Chasing Stanley (31 page)

Satisfied she was sated, Jason took his turn, throwing himself into the moment with joyful abandon, Delilah's body both his shelter and his treasure. When he came, it was accompanied by that roaring tide he'd so long ago imagined would herald love. Jason let it carry him away.

Jason was still
feeling on top of the world as he returned home from practice the next day. Practice had gone well, and there was something about the icy December air he found invigorating. With Christmas less than a month away, the city was alive with good cheer and anticipation.

Eric was sitting on the couch watching TV, his feet stretched out on the coffee table. A crumpled bag of potato chips lay against his side, which he reached into with hypnotized regularity.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jason asked, tossing his keys onto a nearby table. He'd been looking forward to relaxing, maybe taking Stan for a stroll and catching up on back issues of
Sports Illustrated
before heading back out for tonight's game. Instead, he'd be playing reluctant host to Eddie Haskell.

Eric dipped into the chip bag. “Nice to see you, too.”

“I'm serious: what are you doing here?”

“My TV died.”

“Ever think of picking up a book or going to a movie?” Jason asked as he hung up his coat. Stanley, who'd been fast asleep snoring when he entered, trotted over to greet him. Jason bent down to rub his nose against Stan's; that's when he noticed tiny crumbs flecking Stan's muzzle.

“Have you been feeding Stanley potato chips?” Jason asked angrily.

“Yo, check this out.” Eric shook the bag of chips, and Stanley turned tail and raced back to the couch, jaws dripping. “Stan the Man's learned a new trick.” Eric reached in the bag, holding a potato chip high above the dog's head. “Stanley, speak!” Stanley barked, and Eric fed him the chip. He turned to Jason, grinning. “Pretty cool, huh?”

“You're an idiot.” Jason stormed over to the couch, plucking the chip bag from his brother's fingers with a glare. “Don't ever feed him anything again without my permission! Got it?”

“What's the big deal?”

“I've spent months training him and feeding him the right foods, and then you come along and feed him this crap.
That's
the big deal.”

“He liked it.”

“Dogs like to eat horseshit, Eric.” Jason scoured the list of ingredients on the bag—not that he had any idea which might be bad for Stanley. “If he gets sick, I'm blaming you.”

“Relax, he's not gonna get sick.” Eric hit the Pause button on the remote, freezing the image of a woman dancing in a see-through sari.

“What are you watching?” Jason asked.

“Some movie.
Debbie Does New Delhi
, I think.”

“Let me guess: you rented it on pay-per-view, which means I'll be footing the bill.”

“I'll pay you back,” Eric insisted lackadaisically.

“With interest.” Jason glanced down at his beloved dog, salivating heavily as he stared at the bag of chips still in Jason's hand. “Moron,” Jason cursed at his brother beneath his breath as he threw the chips out in the kitchen garbage. When he returned to the living room, he swore Stanley gave him a dirty look.

“What just happened?” Eric asked, sounding almost resentful. “You looked like you were in a pretty good mood when you walked in.”

“I was, until I saw you.”

Eric gave him the finger. Without even thinking, Jason gave it back. They'd been flipping each other off for as long as he could remember; it was more ritual than self-expression. Eric was right: he was in a good mood when he walked in. He shouldn't have let his brother's stupid pet trick spoil it.

“So, what's going on?” Eric asked as Jason parked himself beside him on the couch.

“Nothing.” Jason smiled enigmatically as he, too, stretched out his legs on the coffee table, lacing his fingers behind his head.

“Don't give me ‘Nothing.' ” Eric leered. “You score big time last night or what?”

“Why do you always have to reduce everything to these stupid, macho clichés?”

“Because I'm stupid and macho?” Eric offered without the slightest hint of self-deprecation.

“That must be it.”

“You gonna spill or what?” Eric asked, his attention drifting back to the frozen image on the TV screen. Annoyed, Jason lunged for the remote and turned off the TV. “Hey! I was watching that!” Eric protested.

