Chapter 9

Sometimes there is a specific comment that will make me add or delete something from a chapter I'm writing and then sometimes there's a comment that makes the evil inner me giggle and make wholesale changes....

“What are you doing here?” With a sidelong glance at the other waitress on the counter she slides a pencil from behind her ear, a pad from her apron and greets him with a warm and welcoming smile because she is delighted to see a friendly face amongst the mid day business and college crowd, eager to get their food and get back to work with no time for casual banter and unlikely to leave much of a tip.

“Just heading back from practice, thought I’d stop in and see you,” he replies, sliding onto a stool at the counter and reaching to turn a white ceramic cup over. Smirking she turns and reaches for one of the steaming cups of black coffee behind her.

“This shit will stunt your growth you know,” she snickers as she pours it into the cup while he reaches for a Splenda and rips it open.

“Think about all that stuff in Gatorade,” he shudders dramatically and they both laugh.

“So can I get you anything? Slice of pie, on me?” she asks, nibbling at the end of the pencil. He considers it, eyeing the deserts in the display case and then leans over the counter and motions her to do the same.

“I wanna tell you a secret, the food here’s not so good,” he whispers in her ear. She laughs but catches herself, covering her mouth with her hand and sending a panicked glance towards the other waitress. “What time do you get off?” he asks, sitting back down and taking a sip of the bitter coffee, making a face and reaching for another package of Splenda. “Maybe I can take you for some real food.”

“Actually I am off soon,” she smiles as if she has a secret as she reaches beneath the counter and grabs a glass and a rag and begins to polish it. “But I can’t eat, at least not yet.” He looks up at her, interested and though she fights it, she cannot quite manage to stop her grin from growing or from telling him her plans for the rest of the day.

“I have my twenty week scan this afternoon and with that money he gave me, I’m getting one of those 3-d ones. I’m kind of excited,” she admits, her cheeks almost hurting as her smile grows. “I have to drink like a whole bunch of water between then and getting to the clinic though, so that should make the bus ride fun.”

“You’re going on the bus?” Marc looks sincerely shocked as he puts the cup down but she is unperturbed. “Don’t you have anyone to take you, your friend…what was her name…? Jordan told me but I forget,” he mumbles. She giggles again as she picks up the next glass.

“Sam was going to, she was but she has this test tomorrow or something and it’s not like I need anyone to hold my hand,” she shrugs and reaches for another glass. He looks down into his coffee and appears to contemplate it for a long time, long enough that she thinks he is trying to dismiss her and that she should move along but just as she slips the last glass back on its tray beneath the counter he looks up at her with those woeful puppy dog brown eyes of his and a slow smile spread across his thin lips, pulling that soul patch up and making his eyes twinkle.

“I’ll go with you.” It isn’t a question. He doesn’t ask to come along. He also doesn’t offer as if she needs him to or that she should not consider going alone. He merely states it as a fact that she should accept.

“I couldn’t,” she breathes, glancing around guiltily as if their conversation might get her or both of them in trouble. “Marc, I couldn’t ask you too.”

“No problem, I want to,” he says, again as if no argument could override his decision which is clearly and irrevocably final and how can she argue with that face she decides, reaching around to untie her apron.

“Then I’ll be two minutes,” she insists.

“I’ll be right here,” he promises.

____________________________________________________________________

“I think it’s a stupid idea.”

Sid heaves a sigh but does not reply immediately. After all, it is not as if he has expected a different answer. His fingers drum nervously on his knee, but his father cannot see that through the computer. Sometimes he hates the impersonal nature of skype and sometimes, like now, it’s perfection in its restrictions.

“You have to admit, there isn’t a better way to keep an eye on her.” It’s an argument he knows that Troy will not be able to dispute and just as he’s predicted, his father nods, setting his jowls swinging. “I did think about here but that seemed like admitting fault,” he adds before his father can give voice to a plan b. 

“Good thinking,” the older man says, giving his son the kind of smile that he should give him when he wins a game, not for doing something underhanded and devious. But then, this is the sort of thing that his father is good at, controlling other people and getting them to do what he wants. He’s had a life time of perfecting his ability to make others dance to his tune and his son knows that he is his father’s favorite puppet. “So when does the little slut move in?” Sid bites on the inside of his cheek and breathes through his nose. For the moment he knows that it is best if his father continues to believe that they are entirely on the same page, the same team even though, in his heart, his own view of the situation at hand is less…clear. 

“I haven’t asked her yet,” he admits, keeping his expression carefully neutral and just a little bit hopeful. His father loves nothing better than extinguishing optimism from his son’s eyes. “I wanted to run it by you first. Make sure you thought it was a good idea,” he adds, stroking his father’s enormous ego. The big man falls for it, hook line and sinker and beams across the miles at his son, filling the LED screen with a voracious smile. 

