Chapter 202: Dru IV—I Will Get a Smile
He knew of the players that had been on Team
He had
entered the Avalanche training camp of course ambitious and confident that he
would make the team, and unwilling to waste any pity on any Canadian player
that would be in a funk and asking for pity for their Olympic troubles.
The man had glowering, pouting, flashing blue eyes and a deep, sharp voice to match it. He seemed to be in a perpetual bad mood and when the goalie roared into a drunken fist fight with an obnoxious DJ at a party because the guy wouldn’t turn up the music Drury asked veteran Shjon Podein if Patrick was always like this, Podes replied that the goalie was usually a funny, charming man and he supposed Patrick was still in a funk about not getting an Olympic medal.
Of course
he would be, Dru didn’t say aloud but thought to
himself. He knew how he had whined in the press about not getting selected for
It was of no comfort to him however during scrimmage and practice to feel the goalie constantly whipping his stick against the back of his calves and ankles, shoving him out of the way.
“Something wrong?” The quiet, sometimes glowering eyes captain Joe Sakic had asked him when Dru had groaned after a drill, rubbing at his ankles.
“Dammit does he always beat on our legs like this? How are we supposed to play, Captain?” Drury had asked, wondering where exactly the line was with the Captain and the Goalie.
Joe had narrowed his eyes. “Stay out of his crease, and stay out of his way.”
Drury had scowled, watched Joe skate away, so there was the Captain’s pearls of wisdom for the day. The only thing he had said to him in three days.
There was a lot of quiet in the locker room at that time. There were the newbies or the lepers as Adam Foote called the rookies, and most of them were wide eyed and gushed about wanting to be the best that they could be or they were like the talented kid, Milan Hejduk who spoke no English at all and sat quietly on the bench, blinking, blinking, blinking. The roster players, the ones who were secure in their positions, whispered amongst themselves, avoided the rookies, and cast looks in all directions, always going quiet when the coach passed by them.
Bob Hartley, that was the coach and Drury couldn’t see much wrong with the man. He was exceptionally friendly, made bad jokes that only a Quebecois could get away with, had a very technical, practical outlook towards hockey and spoke clearly and surely. Chris liked him but it was obvious, from the way Sakic turned away absently whenever Hartley spoke and the others copied him, that the team did not want to accept him. What was funnier was that Hartley seemed to realize this, but he kept smiling, he kept talking and he kept laughing.
Chris leaned over to take a face off.
You’re doing it badly, you stance is wrong.
Chris stood up, saw Joe Sakic. What?
You’re stance, you shouldn’t lean as if you were tall, use your height and your weight.
Chris lost the face off. He glanced at Sakic. Try it again.
Chris lost it again.
No that’s wrong.
How should I do it?
Joe skated away.
Chris rolled his eyes shut. How am I supposed to learn if all everyone important does around here is pout about losing a stupid game they should have won, and pout about a new coach? I’m barely holding on here!
“You feel lonely, yes?”
Chris
looked up, he was almost the last one out of the
locker room. He was feeling a little bit better about himself after he had
netted three goals in practice on
“What?” Drury asked.
Sandis Ozolinsh reached out and
patted him on the shoulder. “It is a rough time now, for them. They feel bad
about the things that happened, I feel bad too. We lose first round, and that
hurts, we shouldn’t have. It will get easier, I see you frustrated, so is
Drury shrugged. “I’m okay,” he said. “I don’t need pity.”
Sandis seemed a bit hurt, frowned and he nodded. “That’s good to be so tough. They don’t like change here, it will get better…”
Sandis walked away as he was talking, his words disappearing into the air. Drury watched him leave.
“What a weirdo,” he muttered.
Her knees were bony, like her elbows, and her knuckles and her throat. They were the first things Drury noticed on Patrick’s wife whom he introduced as “My Mimi”. She had legs like a gangly teenage girl, and not in a good way. They were like the knees that belonged to girls that hid in the libraries with thick glasses, long mousy hair and with oversized books on their laps. The only thing you saw of those girls was their skinny knees, shining white like a star, flagging their awkwardness when they most wanted to hide it.
Those girls annoyed them because they pretended to want to be anonymous when they pined for limelight. Why they didn’t try to do something about it was beyond him.
