Chapter 41: Patty VI--The Way You Talk

A/N: OK, partial disclaimer on this one. As usual I know nothing of the intricacies of the past but hell, a lot of this one is on public record.

Chapter 41: Patty VI—The Way You Talk

This was an outrage, this was ridiculous, and this was the most irritating thing that Patrick could think of. He remembered feeling a bit ill the morning before the game against the Hurricanes. He had done his best to ignore it.

During the game he felt his usual energetic self, at the start of it at least. He went through his usual routines, he chatted, he moved, he drank water. It seemed all right. Periodically, he would look up from the net where he was at and give Michele a little wink as she sat up a few rows from the glass. Sometimes Jana, her little face marred by a purple black eye that she was immensely proud of, would shovel a handful of popcorn into her little mouth and then wave at him. He would wink at her too, and give her a little wave.

But he began to feel exhausted real fast between whistles, it was getting harder for him to think. Sometimes when he closed his eyes, it felt like he couldn’t open the lids fast enough.

"You’re getting old," the goalposts had the gall to hiss at him. "You shouldn’t be out here today."

"Shut-up," Patrick snapped at them, "unless you can say something useful."

"Fine," said the goalposts, "maybe you’re not too old...yet. But it’s her fault that you’re in this state."

"What?" Patrick exclaimed.

The conversation had to wait a bit as the face-off was taken at the other end of the ice. Patrick blinked and gazed at the action, a slight tremor in his belly, anticipating the worst to come from the men up there, determined to be prepared.

There they were, the group was headed in his end. One of the ‘Canes dumped the puck in and Patrick was already to meet it there at the boards.

"Come on Patty! I’m right here! Send it over to me!" Blake hollered.

Patrick looked up at Rob, meaning to send the puck up to him. It was a simple play, one any goalie could handle and one they were sometimes expected to make. As Patrick pulled the puck back a bit to pass it, he blinked and his eyes didn’t open. He felt a horrible dizziness as he lurched forward and lost the puck. Patrick’s skates tangled and when his head finally cleared, he looked up to see the puck being angrily swept out of the net by Rob. Patrick shook his head, listening to the smattering of boos in the audience. What the hell happened?

It didn’t matter, Patrick quickly decided. This was the third period and they still had a good lead. The only damage done was to the shut-out he was pitching.

"You Ok, Patty?" Peter asked him as he shook his head again and retrieved his water bottle.

"Oui, Oui," Patty said. "I just need some water."

Peter skated away from him, Patrick could see him looking up at the jumbotron and it annoyed him. He knew Peter was no doubt checking the score, worried that Patrick might somehow blow this game. Ignorant basterd!

"What were you talking about?" Patrick asked the posts during the TV time out.

"I was saying, your precious wife. She’s poisoned you and it’s her fault you’re in this state." the posts said.

"I’m not in any state," he snapped.

"It’s true," the posts whispered.

The team clamped down defensively for the rest of the period, and Patrick only needed to make three simple stops, and the game was over. Patrick, who was usually bored when he saw a three-stop period, was actually quite relieved this time. He was feeling worse, nauseated and his head was starting to hurt badly. He didn’t think he would have been able to make a save of any sort of degree of difficulty.

Patrick numbly accepted the pats on the helmet and pats on the back from his teammates as he skated sluggishly to the locker room. He couldn’t really hear what was going on around him, his head was burning up.

He groaned as he pulled off his helmet and let it drop on the bench.

"Jesus, Patty," Drury said quietly, "You look like shit! Are you OK?"

Patrick shook his head. He couldn’t open his eyes. He tried to say something, he tried to stand up, but all he could do was stagger to his feet and be dragged down by the suddenly unbearable weight of his goal pads. He lay on his back, only vaguely hearing Drury’s voice as the kid ran out of the room, yelling for Pat Karns.

It was an infection in his system. Not a serious one, but it was most definitely caused by the bite on his neck. That’s what the doctor told him. Bite wounds from humans were a lot more dangerous than ones from animals, the doctor had said, all the while keeping his gaze on Michele who had been squeezing Patrick’s hand. He was lucky that the infection was in very early stages.