“You can watch it on your own TV when it's fixed.”

“Whatever.” Eric grabbed a nearby pillow and positioned it behind his head. “There's only two reasons why you'd have that goofy smile pasted to your face: either Ty Gallagher's lost his mind and put you on the first line, or something mondo is up between you and Delilah.”

“The second,” Jason admitted, surprisingly happy at being able to share his good news with his brother. But Eric didn't react the way he expected.

“Oh, man. It's not serious, is it?”

“Define serious.”

“You didn't say the three magic words that guarantee you'll never see your balls again, did you?”

“Where do you come up with this shit?” Jason asked incredulously.

“What if I did?”

“Oh, man,” Eric repeated in a voice dripping with pity. “Bad move.”

“Tell me why—as if you were going to hold back.”

“Because it's going to fuck with your game. Have you ever seen me in a serious relationship during the season? Answer: No.”

Jason snorted. “I've never seen you in a serious relationship during the off season, either!”

“That's because I keep my friends close and my women closer,” said Eric. “Dude, you do not want to be entangled during the season. Especially
this
season, when you need to prove yourself to your new team. Dating? Fine. Screwing? Nice added bonus. I love you? Recipe for total destruction. Take it from Dr. Love: the prescription for good game is to stay footloose and fancy free.”

“If what you're saying is true—and by the way, don't ever call yourself Dr. Love in my presence again—then I'd think you'd be happy, because it would mean you could best me on the ice.”

“I always best you on the ice,” Eric replied immodestly, “but that's another story. Look, I like Delilah a lot. You know that. But you haven't even been in New York six months.”

Jason gaped at him. “Excuse me, but aren't you the one who advised me to ‘go for the big gesture' with Delilah?”

“There's a difference between buying a chick flowers and giving her license to start picking out china patterns. You don't know what you're getting into, my man, tying yourself down this way.”

“I'm not tying myself down,” Jason said tersely. The warm glow he'd been carrying within him was beginning to flicker out, replaced by a whisper of uncertainty.

“You will when you want to hang out with some of your friends and she tells you you can't, because you promised to go to her cousin's for dinner. Or when she starts simpering, ‘What are you wearing
that
for?' Or when some gorgeous piece of ass in a Blades Jersey offers you a pussy pass good for one night only and you have to turn her down. Or—”

“I get the picture!” Jason snapped as Eric sank back, chastised, against the couch cushions. “But you're wrong. Delilah isn't like that.”

Eric smirked. “They're all like that.”

“Yeah, like you'd know.”

“I
do
know,” Eric retorted. “Why the fuck do you think I don't have a steady girlfriend? Remember Barb Harmon?”

Jason squinted in confusion. “You mean Barb Hard-on?”

Eric frowned. “Yeah, her.”

“What about her?” Jason hadn't given a thought to poor Barb with the unfortunate last name since high school. The only thing he could remember about her was that her brother couldn't skate to save his life.

“Well, when I was playing in Binghamton, guess who was living there at the time and looked me up? Barb. We got serious, and within a couple of months I went from cock of the walk to balls in a box. It was a friggin' nightmare, Jace. I vowed right then I would never get seriously involved with anyone until my NHL career was over.”

Jason eyed his brother curiously. “How come you never told anyone you were seeing Barb?”

“Think about it: If Mom and Dad knew, all of Flasher would know. I didn't want to come home for Christmas and read my own engagement announcement in the paper.”

“You could have told me,” Jason pointed out, mildly wounded.

“Forget about who knew and who didn't, okay? My point is, you tell a chick ‘I love you,' and that's it, your life isn't your own anymore.”

Jason smirked with disbelief, but the uneasiness within him was gaining. Hadn't Ty basically said the same thing to him the night he and Michael took him out to dinner? He resented the insights of both his brother and his coach, not only because they were so bloodlessly pragmatic, but because he couldn't help but feel the comments were directed specifically at him, as if
he
as a player would be distracted, or
he
as a player couldn't manage a good season on the ice simultaneous with being romantically involved. Did they think he was a fucking simpleton or what?

