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Summary
“What did she look like?” asked Hollander.
“She was brunette,” said Ilya. Marleau’s eyes trailed along the hard lines of his traps, past the glint of his crucifix, the swells of his pectorals, towards the trail of hair disappearing into his shorts. They landed on the thickening outline of his cock. “Pretty little thing, with freckles. Big, brown dumb eyes, begging to be made to cry.”
Hollander’s breath hitched. Marleau realized, perhaps belatedly, that this was a game in which truth was incidental.
In 2014, Ilya and Marleau went to Paris on a girl to celebrate the Stanley Cup win. Ten years later, on a balmy evening spent in the Hollander-Rozanov Ottawa home, Marleau reminisces and, courtesy of Shane and Ilya, re-enacts.
Just a game of play pretend.