a grand splotch of egg on the floor.

"Christ." I tried picking it up but the doorbell rang again, and whoever it was would just have to deal with it.

(Of course I knew who it would be -- the same person it had been the last time I'd had this dream, and the time before, and the twenty times before that. But I also knew that I'd answer the door, and be just as surprised as I'd been every other time.)

It was Jude.

His lips were freshly stitched, his hair dripping from the rain, and his cheeks flushed the way only they were when he'd been drinking.

"Miss me?"

I ignored the question. "Good game," I said, even though it was a lie. We'd totally handed the Whalers their asses on a plate. "How's the lip?"

He laughed softly. "You should know. You're the one who split it."

"You deserved it, though."

"Yeah, I did." He kicked at the welcome mat. "Are you gonna invite me in, eh?"

I wanted to say no, I wanted to scream, "You're the one who left in the first place," or, "Go back to Hartford, you fucking coward." But I couldn't get any of those words out --

(I couldn't ever get them out, not once did I get any of them out--)

I couldn't even move. He leaned in and kissed me softly, the stitches I'd caused rubbing against my lips. He tilted his head slightly, opened his mouth--

--and what the hell was he doing, licking my face?

(This was not how this happens. This was --)

I pushed him away in horror. "This is not how this happens. What the fuck -- no face-licking! That doesn't happen! The only licking that goes on involves my cock, and that doesn't happen on the front porch! This is not how it goes!"

And then I noticed not only was he looking at me with his tongue hanging out, he was practically on top of me. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to make sudden movements --

He licked me again and I freaked out. "Get off, get off, get off!"

"Diefenbaker!"

I recognized the voice, because maybe I'd been having dreams where that voice would say something like, "I'd just like to say that you're a terrific hockey player, and that I'd always wanted to fuck a terrific hockey player in the bathroom of an Italian restaurant," and I'd say something like, "Well, I don't know if I'm terrific, but I'm fair-to-middling at least, and I'll totally take you up on that bathroom-fucking."

But why the hell Constable Benton Fraser was in my bedroom took a backseat to there was a fucking wolf on top of me. "Get off, get off -- what are you, deaf?"

"Actually, he is," Ben said, sounding apologetic. "And I'm afraid he's a fan."

"Does he want an autograph or something?"

"I'm sure it would make his day," he said, and that sincerity was a killer. Christ. He took hold of the wolf's muzzle and turned it to face him. "Diefenbaker, would you kindly get off Mr. Kowalski? I'm sure he appreciates the affection, but he's not feeling his best--"

The wolf whined and jumped down to the floor.

I stared. "I thought you said he was deaf."

"He reads lips," Ben said like it was completely normal, except I was willing to bet it was not.

This was two, three, maybe even five kinds of insane. "Okay, maybe this is just the crazy talking, but there aren't usually deaf, lip-reading wolves in my apartment."

"I would be very surprised if there were."

"Also," I said, wagging a finger, "not usually Mounties, either."

"Ah, but I'm not here in any official capacity." He smiled, and thank god I had a blanket covering me up. "Mark simply asked that I keep an eye on you while he was away. I brought Dief along, as he tends to get into trouble if I'm away for extended periods of time."

"Imagine that," I muttered.

He reached out and brushed my forehead with the back of his hand. "You're quite warm," he said. "I'll go fetch you an aspirin and some water."

I watched his perfect ass -- in jeans, Christ, in jeans -- all the way out of the room, and I prayed that Mark would be home soon.

Really soon.

I made it to the bathroom although I'm pretty sure I looked wasted off my ass. Once I got that business taken care of, I got to thinking. If Ben didn't notice that I got up just now, maybe I could sneak out, drive to the rink...

But there was a fucking wolf at the top of the stairs, and apparently he didn't think it was such a great idea. And then Ben came out of nowhere, carrying a tray and looking cross.

"Back into bed with you," he said firmly. "You're much too drained to be out and about."

"I'm gonna go nuts is the thing, I can't just lie around and do nothing, staring at the ceiling or whatever. Maybe Brian Wilson could do it but I can't, okay? I need to move and I need the ice and you just don't understand--"

"I understand, Ray." His voice was so even, so measured, so calming. "But you're still quite sick. If you'd get back in bed, I've fixed you some soup."

