Chapter 191: Patty XXII—T’as Compris Stie?
“Wooooooooooooo!”
The puck had bounced off Patrick’s pad and he stopped it for a face off. He heard them, just a few, perhaps it wasn’t loud, but it was enough to grate against his nerves. There were some sarcastic cheers. Patrick glanced up at the scoreboard; to be honest with himself he wasn’t quite sure either how this first period was ending at 5-0. Was it just one of those days? He hated it when teammates would describe it that way to him, as one of those days. He didn’t want to believe in that phenomenon that you could wake up one day and to bother would be useless because it just wasn’t going to happen for you.
Well it just wasn’t happening for him today, there had to be some explanation for it.Patrick sighed loudly, didn’t glance at the glass as he prepared for the face off. The period ended and there was a rushing silence in the building. Patrick didn’t know if there truly was no noise in the building or if he had gone completely deaf. No, he could hear something, a rapid, indistinct whispering, a frantic whispering. Patrick closed his eyes tightly, he couldn’t understand it, he didn’t feel good but he knew he wasn’t sick. There was something wrong.
Patrick looked at Tremblay as they were filing into the locker room, met his gaze. Now the ass will have the pleasure of touching his shoulder, telling him he was done for the night, replace him, touch his shoulder as he brushed by him on the bench, trumpeted his words of encouragement or criticism. Patrick sat on the bench, slid off his mask, waited for him. He was done. It wasn’t his night.
There was a dead silence in the locker room, not even Keaner had anything to say initially and he was the most vocal of them all. Patrick frowned and looked up, realizing that the team was staring intently at Tremblay who was staring at him. Patrick raised his eyebrows, stared back, at that bratty chin, at those vibrant eyes. Had the Red Wings even ten shots on goal? Perhaps they did, but Patrick knew his performance had been terrible. No doubt Tremblay was dying to tell him that.
Tremblay exhaled loudly, pressed his hands together, brought them to his lips and then he tucked them behind his back and walked stiffly across the locker room towards him. Slow steps, sharp steps that hammered one shoe at a time in his brain.
Patrick remembered the high pitched scream, the tears, how he trembled, lay on that very floor and cradled his injured body, he remembered the blood pattering onto his jersey, the man realizing his career was over. It was not an unpleasant memory.
Tremblay stopped in front of Patrick, he could see the freshly pressed pantlegs brushing against his leg pads. Patrick looked up at him, ready to take it, ready to… A white fleshed, blue veined hand that reached out and pressed into his shoulder, Patrick sniffed.
“We have faith in you, Casseau. You can hold us in little one yes? You will save us?” Tremblay said.
Patrick wrinkled his brow, looked at Mario in surprise. “What?” he asked.
“The team is playing like shit in front of you,” Mario said and then he turned and bellowed to the rest of the room. “LIKE SHIT!”
Patrick heard the grumbles, the exclamations of disgust and surprise. What the fuck is he doing? Patrick thought.
“It isn’t your fault,” Mario said. “We all know this. We don’t provide you enough defense and today we also provide you with no offense. We abandon you, we abuse you, CASSEAU, and we give you nothing, nothing at all for you to respect us. How could we ever apologize to you?”
You son of a bitch! Patrick thought, but he was in too much shock to say it.
Tremblay fell to his knees and pressed his hands into the tops of Patrick’s thighs, Patrick felt his back stiffen as he sat straight and blinked. Tremblay’s eyes were glistening and there was a smile twitching on his lips.
“I think,” Tremblay said loudly, “That every one of us has to apologize to Patrick for all the evil things that we have put him through. Today he is not feeling mentally prepared to play and what do we do? We abandon him to the elements! Ooo the hardship he must go through day in and day out when we all know that we would be nowhere without him, why we’re not even a team without him! And how generous he his with us, showering us with the pleasures of his friendship, him and his lovely wife.”
Patrick swallowed and he heard a few more grumbles a few more grunts of disgust.
“WELL!” Tremblay yelled as he stood up. “Everyone apologize to Patrick, one at a time! APOLOGIZE for not treating him like the KING we all know he is, our savior! One at a time, apologize and say your name and if you don’t apologize to him I will scratch you for the remainder of tonight’s game and the next. DO IT!”
Patrick swallowed, he really felt sick now. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him, to HIM in this locker room! Not now, why now?