He would need to spend the night in the hospital and they would see how he was in the morning. And of course, he could forget about playing any hockey in the next few days. The last thing he needed was sweat and germs in that wound.

That was the irritating part.

"Oh, Patrick!" Michele sighed, resting her forehead on the top of his head. "I’m so sorry, this is so terrible for you. I didn’t mean for this to happen!"

Patrick looked up at the IV bag dripping God knows what potion into his system. "It’s not your fault," Patrick said. "It happens. I should have had Pat tend to the wound sooner."

"But they’ll be keeping you from playing! Because of me!" Michele moaned.

Patrick leaned back on his bed. Inside he was seething. To be kept from a game, just because of this? It was silly! It was useless! He had played through worse. He looked up at Michele, at her teary face and he rubbed his hand up the small of her back. It wasn’t her fault. It was the stupid doctors who were keeping him back. How dare they! How dare they presume that he was as fragile as a bite wound!

"I’ll be fine," Patrick said. "Don’t worry. I’ll be even better in the morning and they will release me, I will get some rest. Now stop crying Mimi, you don’t want the children thinking the worst when you come home to them tonight, eh?"

"Oh the children!" Michele exclaimed. "I left them with Debbie, I need to call them! They must be so worried."

Patrick yawned. "Yes, call them. Now, go on. Go home. You should be in bed and I need to sleep."

Patrick didn’t open his eyes as Michele kissed the top of his head and left.

"Ridiculous," Patrick muttered to himself. "I’ve been through worse."

Patrick didn’t wake up until the next morning and he woke up grumpy. He was hungry and he remained quiet and brooding with the doctor as he reassessed Patrick’s health.

"I feel fine," Patrick kept saying, and he meant it. He had gone to sleep thinking only of how ill he felt and determined that he would feel a lot better in the morning.

Still, the doctor wouldn’t take his word for it and he ordered a set of blood tests and other such intrusions.

"I’m hungry!" Patrick said to the doughy, plump nurse whose nametag read Polly, as she tapped into his vein.

"I’m sure we can get you some breakfast after we’ve taken the tests," Polly said, dimpling her rosy cheeks with a smile.

"I feel fine, you know," Patrick said.

"Yeah!" Polly said, "You look a helluva lot better than you did last night. You have color in your cheeks at least."

"See!" Patrick smiled. "You’re smart enough to notice, I don’t know why the doctor can’t."

Polly smiled warmly. "Well, I’m sure these tests will show him how healthy you are, Mr. Roy. I’ll see about some breakfast for you."

"Merci beau coup," Patrick said.

Polly giggled as she walked down the hallway. Patrick could hear her say loudly. "Maria! I got him to speak French!"

"French, French, French. Nurses always love that French. I can’t compete with that."

Patrick looked up at the doorway with a smile. "Hey, Robbie," he said perkily.

A pudding cup in his hand, Blake walked into the room. "Coach sent me in to check on ya. How ya feeling?"

"I feel fine," Patrick said. "I don’t know why they’re keeping me here. I’m just hungry."

Blake raised his eyebrows. "Want some Tapioca?" he asked. "I can only have a taste before I go blah on it."

"Sure," Patrick said, eagerly taking the pudding cup from Blake. "I’ll eat anything at this point. Missed dinner last night."

"Awww," Blake said. "Hey, you look great for a guy with the flu. What did they put in that IV drip anyway?"

"The flu?" Patrick asked. "Is that what they’re saying?"

Blake nodded.

"You sure you don’t want anymore pudding?" Patrick asked.

"Nah," Blake said. "I stole it off some old lady’s breakfast cart while she was sleeping. I don’t need it."

Patrick grinned and scratched his forehead. "That’s pretty bad, Robbie." Patrick said. He licked a dollop of pudding off his finger.

"Yeah," Blake said with a dreamy look in his eye. "I’m bad. So you sure you doing OK? I mean overall?"

"Yup," Patrick said. "I’m just aching for some Cheerios or something."

"So that was just a lovebite that did ya in?" he asked.