“You did right son,” he says proudly, sitting back so that the when the barrel of his chest fills with hot air again, he looks like a big bear; a big, meat eating, soul sucking, life devouring bear. 

“Thanks dad.” He manages, just, to sound contrite and twist his face into what he hopes is the kind of grin that says he is happy his father thinks that he has done a good thing. It is a smile he has been practicing a good deal of his life but knows he has not ever, truly, been able to perfect.

“So you’re gonna move her into your place ‘til the squirt pops out, keep her sweet and thinking that she’s getting all she wants and more and then if it’s not yours, we can move her out into the wilderness with a cheque to keep her schtumm and if it is, god forbid, we give her a bigger cheque and fly her to Hawaii or something.” It is not surprising to him that his father has thought this through to an end game that has her and the child disappearing from his life for good. Every time he’s gotten close to anyone that has been the inevitable consequence. God forbid he should have any distraction from the game, including a friend. 

“Yeah, sounds about right,” he replies without any need to school his expression. That is what will happen. His father and the Commissioner will make certain of it. All he can do is make her comfortable until that happens, he thinks to himself, and while he is doing that, perhaps he can come to some other kind of terms with her himself. 

_________________________________________________________________

“Sorry for the wait, that last couple couldn’t decide if they wanted to see the sex or not,” the technician in her white lab coat and mint green scrubs apologizes as she appears through the door. Fern blows out a breath she has been holding. 

“I feel like I’m gonna burst,” she admits as the technician takes her place at the machine beside the screen and types in her password. 

“I know. This won’t take long. You two ready?” she asks, looking at Marc who nods enthusiastically and squeezes the hand he’s been holding while they’ve waited. “Good, now, this will be cold,” the technician warns before she squeezes a tablespoon’s worth of blue gel on Fern’s swollen abdomen. “Now, before we get started have you two discussed if you’d like to know the sex?” 

“What do you think?” Marc asks, ignoring that the woman pushing the wand around on her stomach obviously thinks that he is the father; that they are together. She looks up at him, at the exuberant smile on his face, at how excited he is and shrugs. 

“I think so, don’t you?” she asks and he nods, bending to press his lips on her brow before turning his full attention to the screen. She can’t help but giggle. He is like a little boy about to watch a magic show, all nervous energy and wide eyes. 

“Okay, well, let’s see,” the wand moves, a pressure against her bladder that makes Fern wince and then she forgets altogether how much she needs to pee. “That’s the heartbeat,” the woman says with the patient smile of a magician who knows she’s just done something that will get oohs and aaahs. Fern stares at the screen and squeezes Marc’s hand, hard. 

“When I had my twelve week scan it was like so small I could hardly pick it out,” she says in a reverent hushed tone. 

“A lot’s happened, biologically speaking, since then,” the woman says as she adjusts both the pressure and the direction of the wand and all of the air leaves Fern’s lungs at once. “He’s looking at you,” she says with the same smile that is almost like the cue on the jumbo-tron before a face off. Fern feels like she should clap, like she should whistle and make some noise except that she can’t move. She doesn’t even breathe as she watches the shape on the screen stretch, then roll over and stick his thumb in his mouth. 

“So not unlike his father then,” Marc whispers and she thinks that she would laugh except that she cannot make a noise, cannot move. This moment to her is like being in church in the middle of the night when it is just you and your maker and not another thing in the world. If it wasn’t for Marc’s grip on her hand there would be nothing holding her to the ground at all. 

“Looks like he’s got all ten fingers and all ten toes,” the woman adds before typing something that sets the printer into motion. “Two prints, that’s what you paid for, am I right?” she asks as she pulls the first one out and hands it to Marc who stares down at it like it’s a winning scratch ticket. Fern just nods, her gaze still riveted to the screen, to her son. 

______________________________________________________________________

“Thank you for coming with me,” she says, finally tearing her gaze away from the grainy picture in her hand and turning to the young man putting his car in park. 

“It was my pleasure,” he grins, still as enthusiastic as she can’t help but wish the real father was. 

“Will you take this to him?” she asks, holding the picture out towards him. Marc looks down at it and up at her and his smile fades. 

“Are you sure about that?” he asks, his dark eyes searching hers’. She looks at the picture in his hands and then up at him and nods. 

“I think so. I mean…he should have one too don’t you think?” Marc looks unsure but she is not. He may not be the man she had hoped him to be but he is the father and though it was better to have Marc with her than no one, there is still a part of her that wishes that the real father had been there to see what she has seen. 

