Time, time, time, time
Never ask what's become of us
Just dedicate your sorrow
Here and now
-Heart, "Soul of the Sea"
***
Fulton
I got a letter from my dad today. Like I normally do, I throw it away.
Portman
Mid-November comes and so do the damn snowstorms, but nobody seemed to care, because the crowds and fans are really coming back, and everybody's saying that it's all because of our improving performance on the ice. That should stop our owner's bitching for a while. The thought of having the Bash Brothers split up for politics makes me want to break something, because politics is gross.
Tonight's game is with the San Jose Sharks. It's coming along great, but these guys are real pricks. All night, they've been taking cheap shots at our wings and at Bosco. We make up for it by smashing every Shark that even lightly gets the puck. For each check by me, Fulton, or both, the fans shout a big, loud "BASH" to congratulate us, like in those bullfights, where after the bullfighter makes the bull go through the red cape, the crowd goes, "OLE!" Well, ole to this! It's another check to a slippery Shark by yours truly. I take the puck and send it to Fulton, who's clear for a shot. He then stops at the goal, sends his Death Glare (trademark pending) to the goalie, and raises his stick....
"He's gonna do it!" I shout. The whole arena gasps and takes cover. When Fulton is about to do his slap shot, I get the hell out of the way and get myself against the side of the rink. Those shots of his really leave a lasting impression on you!
Fulton takes the shot. The puck flies over the ice and speeds towards the scared-shitless goalie. The goalie doesn't even take the chance, screams for his life, and ducks to make way for the puck. The puck cuts right through the net, and the goal is scored! Everyone, including his fellow Bash Bro, huddles around Fulton to congratulate him. I take off his helmet and kiss his forehead. I just hope no one makes a big deal about an innocent, friendly, congratulatory kiss on the forehead, right?
And that was the only goal made that night, giving us our win. I can see the headlines tomorrow: THE BASH IS BACK!
So everyone undresses for the night. Polanski gives his little talk about the women he's been fucking around with, and I go into my stereotypical Reverend mode, doing the whole bit by waving my arms into the air, giving this big, super-dramatic speech on women and how they can be a bad thing and shit like that, and shouting things like "PRAISE THE LORD!" and "AMEN, MY BROTHER!" When I say that, the rest of the locker room joins in and chants with me. Then I bust out with this gospel song, and everyone tries to sing along.
I then go to where Fulton is, grab his shoulders, and shake him as I order, "PRAISE THE LORD, MY BROTHER!"
Fulton looked a little uneasy about what I just said, but after I grin madly to him, he grabs my shoulders and says, "I'M GETTING TO THAT PART!" We give a big chest butt and I go off to my gospel singing.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAMEN!"
"In the mornin'!"
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAMEN!"
"And later in the evenin'!"
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAMEN! AMEN! AMEN!..."
So now I'm in my red hot Porsche with Fulton right next to me.
"What was up with that Southern Baptist revival in there?" Fulton goes dryly.
"Just trying to save your soul, sweet cheeks." I pinch his blushing cheeks.
"My soul's fine. It's yours that needs to be saved." Fulton says it with this sarcastic tone that always turns me on.
"Then save me, Fulton! Save my sinning soul!"
"Would you like me to save it now or when we get home?" He pats my head like the dog that I am and plays with my curls.
"Save me now! I want a religious experience!"
"Well, pay me my tithe to support my holy crusade of saving lost sheep and screwing Playboy mistresses behind your back, or no salvation!"
Then, to pay him, I viciously attack Fulton with kisses all over his face. Suddenly, my cell phone rings. On the caller ID, it says Amber.
"Aren't you going to answer it, reverend?" Fulton suddenly sounds annoyed, and with a good reason, too.
"Damn, bro! How am I gonna get rid of her?" I tell Fulton softly as I turn the cell phone off.
"Tell her you have a thing for leather. It usually works."
"She likes leather."
"Okay, then tell her you're into polyester. Girls hate polyester."
"And just how the hell do you know girls hate polyester?"
"Television, my dear. Television."
"Dude, what else could I do?"
"Or you could just straight out tell her. You rushed yourself into this engagement way too quickly, and you don't like her anymore. You two have totally different careers that have totally different demands that can hinder your marriage. There's no way those demands can be reasonably overcome."
I relax my head on the steering wheel and mull all of that. It sounds pretty simple, coming from Fulton, but I don't know. That would mean that I'm totally committed to Fulton. Girls would be out of the question forevermore.