He looked at me. I looked at him. The wolf started nuzzling my knees.

I gave in.

Ben placed the tray over my lap once I'd settled in, and then sat down on the edge of the bed. I tried a spoonful of the soup and it tasted ... familiar. Really familiar. "This tastes exactly like my mom's homemade soup."

"That's because it is. She called earlier -- saw your name on the injury report. She insisted on giving me the recipe."

Yeah. That sounded like my mom, alright.

I ate my soup, and we fell silent. It was just spoon clanking bowl, and a little bit of the slurping, but somehow, it wasn't bothering me. He'd made me soup! Which counted for something, at least. I leaned back against my pillow, and without knowing it, started talking.

"So. You and Mark met when you were kids?"

"We were thirteen. We would play hockey on the pond behind his barn, everyday, for hours and hours and hours. Usually until my grandmother came by to drag me home by my ears." He smiled, but just a small one. "I think Mark used to miss the net on purpose, just to see how far he could drive the pucks into the snow bank."

"He was good then too, huh?"

"Yes, quite. I think, in retrospect, that's why his family moved to Edmonton. Oh, certainly, his father got a better job, but it's every Canadian's dream to have their children play in the NHL."

"And kids above the tree line don't get drafted."

He nodded. "It's not that you can blame the scouts for not wanting to examine the Territories closely -- it is, after all, tricky to navigate in the winter. But it is a little sad that such talent goes overlooked." He straightened a corner of my blanket and looked back up at me. "And you?"

"And me what?"

"How did you meet Mark?"

"Jeez. I first met him... 1982, probably. I'd only been up from New Brunswick a couple of months, and I guess Mark was called up to the Senators around the same time. Anyway. So our brilliant coaching staff matches up our lines, and my center gets thrown out of the face-off for some bullshit.

"So then I have to take the face-off against Mark, and I'm thinking, Christ, I hate taking face-offs, and then he says something nasty about my ma and I lose it. The fact that he outweighs me by like, sixty pounds, and has several inches on me is just kind of forgotten, and I deck him, with the ref two feet away."

"That's... quite memorable."

I checked to see if Ben was horrified or amused, and it was the latter, so I grinned. "We have a long history of hitting each other."

"How long have you two been living together?"

"Ah, I went to Minnesota in '89, Mark was traded about a year after... so 5 years, then."

"That's longer than some marriages."

"That's 'cause we don't sleep together," I said, and it brought an easy laugh out of him. "Although I tried the marriage thing. I made it past five years, but not quite to ten. But Stella and I'd been together since we were kids, so if you add it all up, I guess that would make it fifteen years, total."

"You loved her," he said, and it wasn't a question.

"Yeah. But we were too young, I guess. We didn't know who we were yet, and there we were, trying to make an 'us.' It just didn't work." I was so sick of talking about Stella -- I told everyone about Stella, and I couldn't tell anyone about Jude. "You ever been married?"

"No, but there was..." There was some hesitation, but he overcame it. "There was a woman once. I don't know what we were, but we... I tracked her up above the 62nd parallel into a place called Fortitude Pass. A storm had been blowing for days; by the time I'd found her, I'd lost everything. She was huddled in the lee side of a mountain crag, almost frozen, nearing death. I staked a lean-to and draped my coat across it, drew her inside, and I covered her body with mine and I just... held her. For a day, and a night, and a day. I forced her to speak to me, anything to keep her from succumbing to the cold. She had the most beautiful voice... but she also had a darkness inside her. It ended... badly."

"I'm sorry," I said. I got the feeling that he didn't talk about this very often, because the pain was audible.

"Was there anyone after Stella?" he asked, and I recognized it for what it was. A desperate subject change.

He'd trusted me enough to open up, and maybe I trusted him, too. "I was in Minnesota, and the ink was barely dry on the papers. All I had left was hockey and my best friend. And it was okay, because we were close. Closer than I'd ever been with anyone. And I thought, I can do this. I can do life, as long as I've got him with me. And for a few months, it was great."