Patrick nodded, bringing a huge smile from Blake.

"Jeeeez!" Blake laughed. "I can barely get Brandy to do anything interesting with her mouth! What’s your secret?"

"No secret," Patrick said. "Just lucky."

Blake shook his head. "French girls, aye?"

"Oh stop it!" Michele’s voice cut in from behind Blake, causing him to jump. "French girls this and French girls that! It’s ridiculous."

"Aw, come on, Meems," Rob said, wrapping his huge trunk of an arm around Michele’s waist and squeezing her. "Don’t play Miss Modest. We’ve all seen your handiwork now!"

"Patrick!" Michele gasped. "Are you going to let him talk to me like that?"

Patrick held up his arms and smiled. He was tickled by the way Michele sighed and rolled her eyes. "Sorry, Michele," he said. "Can’t help ya. I mean, look at me!"

"Ooooh!" Michele growled and Patrick laughed. Almost at the top of his Life’s Simple Pleasures list was getting her to hiss like that.

Michele crossed her arms and leaned back against Rob’s chest. That made Patrick want to stand up and pop Robbie one in the kisser.

"Patrick," Michele said softly, sulkily, "You have pudding on your face."

"Eh," Patrick said, wiping at his cheek and looking at his hand.

"No," Michele said, "Above your eye."

"I’ll get it," Robbie said as he let go of Michele and taking one long lumberjack stride to the bed, he leaned over and licked the pudding off.

"Hey!" Patrick barked. He was friggin sick of Blake’s stupid cow licking antics.

Blake was smiling as he turned around. "Catch you crazies later," he said jovially. To Patrick’s extreme annoyance, he snatched Michele who only barely struggled, into his arms and gave her a big kiss. "Keep taking good care of Patty, aye Meems? But try not to kill him, at least wait until after the playoffs." With that, Rob trotted out of the hospital room.

Patrick could feel his face flushing and Michele was blushing as well.

"Did Robbie just kiss you?" he snapped.

"Did he just lick your eye?" Michele shot back.

The blood tests showed a remarkable improvement in his condition. Inexplicable, the doctor kept saying, how could someone’s condition improve so rapidly?

Patrick wasn’t surprised. He’d once played six games out of seven in a playoff series while suffering through a bought of appendicitis, willing himself out of the hospital to play. As each day and each game wore on, the pain grew more excruciating to the point where he couldn’t bathe or dress without Michele or his teammates doing it for him. Still, as a game stretched on into three periods and his saves went past forty, and the Montreal crowd was chanting his name, the pain became something beautiful. He even had a brief fantasy as he crouched in front of his net that perhaps this is where he would die. How brilliant would that have been? In front of the cameras and home crowd?

Compared to that, this infection was nothing. It was cat-piss at the most, a kitten bite.

The news Patrick didn’t like receiving was that he would not be playing in the next two games. Precautionary measures, Pat Karns had said. Dammit! Patrick snarled. He was healthy!

You can sit in, as back up, was the decree from Hartley. He didn’t want to risk a more serious illness.

Shit-head. Patrick had thought.

His mood was at its worse as he slouched on the bench watching Abby playing starting goalie. "Little prick," he muttered.

Play between the Wild and Avs started off by hushing the Pepsi Center crowd. A slow, lazy, fluttering shot from center ice breezed past Abby into the net less than a minute into the game. Patrick sighed. Abby hadn’t allowed a first shot goal like that in a while.

"Good, good! That’s what we needed! The skinny whore let the first one go!" a nasal voice trumpeted from the Minnesota bench.

Patrick’s blood chilled as he looked over at the Minnesota bench. For a brief moment, he met glances with the Minnesota assistant coach Mario Tremblay. It was enough. Patrick looked away wrinkling his nose. As if this day wasn’t bad enough, he had to listen to that fat asshole all night.

"You know the funniest thing about Mike? He’s as garishly red under his fly as he is on his skull."

Patrick inhaled a piece of popcorn and almost choked senseless as Michele calmly handed him a glass of water. Michele had told him that on a frigid Montreal night in ‘95.