“D’accord, I will take it to him. I don’t know what he will say,” he adds, apologetically and by way of a warning she thinks and nods. She has no expectations that a single printed photograph will change his mind or make him a better man. She merely believes that he has a right to it. “Well, I should get back to Vero,” he says softly, maybe a little regretfully. She nods and reaches for the handle on the door. Her feet are not flat on the pavement of the sidewalk before a man is getting out of the car in front of them and walking towards her. He is wearing a camel coloured overcoat and a dark blue and grey pinstriped suit. His tie is a matching blue, very corporate as is the manila envelope in his hand. She looks at the envelope and then at him and then back at Marc who is tugging the keys from the ignition and reaching for the car door. 

“Are you Fern Smith?” It feels like déjà vu and she is sure as she looks back up at his cold grey eyes behind the thin silver frames of his glasses, without needing to hear another word that standing before her is yet another lawyer. 

“And if she is?” Marc asks, appearing at her side, staring directly at the man just the way he does a streaking forward in a shoot out, narrowed eyes and thinned lips. 

“We just have a few things to speak about, if we can go inside,” the man replies, firmly but not sternly, his gaze only on Fern as if he does not see the young man at her side. 

“What is this about?” Marc asks, stepping in front of Fern, holding his arms protectively out as if he can take on an entire team all on his own. 

“Miss, if we can speak in private,” the man asks again, an edge to his tone this time. 

“Marc, I’m sure it’s okay,” Fern begins to speak but the Pens net minder shakes his head.

“If this is about what I think it’s about, I want to know,” he insists. The man looks at Marc for the first time and then over his shoulder at Fern and tilts his head in acquiescence. 

“If you insist, but I still think that it is best we do this inside?” It is not really a question, but he forms it that way as if to be polite. 

“Yes of course,” she agrees meekly, digging her keys from her purse, “please follow me.” 

___________________________________________________________________

“Tu fils de pute putain!” 

He does not have time to put up any defense. He does not even see the attack coming until he feels hands locking his arms to his sides and realizes that he is falling. He sees the blazing eyes of the usually mild mannered Pens goalie centimeters from his own and just for a moment he wonders what could possibly have set Flower off. He thinks that he has only seen Marc this angry maybe twice and both times it had to do with being pulled and resulted in several broken sticks. He does not think he has ever seen MAF specifically angry at any one member of the team. Apparently today though, he is. 

“What the hell am I supposed to have done?” he asks as he manages, just, to twist enough in Marc’s grasp so that his head is not the first thing that hits the floor.

“Tu sais exactement ce que tu fais!” MAF growls from his position astride Sid’s chest, his arm pulled back, his fist ready to be released in a blow that Sid knows will hurt, a lot. 

“No,” he insists, meeting his angry teammate’s furious gaze and rolling his head from side to side. “No, I don’t.” 

“I was there when it happened. I saw the whole thing. How could you do that? Es-tu un robot? As-tu pas de sentiments?” He can feel more than see the crowd forming around them and the fact that no one has pulled MAF off of him tells him that he whatever beating the goalie is ready to give him, there isn’t one person in this room that is going to stop him from handing it out. 

“I’m telling you, I don’t know what you’re fucking talking about,” he repeats as calmly as he can, considering he is actually a little frightened. MAF is one of the jokesters on the team, the even headed one, the one who always has a joke, a quick smile. The person kneeling on his chest is not that person and the one behind this person’s eyes does not look like he will stop at one punch. 

“You sent another lawyer,” Marc snarls at him, “with a protection order, like she is the one in the wrong! Salaud!!” Sidney blinks up at his friend. He knows that MAF would not lie, but he can’t get his head around what he is saying either. 

“I didn’t. Honestly, I fucking didn’t. I don’t know what you’re fucking talking about. I didn’t send anyone. I…I was going to try and talk to her tomorrow. I just told Troy I’m planning on moving her into my house,” he explains rapidly and watches as Marc tries to digest what he is being told. 

“Fais-tu?” Marc’s dark eyes narrow but the redness fades from his cheeks. 

“I’m telling you the truth,” Sid pleads, holding his hands out to his sides instead of in front of his face. “I don’t want to be a total dick to her. I mean I know I have been but man…I’m trying not to be okay?”  

“So who sent him, the lawyer?” Marc asks, his fist still cocked but his grip on the front Sid’s t-shirt begins to ease. 

“I did.” 

The voice comes from above and behind him and as hard as he tries, Sid can’t quite twist around enough to see who has spoken but from the way that the sea of feet part, he can guess. 

“Mario,” he breathes, shocked to his core. He feels Marc release, feels the goalie’s bony knee lift from the center of his chest, but he still feels a weight there. One weight has only been replaced by another.

“Your father told me about this plan of yours,” Mario tells him quietly, coming into view and offering a hand up. Sid stares at the offered hand, unsure of whether he wants to take it or not. “I do not believe it is a wise choice so I sent the one of our legal team. Now, I think you and I should talk.”