18 Days

[Marc] 18 Days [Staal]

1. Day One;; Dirty

I had met him about six months ago. It was during the off-season, and he had gone for a run through Central Park. I, on the other hand, needed something to relieve my energy. I had bought a brand new soccer ball only a couple days before, without a chance to break it in. So, I had been kicking it around, batting it against a particularly large tree.

Now, I can’t remember what had happened next; maybe the squirrels were having sex like it was their job, or the lady that I saw around the neighbourhood who always had a baby stroller without a baby had yelled something rude to me – who knows. All I know is that I turned my head for a fraction of an inch, and as I turned back to kick the ball, I wasn’t at the same angle I was at before. My foot had connected with the ball before I could stop myself, and I could only gasp in horror as my ball was getting closer and closer to a guy running by.

Maybe if I hadn’t distracted him, he would’ve kept running and it never would have hit him.

But I guess if that had happened, I wouldn’t have met him.

The next moments happened in a blur, like a flash of light and it was over. He had slowed to a stop and turned his head to look at me as I yelled at him to move. The next second, my ball was launched into the side of his head, and he stumbled back. Gravity caught him (like it always seems to do), and he hit his head off the grassy patch behind him.

I was completely embarrassed and horrified. You see, I major in physical therapy at NYU, and I knew that head injuries could be fatal. In fact, I think at some point I had shrieked. But I was over to him in an instant, crouching over him. He had made a sound that sounded like a moan, but I couldn’t be sure, because as bad as it had been, I thought it had been a little funny.

He might’ve been a little embarrassed, because as soon as he stood, he had immediately insisted that he was okay. He had continued to massage the back of his neck, and had it been done by anyone else, I would’ve considered it an action of nervousness.

“Please let me take you to the hospital!” I had pleaded, clasping my hands in front of me.

I had furrowed my eyebrows up at him (I had managed to clock a really big guy in the head, thank you very much), not understanding his hesitation.

“I am so sorry!” I had insisted as well, “usually I have a better kick, but I think either there was a pair of squirrels have sex near me, or the crazy lady from my neighbourhood that has a baby stroller but the State doesn’t allow her to have children tried to talk to me, but either way I didn’t purposely kick my ball at you. God I don’t hope you have a concussion. Do you remember your name? Can you count to ten? Do you remember my name?”

Needless to say, I had goaded him into going to the hospital, just to be sure. With my soccer ball under my arm, we had headed down to the New York – Presbyterian Hospital, which was the closest hospital to us.
---
I think back to that chance meeting, and I feel a mixture of emotions. First, I laugh because I hit him in the head with the ball, and secondly, I am absolutely mortified when I think about how I clocked Marc Staal in the head with my soccer ball.

I had taken up stalking him in my past time, which is why I was currently sitting on the hood of his car. Not all of us have VIP access, so I wasn’t able to get into Madison Square Gardens to watch the team play.

I had left class to get here, expecting the game to be over, but it wasn’t. I’m not sure if the game had gone into overtime, or if he was just screwing around in the locker room, but it was getting dark and I was cold.

I decided later, after I nearly lost the feeling in my fingers, that he was just being lazy and slow in the locker room. In his defense, though, he didn’t know I was here.

I considered breaking into his car just so I wouldn’t freeze to death out here, but there was a security guard eyeing me warily, who probably wouldn’t take nicely to seeing me break into a car.

I took my phone out of my pocket to check the time. Another ten minutes had passed.

As I was debating phoning him, I heard a group of male voices coming from somewhere behind me. I turned around, kneeling on the hood so I could see over the roof of the car.

There, in all his bundled up glory, was my man.

Well, technically that’s not what our status was, but I was claiming him.

“Marcus!” I yelled across the parking lot.

The group of guys had just begun to break up, but they all stopped to look in my direction. “I waited for you here, but you took too long and I got cold so I had to put my clothes back on!”

Even from where I was, I could see his image deflating, before he said something to Scott Gomez and started walking towards me again. I caught Scott Gomez’s eye, and he gave me a thumbs up.

Marc arrived at his car in under a minute (long legs equal fast walking), so I returned to my previous position on the hood of his car. I heard the trunk close, and his steps crunching the snow as he slowly came around to my side.

I languidly leaned up against his windshield as he stopped. “Well hello, Mr. Staal.”

I noticed his pink tinted cheeks, but I knew it was from the weather – my sexually suggestive comments don’t faze him anymore. In fact, he was becoming quite the little smart ass with his comebacks.

“How long have you been out here?” he asked.

“Long enough to lose the feeling in my fingers! Jackson over there wouldn’t let me in the building.” I pointed with my thumb over my shoulder at the security guard.

Marc looked over my shoulder. “Jackson? I think his name is Jamal.”

I waved him off. “Jamal is such a black name. I think he looks more like a Jackson.”

“He is black, Chelsea.”

I put my hands on my hips. “That doesn’t make him any less of a man. In fact, I heard that black men have bigger –”

“All right Chelsea,” Marc interrupted, putting his arm around my shoulders and guiding me to the passenger side of the car.

He opened the door, his hand moving down to my back. I stopped walking, nearly in the car. “Hands,” I finished innocently.

Marc sighed, gesturing me into the car. “I’ll drive you home, Chelsea. Get in.”