"And?"

"You know there's an 'and.' One day we were eating dinner and he just freaked. 'I can't do this,' and 'My career could go down the toilet,' and nothing I could say would change his mind. I'd say it ended badly, but that wasn't the end of it. Every time he was in town, he'd show up drunk at my door, and... I guess the ending just got worse and worse. And it makes me worry about the real ending.

"Now... I don't know anymore. My life for so long was Stella and hockey, and then I lost Stella and it became Jude and hockey. And now it's just hockey -- well, kind of Mark, but I've already mentioned we don't sleep together, and I don't really want to anyway because he sleeps with so many women I'm sure he's got diseases. But Mark will go, and soon I'll have to retire and I'll have nothing left. And then, you know, what do I do until I die?"

"That's... deep. And more than a little depressing."

I yawned. "On the outside, I'm a lean, mean, goal-scoring machine. On the inside I'm a fucking poet."

"And you're tired." He took away the tray and felt my forehead again. "Take a nap."

"You don't believe me," I said in a kind of sleepy outrage.

"I believe you."

"I'll write you a damn sonnet, you'll see..."

"Feel free. But after you get some rest, if you please."

"...fucking... iambic.. kilometer. Delimiter. Somethingmeter."

"Rest, Ray."

And so I did.

"You're up," he said, placing a bookmark on his page. "I was just doing some reading. I could read to you, if you like."

"No thanks," I said. "Je ne parle pas français."

"You have a nice accent for not speaking French."

"That would be courtesy of New Brunswick, one year. That's pretty much all I can say. That and um, 'Je voudrais de la bière,' and 'Désolé, je suis américain.'"

"All useful phrases." He set the book down. "Perhaps a game of chess, then?"

"That I can do. There's a set in the closet, there."

We decided to set it up on the tray that formerly held my soup bowl. "You want white or black?" I asked, 'cause maybe I was the one bedridden, but it was my apartment. Technically, he was my guest.

"White," he decided, pulling out the pieces. "What's the ante?"

I stared. "You want to bet?"

"Well, it just gives each of us some sort of stake in the outcome."

I narrowed my eyes. "If you're thinking that I'm just going to play crap chess because I'm sick, you are sorely mistaken."

Ben wasn't budging. "Ante?"

"Jesus -- ugh. Okay. How about we play for air, how's that?"

"That will do."

"So I bet ten of... air..."

"Fair enough."

"This is really ridiculous, you know."

"You've already bet," he said, and made his first move.

If you thought about it enough, chess was a lot like hockey. Disregard the ice, and the physical activity, the whole team concept... Okay, so on the surface, they weren't very much alike at all. Except that a good play-reader would win, nearly every time.

My play-reading was the reason I was still alive in the NHL, but this wasn't something I was about to share. There was air on the line, you see. Ten of it.

It took me fourteen moves. "Checkmate," and it rolled so nicely off my tongue. "Double or nothing?"

He looked stunned. "Yes, yes. Absolutely."

It probably took longer to set up the pieces than it did for me to finish the next round. Nine moves, hot cha. "Again?"

"Again," he said grimly.

When all was said and done, Ben owed me loads of air, and I owed him squat. Which maybe in some places meant the same thing.

"Are you done?" I asked.

"I'm not very used to losing," he said, and he sounded more than a little baffled. "But I suppose I should retire now to save my remaining scraps of dignity."

"Aw, come on, I didn't whip you that bad."

"No, I assure you, I am most gravely wounded." His face was serious but his eyes gave him away.

"You've got from now until this chess set is put away to come up with 320 of air, or I'll have to, um, break your leg or something. I don't know what real mobsters do. Frank Zuko always sends me fruit baskets, but that doesn't seem very menacing."

He paused in front of the closet and looked back at me. "Frank Zuko sends you fruit?"

"Yeah, he's my boss. Owns the Stars, you know? And he loves me 'cause I was born in Chicago. The Blackhawks have Chelios as their native son these days, so Zuko's more than happy to parade me around. You know, to show we're just as good and all that." I watched as he tucked the tray and the set up on the closet shelf. "Alright, pay up, or it's fruit baskets for you!" He burst out laughing and then I started laughing, and really, we were just a big bucket o' mirth.

