Chapter 4

2 chapters in 24 hours, yahoo

“Well champ, I’m not going to say I told you so.” He rolls his eyes to heaven as he paces the dim room with its wood panelled walls, built in book cases filled with memorabilia surrounding an antique walnut desk behind which sits his mentor, the man who understands him best. But it isn’t Mario who has spoken. Sidney glances at the lap top and the burly man with his sagging jowls staring out from its confines. 

“Go ahead, get it out if it will make you feel better,” he suggests with a sullen scowl. 

“Well if you’d been more careful....”

“I was fucking careful. I used protection. I don’t even know if it is mine. I mean, they lie right. I could be worried about nothing.” He runs his hand through his thick, dark hair and goes back to pacing the merlot coloured plus carpet. There is part of him that is fuming that Mario immediately involved his father in this and part of him that is deeply mortified that either man has to know. 

“We’ll commission a paternity test, obviously, once the kid has been born but until then...,” Mario begins, his sky blue eyes mirroring the concern that Sidney knows is brimming in his own eyes. Sidney knows that the Mario the Great has been in his shoes and empathizes. He also believes that he is the reason the man on Skype didn’t make it the big time when a shy, serious girl from a small town got pregnant. 

“I know, I know, a non disclosure agreement,” he mutters, chewing anxiously on the corner of his bottom lip. It feels like a clinical, cold thing to do but he knows it is necessary. He also knows that far less well known players than he have delivered the same documents to women with stars in their eyes and crushed their dreams. He’s heard the stories. He doesn’t have the stomach for it. 

“Obviously, but we should talk about your options,” Mario adds quietly. Sidney sighs and shakes his head. 

“She says she’s passed that point,” he mumbles, half to himself, picturing the swelling at her abdomen that looks like it would fit in his hand. Self consciously he curls his hands into fists at his sides.

“Oh and so she’s a fucking doctor now?” his father barks and Sidney sends him an annoyed and impatient glare. “No, I didn’t think so. Have her see one of the team docs and have them confirm things,” he brashly suggests, as if he too can order the staff of the Penguins around. Sidney looks apologetically towards Mario who slowly nods his head and Sidney’s shoulders slump. Two against one; the odds seem stacked against him.

“I don’t want her anywhere near the arena. Can’t someone just take her the contract? I mean, if she signs that then I don’t have to think about it until the uh...the DNA test or whatever,” he says hopefully, maybe a little too hopefully by the patient but sombre expression his mentor is wearing as he looks back at him. 

“There are certain steps that need to be taken,” Mario begins but his father’s disdainful snort drowns the soft spoken Frenchman out.  

“Yeah like if you’d taken a little more thought about what kind of tramp you took home.” He glares at his father, wishing that he’d be more sympathetic and knowing that there’s little chance of getting more than this, sarcasm and humiliation. 

“She wasn’t...,” he catches himself before he tells his father that she is the least likely looking puck fuck and decides against it before his father decides that the best medicine is for him to catch the next flight out and play the heavy himself. If he’d made the girl cry, his father would give her a nervous breakdown. “Fuck it! It’s probably not even mine. It’s probably some stupid stoner that does the dishes there or something. The fucking condom was fine. I looked, I know.”

“Well, actually....” The sound of Mario uncomfortably clearing his throat drags Sidney’s attention back to his mentor who looks ill at ease as he shrugs his wide shoulders. “I have heard of a few instances where the girls have saved the contents and ah...inserted them later.” He’s not sure if he’s ever heard a silence that sits more heavily in the room than does the one that falls amongst them now. He stares at his Mario, trying to imagine being so desperate and his mentor merely shrugs as if to say that he is merely putting the possibility out there.

“Fuck,” is his only answer. 

“Yes well, I think we should meet with the young woman, determine her demands,” Mario adds reasonably, tapping his pen on his open date book as if to do no more than schedule a doctor’s appointment.

“Jesus, it’s not a fucking kidnapping,” Sid exclaims, finally falling into one of the high backed leather chairs. 

“Sure it is son,” his father guffaws, “of your fucking wallet, your future....”

“I’m sure there’s a reasonable figure we can come to,” Mario interjects in his calm, rational tone, “if, as you say, she doesn’t immediately seem to be quite the type to look for a large sum.” 

“Hey, Lemieux, before you go offering my son’s nest egg up, let’s talk to this little bitch about getting a fucking abortion.” The word is so ugly it makes him wince and Sid finds himself trying to huddle into the chair, as if it can protect him, as if it can keep the world at bay. 

“I certainly think it would be best to sit down and have an adult conversation about both of your options before we do anything else,” Mario reiterates, in his patient fatherly tone. A tone Sidney’s father only rarely uses with his younger sibling. 

“You mean superstar here has a kid he sends a birthday card and a Christmas present to once a year?” Sid sighs and shuts his eyes against the smug look on his father’s meaty features.

“Daaaad.”

_________________________________________________________

 “Fernie, you’ve got a guy in your section asking for you.” 

She glances anxiously over her shoulder, something she’s been doing now for days, but the only man she can see is wearing a nice suit and smiles warmly at her. 

