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Bitter-cold outside the hockey rink. Cheek-biting cold, toe-numbing cold if yous gone and forgot to wear good socks. Wayne don't much mind it, seeing as he always wears his good socks. The lone player’s just gone done puking, and he’s walking out now. Earlier’n usual, since Wayne’s only halfway through his dart and usually he can make it like, all the way through and be thinking about maybe starting a second before driving zambo, and then decide against it. Usually he’s not short on time, for thinkin’ about if he maybe wants to have another dart now, instead’a waiting until he’s finished driving zambo, is the point.
Except now the hockey player’s finished early, a routine disrupted that’s ringing all sort of alarum bells in his head. Not that it’s his business. Might even be a good thing. Body’s gotta rest now and then, else you go’n make it useless. Chorin’ is chorin’, once you get where you need t’be for it, that’s no problem, but this is different. ‘S got like, recovery time.
He shouldn’t comment. ‘S rude to comment.
Then again, Number 69’s got no manners anyhow. Wayne doesn’t like playing along with the cutesy hockey nicknames. He doesn’t play more than the average person, but ‘s far as he knows, 69 only goes by the cutesy hockey nickname. They’re at an impasse and he doesn’t even know it.
“How’re ya now?” Wayne asks.
69 turns. Raises his eyebrows all shocked-like, wide-eyed like nobody Wayne's ever seen before under the age of eight. Prob'ly this one's more trouble than a kid, if not more of a shithead than one. Least he could get away with giving 69 a good kick in the ass if it came down to it, though Wayne’d feel bad after seeing as how he practices so hard he pukes and his legs’re probably blown out to fuck. Idly, he wonders how this guy’s even standing up straight.
He’d finished early. Not that early.
“He talks, ho ly . Fuckin’, honor of the century right here that is. The guy who does the zamboni, chatting to little ol’ me.”
“The guy who drives zambo talks to plenty people. Some days he’s a certified chatterbox, even.”
“A regular ol’ Kathy, huh. Fuck, ‘s like, you think you know a guy after seein’ him make ice for ya f’r, what, fuck, two weeks now? ‘N then he goes and pulls one over on ya, sayin’ how he’s all talkative, bringing out the big word guns instead’a just ignoring ya. How’s a fella meant t’feel about all that, now?”
“Well –,”
“Huh?”
“Impolite to interrupt,” Wayne says. He tastes the futility already.
69, somehow, makes his eyes wider. Not innocent – he’s too old for it by half, never mind the kinda puppydog look he’s half-achieving –, but something close to it, if you tossed some mockery in the mix.
“Rude? No fuckin’ way. Well golly and gee, bud, I’m sorry ‘bout that one. Rude t’interrupt. My fuckin’ bad, guy. Got you making ice now got you doin’ etiquette lessons.”
“Only getting paid for one’a those, bud.” Wayne stares at his dart, sucks down a drag quick before it goes out like it’s threatening to. “Lesson implies, like. You’re learning.”
“‘M a quick study. All the broads say so. Fuckin’, when they can talk at all.” He sounds smug. He sounds like he’s saying it outta routine, too, except Wayne don’t really care much about who’s done some toe-curlin’ with who. “‘N so like, I’m learnin’ here to, new facts all the fuck around, ho ly . Zamboni guy likes t’talk. Zamboni guy likes t’smoke. Zamboni guy’s the toughest guy in Letterkenny, ‘cept I figured that one out already. Ain’t new information.”
“Not really.” Wayne’s not unaware of his reputation preceding him. Mostly both parts of it go along at an amiable, equitable sort of pace, so’s no one gets the wrong idea unless he looks mad.
“You’s are done early,” he says instead of letting 69 get another word or ten in edgewise.
“Or you’s are done late,” the hockey player says. “Huh? Betcha didn’t think’a that one. Maybe I’m just, I’unno, fuck, like, done on time like always ‘n you’re out here smokin’ extra darts. ‘S bad f’r your lungs, y’know.”