"Not the dreaded fruit basket," he said between laughs. "Anything but the fruit basket." He crossed the room and bent down over me.

I stopped laughing.

Oh my god. Oh my god.

His hand was on my jaw, and his lips -- wasn't he supposed to be giving me air, because I couldn't breathe--

--forget breathing, I couldn't think, at least not anything beyond, Dear God, please that he would keep touching me.

He pulled back and I was dizzy.

"Right then," he said, exhaling. "I'm going to make some dinner."

Oh my god.

I felt... comfortable for the first time in a long time. Comfortable wasn't the right word for it, really, because my skin felt like it was tingling all the time and I was hard more often than not. But it was like I had a wall around me with most people, a wall I hadn't known was there before, until I was with Ben and it was gone. I couldn't really find a word that matched the feeling, but I knew that it was different.

Ben wrote down his address before Mark got home. "If you feel like stopping by," he said as casually as he could. But he pressed the piece of paper in my palm and I knew that it was an invitation.

Mark came back around four in the afternoon. Ben assured him that I hadn't driven him entirely crazy, and I declared that I was one-hundred and fifty thousand percent healthier.

Ben made a polite exit and Mark dropped his bags on the floor. "You look better," he said critically. "But your hair is still insane."

"My hair has character," I informed him.

"Oh, I brought you something." He handed me a business card.

It read:

"My credit is fucking impeccable," I said, "and I don't need a new car. But thanks."

"I was thinking maybe a Jeep..."

"Shut your yap." But I grinned at him anyway.

It was good to have him back.

"It's close to work and affordable," he replied. "And hello, lovely to see you. I watched the game at a neighbor's. Good game you had tonight."

"Good, my ass. I was great."

"And so modest."

"Two assists and a goal, you tell me that ain't great."

"I thought you were going to punch one of the journalists."

"Hazard of having great games -- people want to talk to you. And all you want to do is shower and leave. I mean, some people get off on the attention, Mark for one. But I just want to play. Does that make any sense?"

He nodded. "Would you like to come in, or would you rather stand out in the hallway?"

"Je voudrais entrer," I said expansively, "et je voudrais de la bière, because I had a great game tonight."

"Come in, then," he said, "but I'm afraid I don't have any beer."

"That is a crime, I tell you. Apparently you didn't know, but I'm the victor here and I get the spoils -- and when there are no spoils, it kind of takes the fun out of being the victor."

He closed the door behind me. "There are other spoils." He kissed me and -- god, he felt so warm and, and something else -- solid maybe was the best way to describe it, except I'd never really thought of that as hot before, but definitely I did now, pressed up against him.

"This door," I said, my voice cracking. "I don't think it's sound. Um. Structurally."

"There's a bed." His voice was so deep that it didn't matter that what he'd just said was really vague.

We stumbled together towards the bed, running into some kind of trunk, nearly tripping on a rug, accidentally kicking the wolf and somehow I lost my shirt. The whole time -- god, his mouth was hot, and I couldn't stop touching that ass of his, although really it was more like groping. It'd been so long since I'd groped anyone, and god, his hands were on my fly -- "Wait wait wait," I said, gasping.

"What?"

"I've got to tell you something," I blurted.

"Can't it wait?"

"No, no," and even though I was pretty sure I was babbling and unhinged, I couldn't shut up. "I peed myself in a bank."

"Is this a recent thing?"

"Not really --"

"Then it can wait." He yanked down my pants.

"It's just I'm still kind of traumatized--" And then I shut up because somehow my cock was in his mouth, and I didn't know what he was doing but it felt good. It wasn't like I'd never had a blowjob -- see: Andersen, Jude, 1989 and much of the early nineties -- but somehow it was different, because it was Ben. I dug my fingers into his hair and closed my eyes and -- "Oh, God, Ben." I started coming, except I'd never come this hard in my life, not even when I was like, sixteen, and I was pretty sure that sex with Benton Fraser was going to kill me if every time was like this.

