Page 9 of Flagrant Foul
“I’m not telling you that to defend myself in any way. I’m only telling you to help you understand just how young I was because even though I’m still stupid in many ways, I don’t think I’m stupid like that anymore. At least I hope not.”
She folds her hands neatly in her lap and places her knees and feet close together. “Okay, got it.”
“So, as I said, his name was Sev, and being the little fool I was, I thought Sev was short for Seven. I never asked anyone about it or had it confirmed. I just assumed that’s what his full name was because that was the only word I could think of that started with those letters. Long story short, fourteen years later, I’m a professional hockey player for one of the best teams in the NHL and the number on the back of my jersey is…seven.”
Mae gasps and has the decency to look suitably scandalized.
“And the worst of it is, Sev doesn’t even stand for Seven. Sev is some bullshit made-up name his mom gave him because she met a hot guy called Zev when she was pregnant with Sev. She liked the way the name sounded, and she liked the meaning—wolf in Hebrew—but she has a funny thing about the lettersX,Y, andZ. Doesn’t care for them, and doesn’t know why.”
The same version of myself that walked into the coach’s office and demanded to be allowed to try out for goalie, confidently citing fiery reflexes as the reason, didn’t have to think twice about what his preferred number was.
“My number is seven, Coach,” I said when I made the team and was erroneously given a jersey that had number one brandished on the back.
“But, Teddy, goalies are usually number one? Are you sure you want seven?”
“I’m positive, Coach,” I said with gusto. “I love the numberSeven.” I thought no one would ever be able to decode that, despite how blatantly obvious it was.
I wish that’s all there was to it. I wish I could say I was number seven for a season or two and then came to my senses. I almost did. I came close. When I started playing for a new club when I was fourteen, common sense and self-preservation attempted to flicker to life. They gave me a jersey with a one on the back, and I didn’t complain. I wore that number happily until I got signed to the Blackeyes. At the time, Ben Stirling was captain, and he famously wore the number one jersey for the Blackeyes for over a decade. When I was signing my contract, they asked me what number I wanted. I should have been expecting the question, but I wasn’t.
Someone else took control of my mouth for a fraction of a second and said, “Seven.”
So when you think about it, I just lied to Mae—I’m still exactly as stupid as I was when I was a kid.
“Gosh, how embarrassing for you,” says Mae. “I can see why you’ve never told anyone about that before. Don’t worry, dear. I won’t tell.”
“Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”
Fucking fuck.
I’ve gotten so wrapped up in Mae’s crazy, I forgot I was famous and that the press eats shit like this for breakfast. Panic begins its ungraceful clatter, thumping and thrashing in my heart and lungs, until I take a second to look at Mae. Her gaze hits me like a cold splash of water.
I believe her.
She won’t tell, but she does have questions.
“So, who is this Sev character anyway?”
I can tell she’s one of those people who likes tea in more ways than one, so I decide to give her just enough juicy details to sate her appetite and allow us to move on from the topic.
“He’s my brother’s best friend. I practically grew up with him in my house. He’s the worst.”
She purrs sympathetically and eyes the empty cookie container on the coffee table for just long enough to lull me into a false sense of security. “Do you know that when you say his name, a tiny bit of tension forms right here, near the corner of your mouth?”
To make sure I’m in no doubt about what she means, she motions with her finger to the exact spot she’s referring to.
She doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t need to.
She knows exactly who Sev is to me.
5
Teddy “T-Dog” O’Reilly
Then
Natewasatthestovetop humming. He used to do that all the time, hum a semi-tuneless melody that was cheerful and repetitive but frustratingly unplaceable. It was a song I was sure I knew. The title was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t name it.
Sev had the fridge door open and was bending down, one hand hooked over the door, swinging it absently as he rifled through the fruit drawer with the other. When he straightened, he had an apple in his hand. A Pink Lady. My mom bought them at the farmers’ market that was held in town on Sunday mornings. They were bigger and juicier than the ones she got in the store. Sweeter too.