Wayne looks pointedly at the spitter 69’s got a barely secure grip on. He figures he doesn’t need to say more.
“Sort yourself out with that one, then,” he says instead.
“‘N maybe I’ve got a hot date with y’r moms,” 69 answers, bright. “‘S like, can’t get enough’a me.”
“That’s impolite too, unless you’re looking for a donnybrook. Are ya, now?” Wayne’s not un interested. He figures this guy fights dirty, has that scrappy look about him, gets into it plenty on the ice. Wayne’s less interested in getting into a scrap with a guy who’s been vomiting his guts out and’ll probably collapse the second he walks one step too many, or even thinks about the concept of stairs. Vague, like.
“You gonna oblige me if I am, big fella? Think y’could take me?” 69 steps back, even, eyeing Wayne up like he’s trying t’tell for real. Wayne’s reminded of nothing so much as a barn cat, five pounds soaking wet, thinking it can take on an entire cow.
“Yep. No two two’s about it, bud. ‘S like, I like your work ethic ‘n all, but a man can only take so much slander ‘gainst his dearly departed ma. If she’d’ve given you the beats f’r saying that, means I’ve gotta as well.”
Wayne’s not unaware neither of all the rumors about 69 and the other two’s moms. He’s just putting paid to that before anything gets said. Bad gas travels fast, and that petroleum’s pert near rotten, if he’s got any thoughts on the matter.
“Huh. Learnin’ again. You gotta personality under there, ‘s like, fuck, where’d that thing come from. Y’ve been hidin’ it this whole time sittin’ there staring at me puke, fuckin’, got me wonderin’ if you had a thing for that. Emeto-whatever, ‘s called. Ain’t tried it yet, might not be game f’r it, but fuck, put me ‘tween the sheets after a period like that’n you got no choice ‘bout what’s fuckin, comin’ up or goin’ down ‘r what.”
“Gonna just talk ‘bout toe-curlin’ with a stranger, is that it?” Wayne doesn’t much care for that. It’s one thing to be sat in the late afternoon sun at the produce stand, or out on the porch, with a couple good buddies who might want to share something or the other, if’n it’s getting in their teeth. Or getting elsewhere, not in a manner of speaking.
“Naw, y’ve been makin’ the ice. Not a stranger if yous have bailed me outta one touch spot with, fuckin’ JJ Fuckface, fatface JJ fuckin’ jackass J.”
“Man needs help, you help him. ‘Sides,” Wayne adds, not quite an afterthought. “I’m always good for a scrap.”
“Dunno ‘bout all that, but didn’t give a shit then and y’know what, big boy, don’t give much’a one now seein’ as you sorted ‘em out right fast. Toldja, weren’t new information, ‘s like. Already knew that shit.”
“Oh, the point’s somewhere around there, if yous wanna get to looking,” Wayne says. Not rude, or rushing-like, but 69’s got a mouth on him in all sorts of directions. “If you can be one thing, be efficient. ‘S like I always say.”
69 blinks. Then grins wide, the kinda smile you get from someone who doesn’t know anything but trouble. Teeth on show, missing one included, ‘cept the gap’s kind of charming, if Wayne squints at it some. Be more charming if this wasn’t gonna precede the kinda mischief Wayne doesn’t much like to get tangled up in.
“Words’a fuckin’ wisdom, chief, didn’t sign up to have like, all that Zen shit spat right back at me. ‘S like some karmic reward ‘n all f’r finishin’ up early. ‘S like, I should maybe do that more often, y’know, if I’ll get advice fuckin’ whoppers like all that. ‘S like, you gonna be sitting under a tree like a body-sattiva next time I see yous, big boy?” He runs faster with each word, ‘til he’s pert near manic and a c-hair short of bouncing there on the spot.
Wayne considers a civil answer, and decides to dial it up by about ten percent. “No, seein’ as how there’s a foot of snow under them trees and I don’t fancy gettin’ hypothermia on the ass.”
