In the lobby, it looked like the circus came to town. There were streamers and balloons all over and a huge sign congratulating the Rockets on making the playoffs. There was cotton candy, a popcorn machine and an artist painting the kids’ faces in the team colors. Some of the players had younger brothers and sisters who were running around on a sugar high. A few of the parents were hanging out near the “snack shack,” while the rest of them were in the stands talking to each other excitedly, cheering for the team and passing around a bottle of Fireball Cinammon whiskey.
It was cold inside the rink, but I didn’t shiver until I saw Matt and Todd out on the ice, gripping their sticks and standing together among a sea of plastic orange cones. They were putting the kids through a passing drill. I didn’t see Bob or Bridget. Rocco had a coterie of parents flanking him, laughing along at his jokes as he showed them something on his phone. I half-expected Cindy to be among them, but she was sitting apart from the crowd, talking to one of the other moms. As I sat down next to my wife, I could smell the Fireball on her breath. I knew that was a bad omen. When the bottle made its way to me, I drank deep.
The crowd was in a festive mood as buzzed parents circulated around the rink, swapping stories and taking swigs straight from the bottle while the team scrimmaged. I wanted to stay right with Cindy to make sure she is safe, but the Fireball had both of us feeling footloose and soon we were peregrinating separately about the rink, socializing with the other hockey parents. I managed to avoid Rocco as I made the rounds on my own, but I was forced to be cordial to Bob and Bridget, who arrived late to a round of applause from the tipsy parents. Bob was sporting his Rockets gear as usual, but he didn’t try to join the other coaches on the ice. He wasn’t wearing skates — though the ginger way that he walked, holding onto anything in reach for balance, reminded me of a person skating for the first time. Bob and I muttered a few words to each other, while their son joined his teammates and Bridget made a beeline for Cindy, giving her a big hug and air kisses and immediately striking up a conversation.
While I kept a wary eye on those two, Bob introduced me to Uncle Anthony. I had seen him at a few of the boys’ games, but we had never met. The man was short, made shorter by his wheelchair, and he appeared old enough to be Bridget’s great-uncle. Flat-faced and almost entirely bald, Uncle Anthony had hair sprouting everywhere you don’t want it: in his nose, in his ears, and sticking out of those bushy, unkempt eyebrows like an ant’s antennae. I was startled at how quickly his electric wheelchair could close the gap between us, rattling and whirring as it moved. With an arthritic, liver-spotted hand, old Uncle Anthony reached out to greet me.
I made awkward small talk with him about the Rockets’ chances in the playoffs, then I politely excused myself to visit the restroom. As I turned to walk away, a little boy tripped in front of us, dropping his popcorn bucket.
“The way you dive, kid, you should try out for the Montreal Canadiens,” Uncle Anthony cackled.
Bob and I both laughed, but only he wheezed afterwards. I gave him a look to let him know I know what that’s about. Before either of us could react, Uncle Anthony pulled out his grabber tool, which looked like a metal claw at the end of a long rod attached to a hand grip, and used it to pick up the popcorn bucket. At first, the boy was afraid to take his bucket from the chairbound old coot with the robot arm, but eventually he did.
The scene reminded me of Rocco snapping his hand at Bridget and I realized he had been imitating Uncle Anthony with that long grabber. It was still on my mind as I entered the bathroom. The next thing I knew, Rocco was slapping my back as he took the urinal next to mine, even though all of them were empty. The unexpected jolt caused me to piss on myself a little bit. “Hey, Big Pussy! Good seeing you again.”
As Rocco bestrode the adjacent urinal, I saw him cast a scornful eye at my exposed penis. I felt humiliation’s hot hand on my cheeks as the big-dicked bastard looked back at me and smirked. In a bid to relieve the tension, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “How’s the water? I wouldn’t know.”
That drew a laugh.
“Cold!” Rocco exclaimed, still chuckling. “I like the hot tub better.”
That made me chuckle too, until he said what I was only thinking. “I bet you did too, eh?”
That question made my whole face burn. “No more bets for me,” I replied, shaking my head. “Gotta cut my losses.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Rocco commiserated. “Mistress Bitch has me for four large. Or so she thinks anyway. But I got a tip for you. If you’re betting tonight, take the over!”
With that, he zipped up his pants, washed his hands, dried them on the back of my shirt and left me standing at a urinal by myself with my little dick peeking out of my pants. I pulled out my phone. I didn’t even need to search for the MasterBettor app; it was right there on the home screen, beckoning. I took a moment with my thoughts before I rejoined the festivities.
I emerged from the bathroom looking for Cindy. I saw her in the stands, still talking with Bridget. That gave me creeping anxiety.
“Sorry to interrupt, ladies,” I said as I approached. Cindy’s beautiful blue eyes looked glassy as she clutched the mostly empty bottle of Fireball. Without saying anything, I slipped it out of her hands and polished off the last swallow. It burned going down.
“Oh you’re not interrupting anything,” Bridget responded coyly, while staring at me, her eyes blazing. “Just girls’ talk, darling.”
Cindy smiled sweetly and said the same. She was slurring a little. “Yup, just girls’ talk, dah-ling.”
Bridget laughed at my wife’s mimicry and the two of them began tittering away at their private joke.
The scrimmage was over and the kids were beginning to remove their skates when Coach Matt thumped the butt end of his stick loudly on the ice, calling the team to order. When the kids quieted down, he thanked them all for a successful regular season and announced that, in recognition of the team clinching a spot in the playoffs, there were food trucks waiting outside to keep the party going. I heard my son join the chorus as the kids whooped with delight and stampeded as a herd out to the parking lot.
Following the crowd out of the rink, I found myself thrust into a full-blown block party. Coach Matt may have undersold this thing. There was a truck making gourmet grilled cheese sandwiches; another truck with deluxe baja tacos; and a dessert truck featuring churros and soft serve ice cream. There was even a DJ spinning “Kernkraft 400” and, for the adults, a frozen margarita machine. Knowing that would probably be Cindy’s first stop, I figured I would be the one to get her some dinner, so I queued up at the taco truck. Sam was in the same line, just closer to the front.
As twilight faded to darkness, I sipped on a soda and mingled with the crowd. I did my best to keep an eye on Cindy, but the ebullient atmosphere made it easy to lose track of her. After she went back in the building to use the restroom, I didn’t see her again, so while Sam and his friends gorged themselves on Mexican street tacos and slapped around a street hockey ball, I paced the edge of the parking lot looking for my wife.