I complied, naturally, slipping into the warm interior of the car. A few seconds later, Marc entered the driver’s side. “Because you know,” I continued, cuddling my book bag against my chest, “big hands means big fingers, and that means –”

Marc started the engine, and loud music immediately blasted from the speakers. “Marc!” I cried shrilly, covering my ears with my hands.

His hand jumped to the volume dial immediately, but the damage was done. “I think I’m deaf!” I told him at what I thought was a normal volume level.

He winced. “Yeah, um, sorry. I was in the car with Jordan over the weekend, and he likes to blast his music.”

I sighed, watching the overhead lights pass hypnotically over the darkened streets. I had nothing to say, but I didn’t need to have anything. I yawned, resting my head back against the headrest. When I opened my eyes, a familiar green sign was practically beckoning me with a metaphorical finger. I gasped excitedly, the seatbelt restricting my movements as I looked out the window.

“Marc!” I squealed, bouncing around in the seat so I was facing him, “pull over!”

He turned his head so he could look at me, albeit briefly or else we’d get killed (thank you New York drivers). “What? Why?”

I grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Come on Marcus, please?”

He didn’t say anything, but as soon as the car started to slow down and he sighed, I knew I had won. We pulled over to the side of the street, and I was out of the car before he had a chance to turn the ignition off. In hindsight I probably should’ve made sure he wasn’t planning on driving away, but I knew he wouldn’t leave little old me to defend myself. I would get mugged before you could say Chelsea Marie Cameron.

My bag was safely on the floor of the passenger seat, once Marc locked the doors. After sitting in the nice heat of the vehicle, I didn’t really mind the increasingly cold temperatures.

Fresh powder was falling over the city, and the ploughs had yet to turn it into dirty crusty snow that couldn’t be touched. I bent down, grabbing a handful of the soft cotton-ball like substance.

My make shift snowball looked nice in my hands, but not so much when it fell apart before it hit Marc. I looked at the ground sullenly where my snow had landed. “That was rather embarrassing,” I mused, looking back up at Marc.

He smiled. “It’s the thought that counts?” he offered.

I waited until he was within touching distance before I slugged him in the arm. He clutched his arm, for the benefit of my ego, I suppose; and pouted. “Chels, your manly attacks on me are painful,” he admitted.

I rolled my eyes. “Wimp.”

I grabbed for the door handle, and his hand came up from behind me to pull it at the same time. From my peripheral vision, I could see him almost behind the door as he held it open for me. “I beat you, and you still hold doors open for me? I think I like our arrangement.” As soon as we were inside, I nearly melted at the smell of fresh coffee grinds. I paused, waiting for him so we could walk up together. “Although, I would like more money for the sex.”

I looked innocently up at Marc, who took his hat off since he was inside (I cackled evilly to myself when I took note of his terrible hat hair). I felt a prickle run up my neck, and I looked over my shoulder to see an old lady glaring at us, a cup of coffee hovering before her lips.

“No really!” I explained to the lady, who looked to be a bit catatonic, “last night he did this thing with his two fingers –” I inhaled sharply when Marc hauled me (roughly) over to the counter. We stopped at the end of the line, and Marc released my shoulder.

Marc and I could handle companionable silences, and that’s what we were in the middle of right now. I looked around the Starbucks. There was a youngish girl in the corner with a book, sipping what looked like decaf coffee. I say decaf, because I’m not wearing my glasses and I’m not sure exactly what was written on the side of her cup.

A couple of tables down, there was an older couple flirting shamelessly, their drinks ignored at their sides. At the thought of a couple, I couldn’t help but look back at Marc. I stood at his side, at a normal distance reserved for friends, our arms almost touching. He was a lot taller than I, as seen in the way the top of my head came up just short of his armpit. In the time we had spent in line, he had put his NHL black hat back on his head, so I couldn’t see any of his strawberry blonde hair. His cheeks were still pinched pink, his brown eyes watching someone else.

As if sensing my eyes on him, a couple of things happened. First, his eyes found mine, and his head seemed to bow to accommodate my lack of height. Second, a very slow smile stretched across his face. “What?”

I pursed my lips, trying to not to react to the smile on his face. I dug my hands into the back pockets of my jeans and shrugged my shoulders. “Thinking,” I said simply, automatically moving up in line.

Marc followed. “About what?”

My response was quick, timed perfectly with a nonchalant turn so I was only half facing him now. “You.”

He chuckled quietly, and my body reacted by sending a signal down my spine and spreading out into my toes, making them curl. The hair on the back of my neck stood, but that only meant I was fully aware of the close proximity between him and I.

We were now next in line, waiting as a man placed an order that was going to cost him more than I made in a week. I looked down at the heels I was wearing, wondering why I had done so when they had been calling for snow. At least, I figured, if it froze over the heels would act as ice picks and keep me upright.

The man, balancing three trays and twelve scalding hot beverages, Marc put his hand on my waist, pulling me out of the way. My shoulder bumped against his side awkwardly, but at least the man with all the scalding beverages got safely to the door without burning someone. I exhaled softly, staying where I was, so long as his hand stayed on my hip.

It did, I found with a gleeful tingle where his hand was. The girl behind the counter beckoned us over with a smile. “By the way, Marc, I’m paying.”