69 grins wider somehow, eyes crinkling up at the sides. It makes him look about ten ply, right there, right up with Darry on softest days. Maybe more, since Wayne’s never surprised anymore at how Darry’s soft sometimes. Hard to, when you throw a man a super soft birthday party on the yearly and yous both get so hammered you lose the horse. Literally, like.
“He fuckin’ bites, too, lookit that,” the hockey player says, settling some now, like an adrenaline high seeping away. Maybe it is, or the endorphins’re crashing hard and then Wayne’ll have to peel him off the floor, a thing he’s figured would be inevitable at this rate but was mostly hoping to not have to do, on account of how he’s doing enough of the job already for Tanis. A man’s got lines, and managing hockey players is one of ‘em.
So he doesn’t bother answering and just smokes his dart harder, like it’ll end this quicker. He knows it won’t, might be he’ll end up staying for another anyway, take the edge off.
Not too much of one, to be fair. To be fa aa ir. This one gets under his skin a lot less than the two Katy was going around with, never mind that he’s a bit of a snake.
Movement to his left, and Wayne revises that statement. Alarmingly, 69 is settling alright, settling against the wall next to him though it’s pertnear freezing and he’s in nothing but a thick hoodie and a stupid hat. Not even a proper knit one, pulled low over his ears to hide them from the cold and trap heat elsewhere, but a baseball cap, on backwards, his hair curling greasy around the edges of it.
“You’ll get hypothermia, you stay here like that,” Wayne tells him.
69 ignores him and spits into his cup, pointed-like.
“Said you gotta dress warmer, bud,” he says again. “Yous still gotta get home after this, ‘n that car of yours won’t be heating fast.”
“Fuck, ‘s like, you start fuckin’ talking ‘n now I can’t getcha t’stop? Plenty warm anyhow, just come down from practice, and ho ly , if I had t’put on another layer I’d melt ‘n then yous would have a real mess t’clean on the ice.” The hockey player stares out into the parking lot then. Doesn’t contradict a thing about the car. Wayne’s right when he’s right, and he might know more about fixing tractors than cars, but he knows a piece of shit when he sees one. “Gonna ruin the cool guy reputation yous are rockin’, big boy.”
Wayne’s not aware of any reputation like that. He’s the toughest guy in Letterkenny, not much cool t’be found there, just facts.
“Fuckin’, ‘gainst the back wall out here like every teen girl’s bad boy crush, fuck. Cigarette ‘n all, ‘cept them girls was dumb as hell for thinkin’ that’s hot, ‘s gross, ‘n, fuck, I do dip.”
“The darts I smoked, the hearts I broked,” Wayne says anyway. Ironic-like, a thing he’s trying out. Might not be the best audience for it, but that’s the point of a trial. Leastways if he misses, the hockey player won’t notice. He’s got nothing to say about the dip, anyhow. Can’t replace a real dart.
“Smokin’ darts ‘n breakin’ hearts? Ho ly , lookit that. Take it right the fuck back, seein’ as how you’re cool again now. ‘S like, you gotta move over, quit big timin’ everyone. Y’r already the toughest guy in town, what fuckin’ business you got there bein’ cool, too?”
“I –,”
“Huh?”
“Take about twenty percent offa that,” says Wayne. Amicable, seeing as how all hockey players are idiots, and he's gotta be patient ‘less they're dating his sister. This one isn't dating his sister, and just so happens to be a snake while he’s at it, never mind how much Wayne likes his work ethic.
“Don’t ever go less than the full hundo, bud, dunno what y’r talkin’ ‘bout there. ‘S like, what’s the point if you’s’ren’t even g’nna try? Fuckin’ hate losin’, but y’gotta work t’win.”
Wayne finds it hard to argue with that, though he’s not prone to arguing to begin with. There’s other, clear-cut ways to make a man know when you’re done.
“Not a competition here. So you can take twenty percent offa that. Maybe thirty,” he allows.
