A/N: The part of this chapter starting when it switches to third person point of view, indicated by: 3rd person, has the best effect if you read it while listening to Honky Tonk Badonkadonk one of Trace Adkins's new ones. You can find it at the Country Music Television web sight, just search for Trace Adkins on the home page. Click on the Listening Party Trace Adkins: Songs about Me button, and it's the last track. It's got a really good sound to it, but the lyrics make zero sense so I didn't want to right them in the chapter.
Three
I was going through some of the boys' medical papers. I flipped through a packet of Jim Craig's information to find his emergency contact. I was writing them all down on note cards that I could keep in my binder. I turned to the last page and I couldn't stop my eyes from watering when I read what he wrote:
Emergency Contact: Margaret Craig.
Relation to Player: Mother.
He had filled out all her information and I felt rotten when I realized I'd have to go ask him about it. Buzz had swung by earlier, with a bunch of the guys to invite me down to the pool, but I didn't think Jimmy was with him.
I grabbed the papers and headed down the hall to Jimmy's room. I knocked on the door and waited. He answered it a moment later and I could hear music playing in the background.
"Hi," he started, looking a little confused. I figured I should introduce myself.
"Hey there Jimmy," I began. "My name's Faye. Darling. I'm working with the hockey team. I need your emergency contact information." His eyebrows came together.
"I didn't fill that out," he pondered, grabbing the papers from me. He looked at the page and realized what he had done. He looked at me and I offered him a sympathetic smile.
"You want to come in a minute?" He asked me politely, "I just need a pen." I entered the room and shut the door as he hunted around for a pen. The first thing I noticed was that even though he had only been in the room a few hours it was a mess, and it smelled kinda funny. "You can have a seat on the bed," he suggested as he started writing on the paper. I plopped down, trying not to think about all the unpleasant thing men do on their beds.
"There you are," he offered me the paper, sniffing loudly, and I could tell that he was on is way to tears.
"You know Jimmy, if you ever need someone to talk to," I told him. "My door's always open."
"You know, everybody says that," he started in frustration.
"I understand what you're going through," I said gently. "And if you ever need anything, just let me know, okay?"
"Do you?" He asked, and I could tell he was starting to get sick of me. "Understand what I'm going through?" I sighed.
"I'll see you around, Jimmy," I said and walked out.
OOOOO
A few hours later I was sitting in my room and there was a knock on the door. I got up from my paperwork to answer it. It was Mac...and some other guy.
"Hey Faye," he said.
"Mac," I answered a little less enthusiastically.
"Have you met Mark Johnson?" He asked, introducing his companion. I shook my head.
"Hi, Mark," I started, taking his hand.
"Look, a bunch of us are going out tonight," Mac asked me. "You want to come?"
"I've got a lot of paperwork I need to get ready," I told them. "I don't think I should."
"Come on," Mac begged. "You can do that later. Let's go have some fun!"
"I can't," I went on protesting.
"Please! Please, please, please, please, please," He gave me these big puppy dog eyes and started pulling on my arm.
"Let me get my stuff," I ordered, pulling away. I went over to my desk chair to get my purse, and my jean jacket with the warm faux-wool lining. I pulled it on over my pink sweater, and faded blue jeans and was out the door.
The bar was just down the block, so we walked. As soon as we entered I could smell the smoke coming from the bar, so I tried to hold my breath. Needless to say, that didn't last long. A lot of the hockey players had come here to hang out. I could see they were clearly divided. The Minnesotans were at one table, and the Bostonians a safe distance away at another.
"Hey Rizzo," Mac called over to the guys at the Boston table. 'Dumb ass,' I thought to myself.
"Mac," I heard Mike Eruzione reply. Mac waved at them, and then wrapped his arm around my waist. I freaked out. I pulled away from him and pushed on his chest.
"What was that?" I demanded in the high-pitched voice I get when I'm mad. The Boston table was cracking up. Mac was notorious for pulling that kind of stunt.
"Hey, hey, hey," Buzz was quick to jump up and consol me. "Come on, have a seat, I'll get you a drink, what do you want?" I pulled my jacket off as I scrunched my nose up thoughtfully.
"A house on the hill, with one of those little plastic swords," I said. "So I can poke Mac with it." Buzzy went over to the bar like a good boy, and returned a moment later with my drink—complete with a lemon speared with a little pink sword. I ate the inside of the lemon, and took my little rapier and jabbed at Mac's arm.
"Ouch," he yelped, putting a hand over his arm. "Hey, when that jets infected and they have to amputate my arm and Herb cuts me from the team and I never play hockey again, I'm blaming you," he warned me.
"It's in alcohol, it's sterile," I reminded him, and took a sip of my drink. It made my lips tingle, a citrus-y drink with sprite, lemon juice, and vodka mixed together with chunks of mashed pineapple floating around in it.
"You're an angel," I told Buzz. "Want a sip." He shook his head,
"I can't drink those," he stated, "Acid reflux."
"And so young," I said, sighing dramatically.
"He doesn't have it," Phil Verchota informed me. "He's afraid of getting it." I laughed.