“I'm sure I can make it all work,” Jason maintained stubbornly.

“Whatever you say.” But the skepticism in his brother's eyes told Jason he believed otherwise.

 

 

“What the hell
is wrong with you tonight?”

Panting, Jason reached up from the bench to accept the water bottle proffered to him by one of the trainers, rinsing out his mouth and spitting. The Blades were five minutes into the second period against Boston, and already Jason had missed one cross-ice pass and coughed up the puck, leading to one of Boston's goals.

“There's nothing wrong with me,” Jason replied defensively, though it wasn't true. Ever since hanging out with his brother earlier in the day, he'd been unable to get rid of the nagging feeling that Eric was right. That he'd already fucked up twice on the ice seemed to prove his brother's point. He should have been concentrating on his game; instead he was thinking about Delilah. Then again, every player experienced an off night now and again. Maybe tonight it was his turn—not that that was any excuse.

Ty said nothing, but his displeasure was obvious. Once again Eric's words came back to Jason. He knew he especially needed to concentrate this season, his first as a Blade. He knew he'd gotten off to a rocky start, but things had been going pretty well. But Ty's silence was damning.

“Get out there.” Ty tapped him on the shoulder, and Jason climbed over the boards and out onto the ice with the rest of his line. David was down with a killer stomach bug, so Denny was in goal tonight. Their eyes met briefly as Jason positioned himself on the wing for the face-off. New York cleared the puck to center ice. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw goonish Boston defenseman, Sam MacGinty, making a beeline toward the puck. Jason was confident he could outrace Macs—he always had in the past—but a millisecond later, Macs was on it. The crowd booed, and Jason cycled back to the blue line, furious with self-loathing. He should have been able to outskate Macs. That he didn't was solid proof he was truly off his game. Split-second, erroneous judgments in timing continued to dog him for the remainder of the second period and well into the third. He was losing all his battles in the corners and was having a tough time getting to loose pucks.

The Blades lost 2-0.

 

 

“What did I
tell you? You put pussy first and your play goes out the window.”

Jason couldn't believe it: Eric was in his apartment again. With his feet up on the coffee table again. Eating chips again.

“Are you living here now, or what?” Jason snapped as Stanley rushed to give his customary greeting. At least Stan still thought he was great. He checked Stan's mouth; there were no potato chip crumbs that he could see.

“My TV's still broke.”

“You couldn't go watch the game at a bar? Or get Met Gar to comp you?”

“I like the comforts of home.”

“Yeah,
my
home.” Jason went into the kitchen and pulled two beers out of the fridge, tossing one to Eric. “Did you at least take Stanley out?”

“Delilah swung by about an hour and a half ago to take him out.”

Jason frowned uneasily. “You didn't say anything, did you?”

“Like what?” asked Eric, opening his beer.

“Gee, I don't know, maybe something like, ‘I think having you in his life is messing up my brother's concentration'—you know, something like that.”

“I would never do that,” said Eric, tipping his head back to drink. “Even though it's true.”

“My concentration would have been fine if you hadn't planted seeds of doubt in my head.” Jesus, he'd never learn, would he? Eric's chief pleasure in life was pushing his buttons, and time and time again, Jason fell for it.

Eric chuckled meanly. “Oh, so now it's my fault you sucked?”

“I did not suck,” Jason snapped. “I was off my game. It happens occasionally—to everyone but you, I suppose.”

Eric's gaze was disdainful. “You call that a defense?”

“It is what it is.” Jason sank down wearily on the couch. “I'm done talking to you about this stuff. One minute you're offering to watch Delilah's dogs so I can take her out to dinner, the next you're telling me she's the worst thing that could happen to my career, short of breaking my leg.”