It’s easier said than done. There’s maybe six inches between the iron bars, or whatever regulation is so kids can’t climb through or get their heads stuck. It doesn’t give me a lot of room for maneuvering. If I don’t have one of those spikes close to my balls, the other’s almost up my ass.
“Dude. Seriously. I will knock your fake fucking teeth right out.”
He lets go and steps back, which would be fine if I was prepared, but I’m not, so I almost end up spiking myself on both sides. There’s a lot of profanity, but eventually I make it over the ten-foot fence of death and land in Lance’s garden, crushing his flowers. Not that he’ll notice or care.
I hold onto my balls out of habit as I pop up. “Fuck you, Butterson.”
“Why are you pissed at me? I helped your ass over.”
“You know what, when you almost lose half your dick, you can be lackadaisical about this shit. But until then you need to be a little more fucking sensitive.”
“Lackadaisical?” Miller grins. “Have you been hanging out with Vi lately? Or Waters? Do you even know how to spell that?”
“I hate you.” I stalk in the direction of the patio doors. They better damn well be open.
I stop at the gate and unlatch it so Miller can get in. Then I continue my irritated stalking. I pull on the door handle, half expecting it to be locked, but it slides easily.
“Oh, shit.” Miller’s behind me, surveying the same scene I am.
It’s not good. Clearly our friend has lost his mind based on the state of his living room.
“Lance? Buddy? You here?” I call. I have to step over a broken something and around a bunch of other smashed shit to get through his living room.
“You sure you’re ready for this? He’s gonna be messed.” Miller follows behind me, shaking his head.
Lance has had a meltdown. They’re epic on the ice; off the ice they’re destructive. I check the kitchen and then the rest of the main floor and come up with nothing. We don’t take off our shoes on our way to the second floor—there’s too much broken glass. Music is playing up there. Heavy, angry stuff.
I pause at the landing. There’s a lot of shit in the hallway. Girl clothes. Some nice underwear. And a lot of holes in the walls. And more broken glass.
Lance isn’t a bad guy. He’s actually a decent person under all the bullshit and fighting, but he’s got a complex. No one knows why, or what he’s trying to prove, because as much as he invites everyone to his house to party, none of us is close enough to know why he does the things he does. All I know is his relationship with his family back in Scotland isn’t good. The rest of them are in Connecticut, and he doesn’t see them much, either.
Miller goes ahead of me. “Romance? You up here?”
Lance stumbles out into the hall, his shoulder slamming the wall. He’s holding a bottle of booze, and his knuckles are bloody. He’s definitely responsible for all the holes in the walls, not that there was any other possibility.
Miller rushes him and grabs the bottle before he loses his grip. Lance points an accusing finger at us. “Why didn’t anyone warn me?” Weaving into the wall, he stumbles toward the bathroom. He doesn’t quite make it to the toilet, but at least he hits the sink.
Getting him sobered up for the game tonight isn’t going to be fun.
***
Over the next couple of weeks, Miller and I keep an eye on Lance. He’s not going out to the bars, and he’s not throwing parties, which is a surprise. I figured he’d for sure bunny-fuck his way out of his funk, but he’s not interested in anything—apart from training and booze, anyway. After his three-game suspension, I was sure he’d get himself in shit on the ice, but he’s managed to keep it together for the most part. He still leads for penalty minutes, but at least he’s not picking fights as much.
I haven’t heard from Lily at all. It should be a good thing, but it kinda bugs me. I decide I’ll be the one to break the silence when I realize our next Toronto game is coming up. This time I want her at the game, and then in my bed for the rest of the night. Unfortunately, the game’s not at the end of a series, so I don’t have time to stick around. But at least we can have the night—and breakfast or something before I fly back to Chicago.
Lily answers on the fourth ring. “Hello?” Her voice is raspy, like it was when I woke her up in the middle of the night—repeatedly—to get back inside her.
“Hey. I wake you up?”
She makes a noise that isn’t really a word.
“I’ll take that as a yes. You want me to call you back tomorrow?” I don’t want to, but I figure I should give her the option since it is kind of late. I don’t even know if she wants to talk to me. Maybe after last time she’s not all that interested. Although considering how into it she was, I’d be surprised.
“No, it’s fine. I can sleep later. How’re you?”
I laugh at her mumbling. “You musta been out cold.”
“Musta. What time is it?”
“Eleven.”
“Wow. I’ve been out for hours.” The words are clearer now, no longer running together with the heaviness of sleep.
“Working too much again?”
“Still. Yeah. Nice goal last game.”