closest to her. “What is it?”
She laughs when she sees what’s inside. “Hockey equipment?”
“Yeah!” Cooper says. “I don’t know how much will fit me, but you’ll be fine.”
Bretta pulls out a black and white glove and slides her hand into it. “It fits,” she says, before a grimace drags down the sides of her face. “And it stinks. Oh, God.” She flips the glove back into the bag.
“They’re a few years old,” Cooper says. “And hockey gear always smells bad. But it turns you into a tank once you have it on.”
Bretta picks up the glove again and smells it. Her face wrinkles. “Ugh, fuck,” she says. “Boys stink.”
“Yeah, they do,” Cooper says, picking up a knee guard. He fits it on his leg over his pants, and then raps the plastic shin with his knuckles. He smiles at Bretta and shrugs. “They’ll break their damn teeth before they ever get into this,” he says.
Bretta is pulling out other pieces of equipment. First elbow pads, then shin guards. There are pairs of hockey socks balled in pairs. They look like monstrous tube socks with blue and red stripes at the top. There’s a sandwich bag with red and blue mouth guards in it formed for Scott’s teeth. There’s a scuffed helmet with a full cage, which Bretta slides over her head. She pulls out a neck guard and padded hockey pants. There are shoulder guards and two jerseys with opposite green and white colour schemes.
Both of them have the same cartoonish bumblebee logo on the front. The bee’s head looks a little like Mickey Mouse with pink spots for cheeks but no ears. He has a round bee-body striped yellow and black. There’s a large stinger protruding out of the bee’s ass shaped like hockey stick and he’s taking a slap shot with it. The puck has streamers coming off to show how fast it’s going.
Bretta holds up the green and white jersey. “That’s a cute bee,” she says. She thinks of Scott as a 13-year-old boy and the idea of it makes her smile. “Seventy-one,” she says reading the number on the back of the jersey. “Is that a lucky number, you think?”
“Sort of.” He holds up his index and middle fingers together and grins. “It’s a sixty-nine with two fingers.”
“Gross,” Bretta says, and Cooper laughs. She drops the jersey with the other gear. She picks up Scott’s jock strap. “Think we’ll be needing these?”
“It’s a face guard,” Scott says. “Put it on and see if it fits.”
Bretta laughs. “Fuck off!”
She takes stock of everything she’s pulled out of the bag and what’s left inside still. “You know, with a couple layers of clothing, we should be fairly well protected,” she says. She takes the helmet off and lays it upside-down on the pile outside the bag. “That thing even fits,” she says, brushing sweaty hair from her face.
“Yeah,” says Cooper. “We’re really going to do this, eh?”
Bretta nods. “We have no choice.”
If Scott is going to get better, they need to get him some help. And that means drugs. Anything they can find so he can start coping without going crazy. She starts to say this to Cooper, but she fumbles on the words and looks at him helplessly. “Anything to keep him from going…”
“Fuckin’ nuts?” Cooper says. After a moment, Bretta nods. Cooper sighs. He stands up and claps his hands and holds one out for her. “Come on. Let’s see how this stuff looks on you.”
His hand is warm and soft. Softer than Scott’s. It’s bigger than Scott’s hand, too, and her hand almost disappears in his grasp. She allows herself to be pulled up and wonders why she’s thinking about Cooper’s hand. She also wonders why she feels guilty thinking about it.
She grabs the helmet and puts it on, and then takes it off when Cooper holds up a pair of gray shoulder pads. The equipment was built for a shorter but wider Scott; it fits, but it’s loose, and Bretta imagines herself sliding around inside it.
“No worries,” Cooper says. “We
She laughs when she sees what’s inside. “Hockey equipment?”
“Yeah!” Cooper says. “I don’t know how much will fit me, but you’ll be fine.”
Bretta pulls out a black and white glove and slides her hand into it. “It fits,” she says, before a grimace drags down the sides of her face. “And it stinks. Oh, God.” She flips the glove back into the bag.
“They’re a few years old,” Cooper says. “And hockey gear always smells bad. But it turns you into a tank once you have it on.”
Bretta picks up the glove again and smells it. Her face wrinkles. “Ugh, fuck,” she says. “Boys stink.”
“Yeah, they do,” Cooper says, picking up a knee guard. He fits it on his leg over his pants, and then raps the plastic shin with his knuckles. He smiles at Bretta and shrugs. “They’ll break their damn teeth before they ever get into this,” he says.
Bretta is pulling out other pieces of equipment. First elbow pads, then shin guards. There are pairs of hockey socks balled in pairs. They look like monstrous tube socks with blue and red stripes at the top. There’s a sandwich bag with red and blue mouth guards in it formed for Scott’s teeth. There’s a scuffed helmet with a full cage, which Bretta slides over her head. She pulls out a neck guard and padded hockey pants. There are shoulder guards and two jerseys with opposite green and white colour schemes.
Both of them have the same cartoonish bumblebee logo on the front. The bee’s head looks a little like Mickey Mouse with pink spots for cheeks but no ears. He has a round bee-body striped yellow and black. There’s a large stinger protruding out of the bee’s ass shaped like hockey stick and he’s taking a slap shot with it. The puck has streamers coming off to show how fast it’s going.
Bretta holds up the green and white jersey. “That’s a cute bee,” she says. She thinks of Scott as a 13-year-old boy and the idea of it makes her smile. “Seventy-one,” she says reading the number on the back of the jersey. “Is that a lucky number, you think?”
“Sort of.” He holds up his index and middle fingers together and grins. “It’s a sixty-nine with two fingers.”
“Gross,” Bretta says, and Cooper laughs. She drops the jersey with the other gear. She picks up Scott’s jock strap. “Think we’ll be needing these?”
“It’s a face guard,” Scott says. “Put it on and see if it fits.”
Bretta laughs. “Fuck off!”
She takes stock of everything she’s pulled out of the bag and what’s left inside still. “You know, with a couple layers of clothing, we should be fairly well protected,” she says. She takes the helmet off and lays it upside-down on the pile outside the bag. “That thing even fits,” she says, brushing sweaty hair from her face.
“Yeah,” says Cooper. “We’re really going to do this, eh?”
Bretta nods. “We have no choice.”
If Scott is going to get better, they need to get him some help. And that means drugs. Anything they can find so he can start coping without going crazy. She starts to say this to Cooper, but she fumbles on the words and looks at him helplessly. “Anything to keep him from going…”
“Fuckin’ nuts?” Cooper says. After a moment, Bretta nods. Cooper sighs. He stands up and claps his hands and holds one out for her. “Come on. Let’s see how this stuff looks on you.”
His hand is warm and soft. Softer than Scott’s. It’s bigger than Scott’s hand, too, and her hand almost disappears in his grasp. She allows herself to be pulled up and wonders why she’s thinking about Cooper’s hand. She also wonders why she feels guilty thinking about it.
She grabs the helmet and puts it on, and then takes it off when Cooper holds up a pair of gray shoulder pads. The equipment was built for a shorter but wider Scott; it fits, but it’s loose, and Bretta imagines herself sliding around inside it.
“No worries,” Cooper says. “We
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