"Michele!" Patrick finally gasped hoarsely. "You’re trying to kill me aren’t you?"

"Well, it’s true," Michele said. "I’m sure you’ve noticed, Patrick. Don’t tell me you haven’t."

"Actually...I haven’t thought about it," Patrick said.

The couple remained quiet and sleepy for awhile, staring at the flickering television set. The news was on but they weren’t really paying much attention to it until the sports came on. They had been stunned with the news of Montreal coach Jacques Demers’ firing and they were waiting to see who the replacement was. The announcement was that Mario Tremblay, a man with no coaching experience but with Montreal brand name clout, was to be the man behind the bench.

"Oh, Patrick....no!" Michele breathed.

Patrick couldn’t answer. His mouth had gone completely dry and an angry sweat had broke all over his skin.

"I need a shower," was all he could say.

Mario began his very first day as head coach by calling a team meeting and as he strode back and forth in the room, his hands clasped behind his back, he proceeded to stare down every man on the team. His chin was jutted, his mouth was a thin line. For some part, it worked. A few of the guys averted their gaze, thoroughly cowed.

When Patrick received Mario’s gaze, he made no move to look away. In fact, he grinned. Mario narrowed his eyes.

"English..." Mario said slowly. "Will....be...de...langwaje...ov....dis....locker woom."

It took Mario an almost excruciating amount of time to say it. It was obvious how uncomfortable he was speaking the language.

"And he used to harass me about not speaking it," Patrick muttered in his own imperfect English. It was loud enough for Keaner and a few other teammates to hear. There were a few giggles.

Mario glared in their direction, and Patrick made no effort to stop smiling. Mario slowly looked away and pulled out a paper with a prepared speech scrawled on it. Patrick sighed, blowing air up through his shaggy hair. At the slow speed Mario was speaking, it would take him all day to finish. Aw, Patrick thought, Mario’s hands were shaking, poor rookie coach.

Patrick yawned and looked at Keaner as he was intently examining a hangnail on his thumb. He couldn’t stop looking at Keane’s flaming red hair. Michele was right, it was garish.

"Hey, Keaner," Patrick whispered.

"Yah?" Mike whispered back.

"Why would my wife know what color you are under your pants?" Patrick asked.

"Mmmm...." Mike murmured. "Same way you do."

"No shit?" Patrick whispered. "She never told me before."

"You never asked her before," Keane whispered calmly.

Patrick giggled. He couldn’t stop staring at Mike’s hair. A lot of it had fallen out in recent years but the remaining shock of it was a brilliant, flaming red. It didn’t even look real.

Mike looked back at Patrick, blinking his huge blue eyes. "Cut that out!" he whispered. "Captain’s orders."

Patrick crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue just to show Keaner what he thought of his captaincy. Mike closed one eye and scowled.

"You’re lucky my Jana wasn’t born as ugly as you, if she had red hair I would have scalped you," Patrick whispered with a grin.

They tried listening to Mario’s embarrassing stuttering for a spell.

They both broke into giggles again, setting some other guys off.

"What’s so funny!" Mario snapped in French.

"Nothing against you, Mario," Patrick replied. "It’s just the way you talk."

The team held their breath, some made some sarcastic "oooooohs". Mario stood still in shock for a second. Patrick held his smile. This is my locker room, Patrick thought. You don’t belong here.

"How dare you speak to your coach like that you pernicious slut!" Mario bellowed. "Don’t ever do that again! Or I’ll..."

"You’ll what?" Patrick snapped. "Bench me? That’ll get you out of this town fast, go on bench me! Then see where you can take this team!"

Mario looked straight at Keane. "Well, Captain!" he said.

Mike grinned and shrugged. "Hey I’m all for discipline in this team," Mike said. "But shit, I’m not suicidal. We need him playing."

Mario stood there, silent and trembling with rage. After yelling some expletives, he threw his crumpled speech onto the floor and stormed out of the room. Patrick sighed.

"Oh God," Patrick moaned quietly. "Are we going to have to listen to this fat asshole night after night?"

There were some more laughs from the team. That had been round one to Patrick.

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