Although, of all the ways to go, that sounded pretty good.

"Are you too--" He waved his hand, and what did that mean? Oh -- oh.

"I got news for you," I said with more force than I ought to have had, considering I'd just been blown for the first time in a long time. "I'm a professional athlete. I get paid for my stamina."

"You're also recovering from a violent strain of influenza--"

"Violent, my ass -- you want to see violent?"

"I'm not entirely sure I do --"

"Too bad--" and with kind of a "garrr!" I rolled over and pinned him with my elbows. "Yeah-ah-ah, I may look like a skinny bastard--"

"--your elbows at least are quite pointy--"

"--but I am a lean fuckin' bundle of muscles--"

He tried to wiggle himself out from underneath me, but I had way more experience in hockey fighting than he did. His apprehending-criminal-forces skills didn't exactly carry over like the time-tried-and-true pulling of the jersey over the head. Or in this case, undershirt thingy. It had a name -- something about The Eagles, thought fuck if I could remember what it was.

"You have a really nice chest," I said as I worked on getting off his pants. It sounded stupid the minute it left my mouth, but what can you do.

"Er, thank you?" His voice was still kind of muffled by his undershirt.

"I see a lot of naked men. The whole professional athlete thing. Really, a very nice chest."

He squivvled his undershirt the rest of the way off. "I don't know if that's supposed to make me feel better."

"Nah," I said, shifting down. "But I thought this might help."

I closed my mouth around his dick, and Christ, just like a bicycle. He made this strangled sort of noise and I took him in deeper, licking and sucking -- and it was weird, because while I'd liked sucking Jude off, mostly it was because it was an extra dimension of closeness. I felt sort of the same way with Ben, but it also felt more -- I couldn't quite put my finger on it. All I knew was that if there were a sport, a sport governed by the United Association of Sucking Benton Fraser's Dick, I would be tempted to give up hockey.

This is probably not the best time for an epiphany, I thought with Ben's cock in my mouth, my hands cupping his sides and my fingers resting on his ass, sweating maybe just a little but being rewarded by Ben's little pants. "Ray," he said, and all the million times I'd heard my name, it'd never sounded like that.

And he came, and maybe it was like riding a bike but even major cyclists run into shit sometimes -- in the end we were pretty sticky but I felt great, and he looked pretty immobile which I took to mean he felt good -- I crawled up beside him in the bed and rescued a pillow from the floor.

"Maybe we should clean up," he said.

"We're just going to get dirty again."

"Ah." A beat. "Good point."

"Don Henley," I said about ten minutes later.

"What?"

"The whatsit. Don Henley."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"That's okay," I said. "You get me more than most people."

That earned me a smile. "Good night, Ray."

"'Night."

"I can't think of anything."

"Do you mind if--"

"Not at all."

I kissed him again before I left.

I'd hoped to make it back to the apartment before Mark got up, but no such luck. "Good morning, sunshine," he said through a mouthful of eggs. "You look like you're glowing. Either you're radioactive or you got laid last night."

"Fuck you," I said, but I was grinning.

"I really hope it was the sex one because I was betting on it, and I just don't have an 'EVERYONE LOVES RADON' cake handy."

"Don't tell me..."

"It's on the counter."

The cake said, "HOORAY! RAY GOT LAID!" with lots of little flowers.

"Did you make this?"

"'Course not. Stacy did. She's a cake decorator, you know?"

"Tracy?"

"That's what I said."

"Hey," I said. "I brought beer."

"Hello, why yes, I'm doing fine, thank you for asking--"

"Smartass, I said, 'hey.'" I kissed Ben briefly and walked into his kitchen. "It's Canadian beer, even."

"I'm sure my country thanks you for your tribute to our economy."

"I'm sure your country does." I put the twelve pack in the fridge. "Oh, and I bought lube and condoms, too."

"Oh?"

"What is that, 'oh'? I'm sure your ass will be thanking me for my tribute to its comfort later."

"I'm sure it will."

The wolf trotted in from the dining room and barked at me. "Yeah, hello, you rangy mutt. I brought you some cake."

"That's really not good for him."

"A little bit won't kill him."