“You let me know if there’s anything else you need,” she tells the older couple as she finishes filling their coffees. They barely take the time to even smile at her; they’re already tearing into their breakfasts like it’s the only meal they’ve had for a week. She turns the white porcelain mug over and begins to fill it before she looks up at him.  

“Decided what you’ll be having?” she asks as the mug fills with the dark steaming liquid. 

“Just the coffee’ll be great,” he smiles again, all dimples and straight white teeth. She smiles back at him. It’s hard not to. He’s got those all American quarterback good looks and a sparkle in his eyes. She’s about to turn and go back behind the counter to refill her coffee jug when he pulls out a folder and puts it on the table in front of him. She’s used to some of the college kids coming in here and doing homework late at night, but usually that’s on their expensive lap tops. The only paper she usually sees in the diner is the sports section. “I’m lookin’ for someone,” he says, aiming that line of perfectly straight white teeth at her. “Maybe you can help me.” 

“Sure, if I can,” she says, perking up and standing a little straighter as his grin broadens. Other than some of the construction workers that come in here and a few of the regulars, most of the customers don’t notice her. She’s not pretty enough to compliment or flirt with and she hasn’t got her bosoms on show like a couple of the other waitresses so when someone pays any kind of attention to her it’s hard not to feel a little bit better. “So are you like a cop or something?” she asks, imaging herself in an episode of Criminal Minds, giving the clues to Special Agent Derek Morgan that will solve the case and then maybe she could be friends with Penelope....

“Are you Fern Smith?” She blinks at the man who keeps smiling up at her like she’s a Victoria’s Secret model but now she doesn’t feel like a shiny new dime. Not only does she hate the way her name sounds, plain and boring to the point where she’s been accused of either making it up or being in witness protection, but just the way he says it makes it sound like whatever is in the folder in front of him can’t possibly be good news. 

“I am,” she says slowly, taking the rag out of her pocket and sliding it over the disused side of the table, just to keep her hands busy and so she doesn’t have to look at his square chin and high cheekbones. 

“Well Fern, why don’t you sit down? I think you and I have some things to talk about.” It’s almost as if someone has stuck a shiv in her back, she has to suck in a sharp breath through her teeth and she puts the coffee pot down and leans on the table. 

“I’m...we’re not supposed to,” she mumbles and sends a glance towards one of the more senior waitresses behind the counter. 

“Oh...I think you should,” he says mildly, opening the folder and taking out a stack of papers with tiny writing on them. “I think we’ll be a while.”

_________________________________________________________

“You did what?” 

He doesn’t look up. In fact he does his best not to react at all but he does have to re-tie his skate, which he takes his time in doing before he looks up at where his two teammates are standing over him looking less than sympathetic. 

“It’s a non disclosure agreement. Pretty straightforward apparently,” he replies as dispassionately as he can and then reaches for his other skate and slips his foot into it. 

“You let someone else take it?” Dupers sighs, “pretty chicken shit don’t you think?” 

“That poor girl, as if you haven’t put her through enough,” Flower adds, shaking his head so that his long, stringy dark hair falls into his eyes. He shakes it away but continues to stare at Sid who continues to tug at his laces as if he can force them into submission. He likes to be in control. He is in control of this, just one of the reasons why he has so many superstitions. If he puts his right skate on before his left, things might go better today than they did yesterday. 

“That poor girl got into bed with me pretty easily,” he replies calmly but sternly, mimicking the things his father has said, things he can’t get out of his own head. “She probably planned it,” he adds with a shrug as he sits back and leans against the wall, looking towards the centre of the room where the Pens logo seems to stare back at him. 

“That girl?” Dupers smirks and shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” 

“Je suis d’accord.” The shy, soft spoken goalie always falls into French when he’s rattled and it makes Sid look up at him. “Elle est douce. Elle n’est pas un chercheur d’or.” 

“Yeah, you know that for sure? What did you talk to her for like a minute and you know more than I do?” Sid tips his head to the side and considers his usually quiet friend for long enough that the net minder lets his hair fall back over his eyes, giving him a veil of hair to hide behind. “Yeah, didn’t think so,” he sighs and then gets to his feet and turns his back on his teammates, reaching for his practice jersey. 

“You should have at least done it in person,” Dupers says in that gruff father knows best tone that sometimes works on some of the younger players when they get out of line. It’s not a tone he often has to take with road roommate and it makes Sid bristle. 

“Like I can do that. Like I’m gonna sit there in a diner long enough to tell some puck slut that she can’t go to the papers. She gets a cheque, she signs the contract and then we reconvene when the brat is born to see if it’s even mine. Why should I get involved?” he snarls, tugging the jersey over his head and reaching for his helmet.

“Because, it would have been the right thing to do,” Pascal hisses in a tone that’s bordering on threatening. “And because you and I both know that little girl didn’t do this on purpose.” Sid doesn’t reply. He doesn’t disagree. He holds his tongue and waits for his teammate to go back to his spot in the dressing room and only then does he make his way out onto the ice, before any of his teammates can spoil the fresh sheet and so that he can clear his head which has begun to pound.