“So like, ten’s the best I c’n do here, take ‘er or leave ‘er, champ. Don’t get a big ol’ boat for nothin’.”
“Don’t get a scrap started for nothin’ neither,” Wayne points out.
69’s quiet at that, mercy of all mercies. Wayne doesn’t point that out too, just thinks to himself, maybe snider than is strictly politic, how about them miracles.
“‘S like, not that impolite, though. If’n I’m curious ‘n all, and you’ve gone ‘round makin’ ice f’r me the past month.”
“Not sure driving zambo when you’re done puking your guts up has much to do with anything. When a man needs help, you help him.” Wayne pauses, thinks about what Tanis’d have to say to that. “When a friend asks for help, you do it. ‘S not so bad either.”
“Still makin’ the ice, ‘n ‘m still skatin’ on it the next day,” he says, hands shoved deep into his pockets now. Wayne wonders when, exactly, he’s going to cave and admit that he’s cold. “‘N that makes us teammates, and teammates do all sorts of things.”
“Feels like a stretch.”
“Gotta give credit where credit’s due, like, fuck, d’you think I’m some selfish dickhead? Lotta work goes into makin’ this place run, gotta show some fuckin’ respect, y’know? Janitor’s my teammate too.”
“He’d better be, the amount you’ve hocked up out there.”
“‘N he’s gettin’ a big ol’ bottle of pure clear vodka for his troubles ‘fore I go, see, like that fuckin’ show. Paying debts ‘n all that, only he’s just doin’ his job, ‘n I’m doin’ mine, just, like. Makin’ it a bit harder f’r him. F’r yous too. Y’know. If I wanted t’admit that.”
He doesn’t sound sorry. Wayne doesn’t think he’s capable of it personally, but that’s not so bad right now, seeing as he’s not doing anything other than working hard to get better at what he’s good at.
“I’d take a pack of darts,” Wayne offers. “For a goodbye gift.”
“We’re talkin’ hearts, hold on there, big boy. So like, you’re team too, is the thing, and teammates do a whole lotta shit. Lotsa cocklooking ‘n the like, sharin’, ‘s like a whole big family down there ‘cause yous wanna murder each other on the ice sometimes but y’can’t be murderin’ each other offa it.”
Wayne thinks this guy probably knows a lot about not getting murdered by his teammates.
“Circling the drain there, bud. Yous gonna fall in and end this or drag yourself right back outta the sink?”
“‘S not impolite. So I’m not gonna mention that sweetie’a yours from way back,” the hockey player goes.
“Already mentioned her.”
“Ain’t gonna mention her more, then, ‘s like. That’s old news. And yous said hearts plural, big boy, so don’t go holdin’ out on me now.” He’s leaning in closer now, like they’re friends and maybe he gets to be one of the guys Wayne’ll let close. He’s not, but Wayne doesn’t bother shoving him away neither. ‘S not so bad, and Wayne figures it’s still like a cat. Any kinda reaction gets taken as positive, so ignoring’s better if’n you don’t want to encourage one behavior or another. Doesn’t make much sense to him, but that’s why he’s a dog kinda guy. More straightforward.
“It’s impolite to kiss and tell.”
“Just told’ja how it ain’t, so spit it out. What, you worried ‘m gonna blab? Naw, I can keep a secret just fine, y’know.”
“So like, why’re you all up in a twist about this, is what I wanna know.” Wayne can do some non sequiturs too, make a non sequitourist out of himself if it means distracting from this conversation.
“Y’said hearts, I got curious. ‘N like, you don’t gotta sweetie now, so who’s all hearts are yous out there breakin’, bud?” The hockey player’s face looks stupidly earnest, or would if it were anything less than mockery.
“Less than yous, with your track record,” Wayne says evenly. He figures that’s not a lie. He’s just been getting his own broke every so often, like clockwork. Not so bad now, with the last one a little ways down the road in the rearview mirror.