"I don't know if I could tell her, bro." Fear is something I'm not really used to, so you can imagine my body shaking a little. Maybe it's because it's snowing right now. I turn on the car and the air conditioning to send some warm air inside.
Fulton just plops against his seat, shakes his head and goes, "Since when did you need air conditioning to warm up your car?"
Hm. Fulton has a point.
Then he comes over me and wraps his arm around my shoulders. "Let me warm you up." Our eyes match again. Assurance is back in me. I turn off the car, and hop in the back seat.
Fulton
I love these snowstorms. It gives us the perfect opportunity for the two of us to cuddle up to keep us warm. I hold Dean in my arms as we give kisses (fully clothed, since it's cold as hell) and just talk about us and the whole Amber situation. Man, to think that we'll have plenty more of these moments in the future without the guilt would be so cool. Then we talked about marriage, having children and bashing the brains out of anyone who makes fun of them, our stints in Pee-Wee hockey, and about what I want to do with the old house in Stillwater, provided I find the paperwork, wherever it might be.
"That's where we're going to live. [Kiss] We'll raise kids, [kiss] retire early if we can, [kiss], get a civil union [kiss].... Why don't we go to Hawaii, when we get the chance? [Kiss] We can get together and make it legal. [Kiss] How about it, bro?" I haven't shown hope in the future like that since we were signed into the Minnesota Wild.
After reviewing all that I told him, he mulls over it, then gives me a quick kiss, and goes with a smile, "You're the man with the plan, Fult."
It's now 1:30. Damn, I can't believe we stayed that long in the car. Portman finally breaks free from me to turn on his Porsche and drive through the snow-blanketed streets of Minneapolis to our apartments. Actually, when we arrive, I follow Portman to his apartment, holding on to him with our pinkies. He opens the door and turns on the light.
Oh no. Amber's here, waiting on the easy chair in front of the glowing but silent television, tuned to some modeling exhibition. Oh shit! Our pinkies are still together. Portman lets go, then turns from me.
"You're late." Uh-oh. She sounds pissed.
"Uh, sorry babe, but I got caught up with some of the guys. I didn't know it got so late!" Portman was totally vexed about the whole situation, but managed to ignore her face as he hanged his jacket in the coat closet. I take a seat opposite Amber on the loveseat, casting my doom-and-gloom over the room.
"You missed yet another dull showing from Armani's winter line." Amber goes as Portman now moves to the kitchen to get a bite. "More tacky shoes, more 'experimental' mixing and mismatching, and more crack junkies on the runway. This has to be one of the stupidest shows ever."
Portman and I try our best to ignore her as I sit down and Portman makes himself a sandwich. Under my breath, I say to her, "Yeah, because you're not strutting your meat with those crack junkies." It's true: Armani turned her down to be part of the show.
"And then there are the obviously clueless reviewers, who keep asking to each other like the dodos that they are, 'Why did Armani do this to himself?' The reason why they can't answer it is because those stupid reviewers are asking the wrong question. Given what he is, they should ask, 'Why doesn't he do it more often?' Who the hell wears pink in the winter anyway? He's losing his touch fast."
Portman also prepares some coffee for us. He takes a deep sigh and says somewhat timidly, "Amber, we need to talk."
Amber ignores him and continues her rant. "I haven't seen the T.V. since forever. Just look at all this crap on it! Jerry Springer! South Park! Did you know that I just spotted an infomercial for Phen-Fen on Channel 48? I thought that stuff was illegal now! But you know who are the worst? It's those stupid religious guys on Channel 40, who say that if you put in so and so much of money, you'll be so and so closer to God."
"That's real estate for you." I go with a cynical grin.
Portman finishes preparing his sandwich and goes with a more serious and sure tone, "Babe, I don't want to hear your commentary on God and fashion tonight, okay?"
Amber finally gets up, sends a glance of disgust to me, and walks to Portman to attack him with a caress of his lean waist. She's touching my man! I give this exasperated sigh of disgust, saying below my breath, "Ugh." Oh crap, I'm turning into a bitch just like Amber! Any minute now, and I'll probably have a mud-wrestling match with her or, worse yet, see which lipstick goes better with my black rain jacket, red or red. Stop it, Fulton. You're a man, and you know it. Keep cool. Yeah, Fulton, keep cool.
"Where were you, Portman? I mean it." Her hug looks unusually tight. "You've been acting all nervous around me lately."