We stretched out by the bed in front of his malfunctioning TV and he told me about his day, something about an FBI agent and his partner nearly getting run over by a car. I wasn't paying close attention but I liked to listen to the sound of his voice. I told him about Mark having his girlfriend make me a cake, and he laughed.

The wolf threw up the cake on the floor, so I cleaned it up. And then I explained to Ben my extensive plans for his ass.

I didn't want to go to Memorial or our practice arena, because that would make it seem like it wasn't really my night off, not to mention I figured it would be intimidating for Ben. So we drove to the rink I'd learned at all those years ago, as it wasn't that far away, and Ben was curious besides.

The old guy waved at me from behind the pro shop bars. "Hey, Mr. Henry," I called. "Either rink open?"

"Yeah, yeah. There's a practice on Rink A, but B's free."

"Can I buy an hour on B?"

"I won't take your money--"

"Mr. Henry, I've got money, believe you me." I gestured vaguely at my old Hawks jersey on the wall. "It's off-peak, so you must be charging around 250?" I tossed out some cash from my wallet. "My buddy here needs a pair of skates, too."

Henry wrinkled his already wrinkled face as he placed the money in the cash register. "What size do you need?"

"Go on, Ray," Ben said. "I'll be out in a bit."

The doors weren't as heavy as I'd remembered. I laced up in the stands and wrenched open the door to the ice. After a few easy laps, I sat down to stretch. There was a strange peace about having an entire sheet of ice to yourself; it unnerved some people, but I wasn't one of them.

Skating wasn't something I had to consciously think about anymore. I got up and my legs just took over. Long, strong strides; lean and cross at the corner. I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of my skates and the ice.

I heard the door but I was focused. "Come on in, Ben."

He didn't reply.

I opened my eyes and shot a glance at the stands. Huh. Not Ben at all. It was a little girl, maybe ten or twelve, bright red hair stuck in pigtails, and freckles all over her face. "Isn't it a little late for you to be hanging out here?"

"I'm supposed to be in Rink A," she said with so much disgust she sounded like she was ill. "But I hate that figure skating crap. My mom makes me do it. She thinks that it'll make me graceful."

Uh huh. Like that wasn't destined to backfire. "So you're skipping?"

"Yeah." She tried to scuff the floor, but it's tough to scuff the foam stuff. "But when you skate it doesn't look so sissy. None of that spinning or flipping crap."

"It's a different kind of grace, I guess. You want to learn?"

Her eyes lit up.

"What's your name?"

"Emily."

"Emily -- how bouts I call you Em? And you can call me Ray. Now let's get you some skates."

"I've got skates," Em protested.

"You've got figure skates, and aside from having two edges instead of one, they also have a toepick. We don't need no stinking toepick."

I hopped off the ice and took her out into the lobby. Ben was still leaning against the counter, chatting away to the old man.

"Could I get a pair of fives for Em, here?"

"Just sharpened some," Henry said, and handed them over.

I gave her my extra skate key but I let her lace up by herself; I could tell she didn't want to be babied.

We circled the rink twice while she got used to the skates. She had pretty good form and decent speed for her size. I put on the brakes and waited. "Alright, alright, let's learn how to stop."

She slowed down and circled round me, gradually slowing. "Yeah, how do you do that without a toepick?" "It's um, kind of like a hop and a side swish. Like--" I demonstrated, then sprinted to the red line and stopped again. "It's really important, because hockey's all about quick direction changes."

She tried, wobbling and falling over the first time, managing a really slow stop the second time.

"There, you're getting the hang of it."

Em grinned back at me. "This is cool."

We worked on a few drills -- some basic puck handling, some shooting. She was a good kid, really focused. I could feel Ben watching us from the bleachers.

"Girls play hockey, too," I said before she returned her skates to Mr. Henry. "Think about it. Talk to your mom."

"Yeah, absolutely." And she hugged me and left.

Ben poked my shoulder and smiled. "You enjoyed that."

"Well I love hockey--"

"And kids."

"Yeah," I said, surprised a little. Surprised because he got me. "You could have joined us, you know."

"That's alright." He shrugged.