“Who, me?” Somehow, the expression gets more earnest. Something to do with the eyebrows, all wide-open and expansive. “Naw. Fuck, that’s like – just toe-curlin’, like y’put it, though toes’ren’t the only thing curlin’ the way I do it. Fuckin’, broads all up ‘n down the coast, bud, but they know the score. ‘S not like that really. One ‘n done, okay, fine, fuck, maybe a few more’n that ‘n done, but ‘s nothin’ serious. Not into puck bunnies,” he adds, which is probably the realest thing he’s said this entire time.
“Bad gas travels fast in a small town,” Wayne says after a moment. “Had a sweetie named Rosie, only she went down t’Vancouver. Went out with Marie-Fred, let’s just say that one didn’t work out so well, but didn’t end so bad neither. She’s a good gal. Both of ‘em.”
69 blinks.
“That’s it? I’m fuckin’, tellin’ you about the sex, the gals, the broads, that’s town to town, ‘n we get around even if it’s just whale shit, ‘n you’ve got all of two? Two hearts broked here? Bud, I fuckin’ refuse to believe that. Cat-igor-ically re-fuse,” he sounds out every syllable, shaking his head. “Two! Ho ly but I’d have taken you for more.”
“You couldn’t take me for nothin’,” Wayne says despite himself. Lined up, he might as well take the swing. He’s not that much above going for the low-hanging fruit if someone sets himself up nice and right, only mostly that someone’s Darry, and you can only land a hit so many times ‘fore it starts to get a bit sad, for you.
The hockey player eyes him up again, pointedly, same as last time, only this time Wayne knows it’s not about a scrap. Well. It could be, knowing him, but he doesn’t think so.
Huh. How about that.
69 just grins wide, enough to show the gap of his missing tooth. Wayne decides that he’s not gonna be charmed by that. He’s never liked ‘em mouthy, but, he reflects, he’s always liked ‘em hard-working.
He could be in trouble. He shouldn’t be, and normally that’s enough to keep his eyes in his head and his mind on the important things, but he almost wonders if maybe this time he wants to be.
“Lemme tell you, bud, I could take yous up ‘n down the same coast, from fuckin’ Moosonee to Nunalla, first fuckin’ class. Could take y’to class too, school ya somethin’ good,” he says, earnest now, only this time Wayne can’t tell if he’s being fucked with. He supposes that’s the point, the thinness of the line between fucked and fucked with.
“Could’ja?” Wayne asks. He figures one word’ll be enough to sort of what side of the line he’s on, or if 69’s sitting right and pretty on it, trying to have it both ways.
“I ref for the juniors, ‘r the sub-juniors, these days, the local boys. Bunch’a dipshits,” he adds, like Wayne was ever doubting it. This guy’s never had to stand in front of a whole room of ‘em and tell ‘em to stop being such shits all over the place.
“All kids are,” Wayne agrees, easy. “What’s that got to do with it? ‘Cause havin’ kids is a hard no on my end, ‘n you’re jumping the gun there too, bud. Haven’t even done anything but talked at me some.”
“Fuck, but they all say I’m good with my mouth,” he says, same mouth stretched wide and stupid in a grin. Wayne considers this, decides it’s charming, and then decides to keep that to himself.
“Good at gettin’ into trouble with it, maybe,” Wayne allows instead. ‘Course, this one gets into trouble even when he keeps his mouth firmly shut, Wayne’s willing to bet, but some pigs aren’t his to fuck.
“Gettin’ outta it too,” 69 says, smug.
“Doubt it. Yous have nearly been in trouble with me, ‘n you’ve dragged me into some too.” The Quebecois kind, and Wayne’s had enough of that in his life, thanks. Least that one hadn’t been too bad, though he’s pretty sure he can’t go ice fishing there anymore, on account of having punched out a local superstar.
‘S not so bad. There’s other spots for it.
“Don’t count if’m makin’ up for it.”
“Not how it works.”
“Not in trouble now neither.”