“I can’t hear you!” Tremblay barked.
“I’m Mark Recchi, and Patrick sorry for not treating you the way you deserve.”
Patrick frowned and looked at Mark Recchi, saw the anger in his eyes, the disdain and he knew it was all directed at him.
“I am Vincent Damphousse and I feel sorry for you Patrick, me being such a shit day in and day out.”
The same hate was there. Patrick swallowed; he wanted to run, to vomit, to piss all at the same time.
The team reeled the names, apologized and Patrick met each and every one of them in the eye, saw the emotions there, the embarrassment, the irritation, the hate. They were hating him, they were angry at him for this humiliation, for this display. Patrick didn’t know what to do, not even as a boy did he feel this helpless, never, never…He looked down into Tremblay’s face, saw the triumph there, the unabashed smile. This was worse than even being pulled!
“I have you now. I win!” Tremblay whispered and Patrick felt his skin crawl.
“I am Eric Desjardins and I’m sorry for enjoying your wife too much.”
There was a round of laughter and Patrick didn’t even look up at Desjardins, he was fixated in horror, staring at Tremblay’s dancing eyes. He had lost… he had lost… it couldn’t get worse than this. After almost ten years, Mario had been patiently waiting and now Mario had what he wanted, revenge. Patrick knew it now, he had just been severed from this locker room.
“I’m Mike Keane,” Patrick looked up at Keaner, saw his eyes glistening, shining with tears, Keane swallowed. “I’m sorry Patrick,” he said. “I’m real sorry.”
Tremblay narrowed his eyes and turned around. “Sorry for what you red headed abomination, sorry for WHAT?”
Keane sighed, “I’m sorry for everything,” Keane said in a gruffled voice. “And then more than that, go to hell.”
As they were standing up, getting roused for the start of the second period, Mario pressed his hand on Patrick’s cheek, Patrick felt as if he were a boy again, didn’t protest, didn’t move. “You will play this second period. You’ve learned your lesson, now be a good boy Casseau, a pretty boy and you will see it is much easier if you comply, less responsibility on your shoulders. Leave the game to the real players. We can discuss your new role on this team in private, later on, hm?”
Grunting, panting, sweating hog on his body, under his blanket, sucking his skin, Patrick closed his eyes tightly, bumped into his posts. The dark was where he found him in the night, teeth on his ear lobe, a tongue at the base of his throat, the man had been feasting off him, leeching off him… “Think you can save us King Patrick?”
Patrick opened his eyes, saw his teammates laughing, who had said that?
“We’ll try to play better for you, don’t worry. We now see the error of our ways!”
Who said that? Patrick saw Damphousse grinning, knew the boy had said it. Patrick swallowed, felt himself redden but didn’t reply he was too embarrassed to. Even if they could forgive him he couldn’t forget this, they couldn’t see him the same and he doubted he would be able to either.
It went by, slipped by him, it was a shot he never thought he could allow, it went in he heard it, the groans in the crowd.
Eleven games unbeaten…. It will end tonight. No not eleven… he had eleven wins but it was thirteen games unbeaten… thirteen…
“Dammit Patty,” Desjardins snapped as he skated by the net. “Try making an actual stop! I know he’s an asshole but all of us shouldn’t have to pay because you’re pouting!”
Patrick ran a dry tongue over dry lips. Take another shot. It will be better.
I love you you stupid slut! I love you! Tears on his cheeks… tears didn’t deserve to grace his cheeks it was abhorrent!
He heard the groans from the audience, he saw the glares from his teammates, he didn’t even look at Mario. He knew what had just happened but he couldn’t feel that it had, he couldn’t remember that it had. He didn’t belong here tonight, he didn’t belong here, he didn’t belong here tonight….
Patrick felt tears rise in his eyes, felt himself flush all over with embarrassment, he looked at the scoreboard saw the seven glaring at him… seven….seven…seven… thirteen…eleven wins…
“You shit what are you doing? Embarrassment!”
Patrick looked at his goalposts, knew it was them who had said it.
Off the face off the shot came at him, Patrick snagged it in his glove, felt embarrassed as soon as he telegraphed the save, it was habit, and he heard the jeers and laughter from the audience. The arena erupted into a sarcastic, unified, loud cheer. This had never happened before. Patrick stood up, looked around at everyone, blinked, saw them laughing, some of them pointing.