"Who wants to play pool?" I asked, noticing the vacant table. No takers, no wonder, I was a pretty decent pool player. "Come on," I urged. "Buzzy? Jannie...Phil?" I nodded "seductively" at him, he shook his head, and I frowned.
"I'm game," Mac offered with a sigh and got up.
"Thank you," I replied strongly patting his shoulder. "Thank you. You," I pointed at Buzzy. "Go see if there's any Bruce Springsteen in that juke box for me. And if there's not, go see the management." I grabbed my drink, and headed over to the pool table with Mac, on the way there the barrette I had pulled my hair up into a perverted French roll with started to pull my hair, so I took it out and shook my hair loose.
Long hair can be such a you-know-what, but I never have time to go to get it cut. A girl in my dorm offered to cut it for me once. She better be thanking God every day that my hair grows fast.
3rd person
O.C. watched broodingly from the table as Mac got up with the short blond girl he had arrived with. She pulled her hair down and shook her head as they made their way over to the pool table. She went into her pocket for some change to put into the pool table.
"Oh man," Silky's voice brought him out of his slight daze. Jack looked to his friend and found his mouth was practically watering as he watched Mac's mystery date bend over the pool table to break. "That's not right." Jack snorted.
"What?" Silky went on, noticing the table staring at him. "She's got a nice—"
"Hey!" Rizzo cut him off. Jack rolled his eyes. Typical Rizzo. Defender of the honor of every woman who ever found herself the object of his friends' brief affections.
"You know if she's hanging out with McClanahan she probably wouldn't mind," O.C. observed.
"I love you Buzzy!" She yelled as Born to Run started to play. She started dancing with her pool stick as Mac missed another shot.
"She's got good taste," Rizzo noted absently. The table stared wide-eyed.
"In music," he added nervously.
"Sure she does, Rizzo," O.C. teased.
1st person
When I hear Bruce Springsteen it's like Pavlov's dogs, I don't even think, I just start dancing. Mac missed so it was my turn again. After a quick survey of the pool table I hopped up onto the edge and held my pool stick behind me.
Mac makes quite the set up. The cue ball and a green striped ball were right in line with the corner pocket. Of course I don't know too many women who would willingly put themselves in this position, but after a few more drinks the only thing I'd remember was that I'd won the game.
There was a loud clack as ball fourteen fell into the pocket as the cue ball veered off to the side. I smiled at Mac and hopped down.
Half an hour later only six, seven, three, and eight were left; all solids, and it was my turn. This seriously worked for me, because I was in dire need of another drink and I was ready to wrap this one up.
"Want me to call it?" I asked as I leaned over.
"Sure why not," Mac shot playfully. "You know what you're doing."
"Eight ball, side pocket," I said, getting a look from Mac, because it probably would have been easier to hit it in the corner pocket in the mood to show off. Another clack as the eight ball fell into its proper place.
"I win," I declared. "I'm going to go to the bar for a while," I told Mac and headed over with my empty glass.
"Don't get yourself in too much trouble," he warned. I laughed as I went off, even if there was a hint of seriousness in is voice.
I found a seat at the bar, and after a few shots of Jim Beam whiskey I pulled a cigarette out of my pocket and lit it up. I pride myself on the fact that I have, quite possibly, the world's coolest lighter. It's about as long as the palm of my hand and an inch wide. The flint wheel doesn't hurt my thumb and it makes a really cool sound when I flick it open. It has a gold finish with 'Faye' engraved on one side in cursive letters, and a butterfly design on the other. It's also going to last me forever, because I usually won't strike it more than once or twice a day. I don't smoke often but when I do I smoke a lot.
I chain smoke. I'll smoke ten cigarettes one right after another. It usually adds up to almost a pack a day. My mom still smokes more than me though. It's an expensive habit to keep up. Don't ever start smoking. I've gotten complaints from the boys, and I've tried to quit, but quitting smoking is like extreme PMS, which I'm not too fond of either.
I ordered another shot and finally the bar tender gave up on my poor drunken soul and left the bottle. Did I mention I have this little drinking problem? I don't know for sure, but I have a sneaky suspicion that I come from a long line of alcoholics, so I'm predisposed to hitting the bottle a little too hard. I don't drink beer too much any more; it doesn't do too much for me.
My cigarette was starting to die so I went ahead and pulled out another one and held to the burning end of the one in my mouth until it lit. I put out the first and went nursing the second one.
"Chain smoker," a man behind me observed. "There's something mouth-wateringly dirty about that."
"Hit the road Jack," I warned without turning around, pouring myself another drink as I blew a pull of smoke from the corner of my mouth.
"I guess that means I don't need an introduction," he answered, dauntlessly taking the seat next to me. I looked over at him.
"Jack O'Callahan," I started, cocking an eyebrow at him. I usually don't remember the names of the athletes on the teams the Gophers play, but it's hard to forget a spat like Mac and O.C. had back in '76.
"Now this isn't very fair," he noted. "You already know my name, but I don't know yours." I rolled my eyes and turned my head in the other direction as I downed another shot. Not drunk yet, but getting there.