"Amber, I can't take this anymore." Portman takes a bite of his sandwich, but I could tell he was having problems swallowing it.
"Take what anymore? Me? You can just say so."
"No, it's not you! I just think that we're rushing this wedding thing too fast." You said it, Bro. Thanks.
"Well, we can always go slower."
"We can't take it any slower. I mean, you have your thing in Paris and New York, and I have my thing here and all over the country. We live totally different lives. It's just not going to work."
"Then we'll just have to make some changes."
Portman looked shocked when he heard that. "Like what? Give up hockey? I can't do that! I love hockey; plus I'm under contract! I can't just quit like that!"
"Well, I can't give up my obligations with Revlon and Victoria's Secret, either! I'm already having big things for me. Versace, Yves St Laurent, I can't give this up now!"
"Oh, you know what, babe? I'm suffocating with this relationship. I want out." Portman tries to pull off his engagement ring.
Amber calms down a little, and holds Portman's hand to stop him, moving her face over her neck. "We can work something out. It's not that bad." Then, out of nowhere, she shrills the entire room with her voice. "Did someone kiss you tonight?"
Portman violently reacts to that and pushes her away, replying her question with a quick and scared, "No!"
Amber doesn't buy it. "Oh yes you have! I can see that big plum hickey on your neck!" I gave him that while we were in his Porsche. Oops.
Portman is getting both defensive and submissive as he again replies, "No it's not!"
"You've been with someone!"
"Stop accusing me!" Portman goes to the corner of the kitchen and turns away from Amber in shame.
"You can't fool me, Dean Portman! See, you're blushing!"
"Leave me alone!"
"What the hell's wrong with you!? You just have to slither around my back just to say that it's over?" Amber's voice is now at an all-time high, shrieking with anger.
"He said to back off, you fucking bitch!" Uh-oh. Did I just say that?
I guess I did, because the next thing I know, she snaps to me and goes, "Oh-ho, don't get me started on you, impotent! I have the dirt on you!"
Oh, calm down, Fulton. She's a girl, so don't hit her.
"Don't say that about my friend!" Dean musters up the courage to defend me. "Fult, let me take care of this." To not embarrass him any further, I wait at the living room.
Amber now goes back to Dean and says with absolute repulsion in her tone, "So, you met someone else, didn't you?"
"Yes, Amber. I met someone else that's better than you and more beautiful than you, and has a little more class than you, that's all!"
"Then why didn't you tell me? Why did you have to make an ass out of me!?"
"I'm sorry, I swear! But, you knew it was going to end sooner or later!"
"Who is it? Was it one of your die-hard fans, or some whore that you just picked up on the street? What's her name?"
"Why should you care? I just met someone; that's all you need to know!"
"I want to know! What's her damn name!? Where did you meet her?"
"I want you out, okay? It's 2:30 in the morning!"
"I can't! I need you badly! I'm growing old, and I need you!"
"You need someone; you don't need me, and I don't want you!"
"Oh!"
"And what do you get out of me anyway? Good sex, and that's it? I'm growing old, too. I'm not as smart as you, or as fashionable as you! You're better than me in every way-"
Then she gives Dean a slap that I could hear from the living room, where I watched their display in the darkness. Dean falls and breaks down. I immediately come to Dean's aid.
"Don't you dare patronize me, after what you did!" She in part goes to the kitchen counter and relaxes against it. I come down to Dean and wipe his tears, telling him it's going to be okay as I brush his soft face with my hand.
I turn to Amber and order her to leave, but then she gives us this bewildering glance. She looked totally odd as she kept staring at me cleaning up Dean.
"Oh my God." She speaks softly as she backs away, as though she has seen a ghost. At that point, I realized she caught on. "Oh my God. It all makes sense now. Fulton can't fuck girls. Portman comes home with him and that hickey. I should've known. I can't believe I didn't see it before."
Now I was scared of her, as she starts shrieking again. "I can't believe I was about to marry a faggot!" She said that last word in a shrilling, glass-shattering, venomous tone that sent a chill down my spine. I was never called a faggot, or any gay name, before. She immediately goes to the living room, gets her purse, and cries as she runs for the door, slamming it shut.
Dean and I are alone again, this time, crouched down with him on the kitchen floor. It's a surreal sight to see Dean cry. As I wrapped my arms around him, telling him he did the right thing, I couldn't help but join him along.