Not only a locker room but tens of thousands…. He has won. I’ve lost.
Patrick crouched, bent at the waist and closed his eyes; he looked inside, where is my heart now? Where is my heart? Where is my courage? Where is my strength? The babies are sick at home, she wouldn’t even have a nanny to watch them, and I am alone tonight.
Patrick stiffened, saw the shot coming, and the thoughts ran through his head as if he were a minor league rookie. Do I catch? Will he shoot? Will he deke? What will he…
Whiffed by him, he heard the posts protest, he heard the dull thwap of the puck against the netting. He heard the howls of disbelief.
Eight….Seven…Thirteen…Eleven…
Patrick’s mouth opened, his throat felt as if it were raw and bleeding, eight….eight… eight….
He heard the boos, the jeers, the unified laughter. Patrick looked up, saw a woman, dry brown curls on the top of her sow like head, sitting in that front row, shaking her head in disapproval, what the fuck did a pig like that know about hockey? He felt his blood curdle, thicken, he felt the anger, it was cleansing, a relief… he was no longer stunned.
Hemmed in their zone, the shot fired and Patrick slid across easily and stopped it, froze it.
“WOOOOO!” the sarcastic chants and cheers began again. They were cheering as if he had just made the save of a lifetime, as if it had been an overtime stop on a breakaway, as if they were in ecstasy. Pigs! Patrick turned around looked at them and threw his arms up as if agreed with them, as if he had just won the Stanley Cup.
“Yaaaah!” he yelled and he saw the brown haired sow laugh and point at him, cover her face and shake her head, thoroughly amused.
“PIGS!” he yelled.
Thirteen… they don’t remember thirteen. I am entertaining them now eh? They love it anyway they can get it they love me anyway they can get me! EH? EH? Fucking pissing cows! I can win I can lose and they will cheer and they will laugh is that how they like it?
BASTARD!
Nine…Nine…Nine…. The ninth one had slipped by, it was in his net. The crowd exploded almost as if they were in delight. Patrick swallowed, forced the tears back. He couldn’t look at anyone of these people again, he was lost, it was gone. It was torn.
Nine…Nine…Nine….
Patrick looked at the bench, saw Mario with his arms crossed, saw his fingers move, motion him towards the bench. He was now pulling him, now. Nine…nine…nine…
Patrick pulled his helmet off, felt some of his hair rip, he saw red, nothing but red, he could feel his anger ripping though him as he stared head on to Mario, saw Mario’s face twitching with a rising anger. Why angry? Because I am not groveling to you? Eh? PIG!
Patrick waddled into the bench, glared at Mario, sat on the stool meant for the back up, felt the cold, thin air. There was no glass partition behind the bench, only seats and flesh. This was where the team president sat so he could enjoy not only the sights but the smells of the game. Patrick dug his fingers into the stool, Mario was still staring, thinking he had won and that Patrick only had to process it. Patrick looked around, felt the unreality, felt a pain throbbing in his chest. His heart was broken, he knew it, it was shattered, it was bleeding. Patrick swallowed and then he stood up, gave one last glare to Mario and then he leaned over, glared at Corey, the president, saw the man’s eyes widen in confusion and disdain, “This is the last game I play in Montreal,” Patrick said loudly, loud enough for Tremblay to hear.
He then turned back to Tremblay and screamed so hard that he felt his voice snap, “T’as compris stie?”
He saw a flicker of uncertainty in Mario’s eyes, which was enough for the moment. Mario was not going to win, he would never win. Patrick knew of his own importance, he didn’t understand the concept of modesty very much. He knew truths. He would leave; Mario could stay and think he had won. He could entertain the sympathies of fans who pitied the rookie coach trying to float a team with an arrogant goalie. He would bask in a certain celebrity.
He began to feel smooth inside even though the pounding pain in his chest was ripping him in half. He looked at Mario. Do you really want this? Is this what you want? Fine, then float this ship without me. Do you understand? You groveled in this locker room, Patrick thought. You groveled to me, you bled for me, you did everything for me and now you will do things because of me, you will feel because of me, you will leave because of me. Does that make me more of a monster than you are? Who cares…. As long as I can haunt you, I don’t care. Do you understand?
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