“You’ve been fishin’ for it some, is what you’ve been doing.”
He doesn’t even bother denying that.
“So like, lemme make that up t’you too. How’s ‘bout now? Could fuckin’ destroy some kinda dinner after that praccy,” the hockey player says. Wayne bets. Normally his stomach’s empty as a winter field after practice, with how he goes.
“Still got a job here t’do,” Wayne tells him, ‘cause he’s not planning on skipping work. ‘S like choring, even if it’s a favor for a friend – you do it, ‘cause you’ve gotta. “Yous gonna survive while I drive zambo?”
“Fuck, bud, I’ll waste a-fuckin’-way over here, wilt like a delicate flower, faint like a damsel from one’a those chivvy-rie stories.” He bounces once, his cheeks are red. Maybe all that time playing hockey’s rendered him immune to the cold. Wayne’s not willing to bet on it.
“Hm. After then, ‘n I’ll drive, and drive you home too,” Wayne says, decisive, seeing as he might be gettin’ dinner too and taking two cars makes no sense, not when one’s halfway to breaking down. “Once the ice is sorted out. Y’can sit in my truck and stay warm ‘fore I’m having to take you to the hospital instead.”
“And when we get there? Yous gonna have your way with me, big boy?”
Wayne blinks at him and says, “Gotta take me on a date first, bud.”
“This don’t count?”
He wonders what kind of dates the hockey player’s been going on if he thinks this somehow counts. It’s barely a conversation, mind, and Wayne’s less civilized than some about it.
“Y’know, I always was wondering what it’d be like to get wined and dined. Like, why is it always me who’s gotta figure out where to go and what to order? I don’t think I know anything about all that, except for when it’s ‘Berta beef and a Puppers, only you can’t be having that on a nice dinner. Then yous gotta be drinking wine.”
They both pause for a moment to grimace. Wayne’s had wine before, doesn’t much care for it sitting somewhere in between the kind of thing you drink with your buddies to relax, and the kind of thing that gets the job done, and fast. Squirrely Dan’s been trying to sell him on the virtues of a good red lately; Wayne thinks that the virtues so far are the food that goes with, which, hell, how’s he meant to complain about that? You don’t waste food neither.
“Well, shit, I know a fuckin’ great hot pot place ‘n the city. You’ll like it, y’can have as many Puppers as y’like ‘fore or durin’. Fuck, man, I’ll join too, got a late start tomorrow ‘n the little pizza-face fuckfaces don’t much care if I’m hungover or not. ‘S not like ‘m gonna be after a few beers, but like, who knows where this night’s goin’, Wayne.”
Somehow that’s what makes him pause.
“We on a first name basis now?” Wayne asks.
“Y’can call me Shoresy, if yous wanna,” comes the answer. More tentative than Wayne’d ever expect.
“Shore,” he answers firmly. “Not a hockey player, bud. I don’t hold with nicknames. ‘Cept for Squirrely Dan, but that’s ‘cause he’s Squirrely.”
“Well, shit, that just sounds fuckin’ weird now. Naked. Stripped. Beheaded. Gone and taken off the whole fuckin’ syllable, big boy, you’ve just gone and cut the name down.” Worst of it all is that he’s not messing, his shoulders have gone up some, and he’s staring straight at the nearest streetlight, like the glare won’t hurt.
“Shoresy,” Wayne tries again, and watches all of that undo itself as Shoresy drags his gaze to some slightly less painful middle distance.
“There we go. Knew y’had it in ya, bud, ‘n better remember that one f’r tonight,” Shoresy says. Grinning again now, which makes something curious squirm in Wayne’s belly.
“Nope,” Wayne says, and walks away. “Go sit in the truck and stay warm. Not locked it yet.”
He figures it’s something like a miracle, that Shoresy listens.
He also doesn’t linger when it comes to fixing up the ice. No halfassery in this job, but he doesn’t need to take his time about it neither, when he’s got other things to be doing.