O.C. picked my lighter up off the bar and began examining it. And if he didn't put it down in about thirty seconds I was ready to deck him. Even if I wasn't quite sure what that would accomplish.
"Faye is it?" He asked, setting my lighter down. Wise choice my friend. "Faye what?"
"Darling," I said. He smiled a smile that would have been charismatic, if only it hadn't been so damn cocky.
"It's a little early for pillow talk don't you think?" He asked.
"No Jackass, that's my name," I spat at him. Time for another shot, it burned my throat on the way down, but I didn't mind—it was a welcome distraction from Jack.
"Hey," he started with a tone of mock-injury. "It's not nice to make fun of my name. You don't see me making fun of your name do you?"
"You just did," I reminded, my patience growing thin. He looked a little fazed for a moment, but he wasn't giving up.
"Well, Faye Darling," he began. "The question of the day is, 'What is with you and McClanahan?' Is he your boyfriend or something?" I snorted quietly.
"No," I shot back at O.C. "He just likes to pretend he is." I hate to admit it, but he had me pretty figured out by now. Don't you hate it when men do that?
"So what is it?" He asked.
"I'm working with the team," I answered, turning back to him finally. "Coach Brooks asked me to help with the paper work and travel arrangements for him."
"What's tat mean?" O.C. asked curiously.
That means that I am going to be the one calling your mom back in Charlestown if we ever have to take your butt to the hospital," I told him, thankful that I had gone through his papers before Mac had abducted me.
"Good to know you're here," he said sarcastically. "Come on; come meet some of the other guys." I followed him over to the Boston table.
"Hey guys," he started. "This is Faye Darling. She's going to be working with the team. Faye, that's Ralph Cox, Dave Silk, and Mike Eruzione."
"Hi!" I started, they waved to me and I took a seat next to Cox.
"So you and Mac and Buzz over there are like an item?" Silk asked, looking extremely confused. I shook my head.
"No," I stated simply. "No, we're just friends."
"You looked like you were about ready to tear Mac a new one back there," Cox added. The boys and I laughed a little.
"No," I said. "He was just playing with me. I haven't seen him in a while. He's really a good guy." O.C. rolled his eyes.
"I don't know how you people can stand be in the same room as that clown," O.C. shot started up.
"Let it go, it's over," Mike urged. "Let it go."
"You had to go on complimenting Mac, didn't you?" Silk shot.
"What's going on here," Ralph questioned.
"O.C.'s got a little unfinished business over there," Dave replied.
"Not for long I don't," Jack shot back.
"Hey. What I tell you, man," Rizzo started; then mouthed: "Let it go."
"McClanahan," Cox started. "You're not still going on about the '76 play offs are you?"
"Let me ask you something Coxie," O.C. started. "Why'd you want to play college hockey."
"Well I thought it was for the girls," Cox said. "But the fact that Silky's been playing footsies with me for the past five minutes kinda makes me want to rethink that." We all laughed.
"I'm serious Coxie," Jack demanded. "Why'd you want to play college hockey?"
"Because I love to play hockey," he answered. "I wanted to go to the NHL, just like everybody does."
"Well I wanted to win a National Championship," O.C. shot. "And that pansy over there cheap shots me; I get knocked out of the game. He steals the ring right off my finger. How would you feel?" I was feeling a little awkward, knowing that nothing I said would ever change his mind.
"Everyone was throwing cheap shots that night," Rizzo started up.
"You know it's funny that you say that Rizzo," Jack snapped. "Because I was just wondering whose side you were on."
"I'm on your side," Rizzo insisted.
"You know it really seems that way," O.C. shot. "I'm not doing this now. I'm out of here."
"Where you going?" Rizzo called after him as he got up.
"To my room," Jack shot back. "Is that okay with you, Mother?" Now in the few hours that I had known Rizzo he had been great to me, so that just didn't seem right.
"Jezz, no wonder the guy gets so many penalty minutes, right," Ralph started trying to break the nervous tension.
"Some time he gets a little carried away," Silk added, he looked over to me. "Sorry about that." I waved him off. The truth is I was starting to feel buzzed.
"You okay?" Rizzo asked me. "You look real pale."
"Yea, I'm fine," I answered easily.
"Your lips are pale," he warned. I shrugged.
"You know what," I said finally. "I need to dance, Silk, let's go. Cox; get me another drink...something that burns. Rizzo, stay here 'cause after I'm done with him, I'm dancing with you."
"I don't dance," he protested.
"You will," I said as Dave pulled me out to the dance floor.
OOOOO
Silky was a really good dancer, but Rizzo was not kidding. He had zero rhythm, but that's okay. I was drunk. I wasn't going to remember this tomorrow. And he was nice. At the end of the night he even offered to walk with me back to the hotel, even if all the guys were sort of migrating together.. I was trying to balance on the curb, and failing miserably. Every time I took a misstep and started to fall he grabbed me and set me back on my feet.
We took the elevator up to the second floor of the hotel.
"Goodnight guys," I bid him when I got to my room
"'Night," they all answered me, heading off in different directions.