"It's just I'm sorry you didn't get a chance to skate."

"Tomorrow's another day," he said, still smiling.

"You could bring the turtle here, you know," he said after listening to that whole spiel. "You practically live here anyway."

There was some sort of panic button in me, and it appeared Ben had just pushed it. "What? The wolf-- he'd eat it--"

"Why would he eat it?"

"Turtle -- wolf! Natural enemies!"

"You're being ridiculous. Even if wolves did eat turtles, you full know Dief is more interested in baked goods than live animals these days."

"That's not the point!"

"Then kindly enlighten me--" and there was nothing kind about it, he was pissed.

"I move in, okay? Then you decide you can't bear living in Chicago anymore. You miss Canada too much -- and don't say it won't happen, because I know you. So then I'm stuck in an apartment, without you, without a bathroom, even! And then what do I do?"

"I don't know who you think I am, Ray," he said quietly. "But I know that I'm not Stella, and I'm not Jude. I'm not sure you know that."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Go home," he said. "Since it's clear that my apartment doesn't bear that title."

Mark stared up at me through bleary eyes. "What the hell are you doing home?"

"It's my apartment, too--"

"Ray, you've barely been home for a month now. Just for showers and clothes, maybe a meal here or there. So I know something's up, okay? I'm not stupid."

"I wasn't saying you were--"

"Right. So I'm saying, go apologize to Ben--"

"What?"

"Oh, come on, Ray. I saw how you were staring at his ass at the restaurant."

And then Mark asked Ben to look after me... Oh. God. I could kill him. "You set me up!"

"You needed to get laid," he said. "And you were depressing me. I went to all this trouble, so could you please go tell Ben you're sorry for whatever stupid thing you did--"

"Why are you so sure it was me?"

He gave me a look. "Please. Tracy made you a cake. It's in the fridge. Take it with you."

"I'M SORRY, I'M AN ASSHOLE," said the cake. The trim was made up of sad faces.

"Wait, how did she know?"

"Again. Please. You were bound to fuck up sometime."

"Thanks," I said before I left.

"You're welcome," he replied.

He did, just a crack. Before he could shut it in my face, I said, "I'm sorry." Thinking it would help, I added, "I brought you cake."

His face relaxed as he read the cake but the door wasn't budging.

"When your lease is up, maybe we can get an apartment together. Something in a better neighborhood, but still close to your work?"

He opened the door a little more. "You're forgiven."

I followed him in and stood awkwardly by the fridge. "I don't know if you know, but, ah. My career is winding down. In a few years I'll be ready to retire, well I don't know exactly about ready but that's the way it goes, not a lot of choice in the matter. And I was thinking, maybe I could start coaching -- not pro or anything, Peewee. But there's not a lot left for me in Chicago -- so I was thinking, I really liked living in Minnesota, and that Canada is really just two shakes away. Very similar I bet."

"I've already accepted your apology, Ray, you don't need to--"

"This isn't an apology anymore. I mean, it is kind of, but it's not. It's me telling you that you're important to me. Not too long ago I didn't know what the hell I would do for the rest of my life. Now I know what I'd like to do, and I know I'd like you to be there with me."

He placed the cake in the fridge carefully and turned. "This feels oddly like a proposal."

"Maybe it kind of is."

He just stared at me.

Oh god oh god oh god oh god-- If he said, "It's just I'm afraid my career would go down the toilet," I don't know what I would do, except maybe lock myself in a public restroom and cry, not only because it would be so incredibly unfair but also because he really wouldn't say "go down the toilet," he'd probably say, "go to the dogs" or just "be irrevocably damaged." But the wording wouldn't change the incredibly unfair part.

"How do you feel about the Northwest Territories?" he asked, finally.

Oh god oh god oh god and my heart was pumping harder than if I'd just done seventy sideboards, and my mouth was moving before my brain could register. "Wild about them. Crazy about them. That whole northwestern thing? Favorite direction right after south-southeast. And the snow, and the whatsit, caribou? I'm all over that." I cleared my throat once I'd actually processed what he'd said. "Is that a yes?"

He smiled. "Yes, indeed, Ray."