When Drury had first seen her he had been hardly impressed. He had seen a gawky, breathy, rather vapid mother of three, a settled bird not unlike any of the other wives. In fact, she seemed rather common for a French woman, she had that usual blue eyed, giggling, rather goofy expression most of the French wives he had seen had. It had annoyed Chris more than anything, and he had not paid much attention to her at first.
He didn’t feel like he belonged here at this party. So he hung back in a corner, kept an eye on the time, and when he had been there for an amount of time that wasn’t too short to be insulting, he left. No one brought his absence up to him later, no one seemed insulted, and no one seemed to notice. He still got invitations to the normal get togethers, charity functions and he went to them. He hung in corners, and when it was fashionable, he left.
Honestly he didn’t care about the parties, it was the team he had to care about. Dammit, they had to make it so hard. He watched them do nothing but glare at their new coach, he watched Hartley strike back at them with subtlety with charm and smiles, and sympathy. He watched them fight with each other, and above all he watched Patrick Roy pout, play like shit, allow shit goals, cry about his uselessness, soak up the pity of anyone who would give it, and then repeat the cycle. Of course he would enter the team when they were in the midst of dealing with a washed up old goalie.
Drury watched Joe Sakic play and he had to admit he was breathtaken there, and he wanted to learn some insight from the man, but Sakic was distant, quiet, and there were whispers about the failing health of his wife. He was not to be bothered. Peter Forsberg was uninterested in hockey and male companionship outside of Adam Deadmarsh and when he wasn’t with him he was fucking every female in the city. Drury didn’t know if he even wanted to bother with him.
And then day after day in practice, there was the flaming, burning pain of Patrick’s stick on his ankles, on his knees, berating him, taunting him, cursing him. Chris just wanted the man to shut up and hold himself accountable.
“What are you frowning about silly puppy?”
Chris jumped, the voice had caressed his ear drums, tickled him. She was standing at his side, he hadn’t noticed her coming, and she smelled… smelled like spiced cake. “What?” he asked.
She looked like a bird, grinned, “I see you,” she said in a low almost conspiratorial voice. “Every party you are glum in the corners, how sad.”
“Minnie?” he asked.
She blinked, giggled. “Mimi,” she replied, “Chris.”
“I’m not frowning.” He said, feeling annoyed.
Mimi’s grin dipped into a mocking frown, it embarrassed him for her and he looked down from her face, noticed how her collar bones protruded, how the golden chain of the necklace she was wearing dangled over it into a shallow hollow at the base of her throat. He liked the way he could see her pulse there, throbbing softly.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” he said.
“Oh but I do,” she said in a bright voice and he looked at her again. Her hair, obviously highlighted, still wasn’t as dry and overdone as most old hockey wives. It looked silky. “You stand in corners, sip whisky like an old woman would, it is not good, I worry.”
“Don’t, it’s annoying,” he replied. If he hurt her feelings then that would make her run away to dote on someone else. Stupid biddy….
“You shouldn’t be so mean,” she said looking cool and unbothered. “And I don’t like you so lonely, you need to smile. I wonder if you even know how to.”
Damn this woman was clueless!
“I can smile,” he snapped. “I just don’t like to grin like a fake trained monkey like you girls do.”
The smile disappeared and her pointy chin jutted. She narrowed her blue eyes, and then she leaned forward, her lips near his ear. Her soft, fragrant hair tickled at his cheek.
“I heard
about this boy who never smiled, he lived in
Drury frowned, wanted her to go away. “How?” he asked.
His heart stopped, his eyes widened, his hands trembled and his blood raced as the birdy, bony kneed woman proceeded to tell him the dirtiest, perverted, most hilarious joke he had ever heard leave a married mother’s lips.
“Oh my God!” he exclaimed and he couldn’t contain the blushing in his cheeks.
She stepped back from him; a smirk on her angular face that glinted now, not glowed. She winked and the wink tickled him in places he shouldn’t feel. “See,” she said. “I made you blush and that’s a start.”
He frowned. “A start?” he asked.
She nodded. “Mmm,” she said. He noticed at that point how soft and pink her lips were. “A start, you blushed but you haven’t smiled. I will get a smile out of you, and you won’t be able to stop me.”
Drury smiled. “You can’t make me!”
She nodded. “I just did.”
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