Cheesy Love

Pulling the burgundy and blue jersey over my head, I glared at my appearance in the mirror. My hair was a mess, and while my usual tube of hair gel sat within arm’s reach, it was just easier to slap a hat on.

Having a concussion sucked for a multitude of reasons. Not only was I unable to play hockey, but I sometimes got headaches doing simple tasks and, when the team was away or just too busy, I had to do all these stupid fan signings. Sure, it was nice to meet the fans who basically pay my salary, and it was nice to get out of the house every once in a while, but it hurt my face to smile for so long, not to mention the constant hand cramps from signing. And some of the fan girls are really creepy. Not to mention all the disappointed kids who ask where Paul Stastny is. That guy gets ALL the hype. Or, even worse, the disappointed fan girls who were expecting to see Duchene. Little punk.

I love my fans, don’t get me wrong, but the hours of just having to sit there, smile and sign whatever was shoved in my face got on my nerves. Especially when I couldn’t do the other portion of this job: playing hockey. It’s been 16 months since I got my concussion. A whole season lost.

Another glance at my reflection and I let out a groan, knowing I needed to look acceptable for the fans. Dipping my fingers into the cool gel, I wondered if I even had any fans left to impress.

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It was hard to tell whether it was I who had fans or if it was just the Avs in general who had the fans, but the turnout was pretty good. I took my seat in front of a huge line of fans, a typical public figure smile adorning my lips, ready to bare the glare of flashes and sign pictures and pucks until my hand fell off.

Two hours of signing went by surprisingly faster than I had expected. Sure there were a couple bumps in the road, but with our PR manager standing over my shoulder, everything went more smoothly.

The crowd was made up of the typical assortment of fans. There were the older fans who were clearly devoted and had followed the team for decades, most likely. While I loved these committed fans, they tended to chat your ear off, trying to impress you with every stat they knew and could rattle off.

Then there were the autograph hounds. These were the fans that had that salivating look in their eyes as they watched you sign, looking as if they couldn’t wait to add the memorabilia to their collection, or sell it on ebay for some extra money.

Of course there were plenty of young girls there. Most were probably unable to spell my name, let alone pick me out of a lineup, but in their minds, having me sign their shirt, specifically on their boobs, meant that I was hitting on them and that we were going to be soulmates. Not only did this creep the living shit out of me, but if that were the case, I guess I’m marrying at least 10 girls.

Although, the worst moment of the day was when one group of giggly teens, probably no more than 16 years old, finally made their way to the front of the line. Well, they were giggly until they saw me. Then it happened.

“You’re not Matt… uh…”

“Duchene,” one of the other girls finished for her.

I could only cock my eyebrow in slight amusement, slight annoyance. “No, I’m not.” I replied coolly.

“So, uh, who are you?” the apparent ring leader asked.

Instead of pointing out the banner above my head, I decided to have some fun. “Patrick Kane.”

After a quick photo, with duck faces all around, they were off and there were only a few more people left in line. These were the fans I liked best. The ones that were the best ones to close a signing with. These were the quiet fans who genuinely just wanted the chance to meet you and get a prized autograph they’d treasure for years.

I got a lot of sympathies and heard “Feel better soon” more times than I could count on both hands. And while I appreciated all the support, sympathies didn’t mean too much anymore. After 16 months, you hear plenty of sympathies. At this point, I was tired of hearing “I’m sorry.” I had watched more hockey than I ever wanted to. The only words I wanted to hear, regarding my concussion was, “You’re cleared to play. Get dressed, kid.”

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As the last fans walked out the door, I shook hands with our PR manager, balanced a hate on my head and finally took off the jersey I had barely had the chance to wear on the ice. Folding it under my arm, I bundled up against the chilly November afternoon and made my way out of the retail store where the signing had take place.

Just as I was walking down the sidewalk, my car in my sightline, I heard my name. Turning my head slightly, a small, genuine smile made an appearance for the first time all day. Running in my direction was a boy who couldn’t have been more than three and a half feet tall. He wore a Coyotes jersey that was clearly far too big for him as he almost tripped and fell almost three times on his way over to me.

If I had one soft spot, it was kids. The younger they were, especially if they were enthusiastic about hockey, the softer the spot for them. Maybe it was because I could relate better. I remembered being little and standing in line for hours with my dad just to catch a glimpse of my favorite NHL player. As the years go on, those seeking an NHL career of their own don’t have the time to wait in line for hours. All your focus goes into your own dreams. But the little ones… they’re the pure ones. The ones you know aren’t putting on a show just to get an autograph. They’re the ones that care.

I was down on one knee by the time the kid reached me, clearly out of breath. It didn’t take much effort to look at his back, and when I saw my own last name staring back at me, I was a little shocked. Hands on his bent knees, the small boy was hunched over, desperately trying to regulate his breathing. One of his hands slipped into his pocket and he pulled out a small hockey card in a hard plastic case. The kid thrust the case in my direction, finally looking at me for the first time.

“Excuse me… Mr. Mueller… Can you… please… sign… this?” he heaved. “You’re… my… favorite…player.”

A much larger smile on my face now, I happily obliged. Who was I to turn down a kid who nearly caused his lungs to burst, just for an autograph? One glance around and I didn’t see anyone who appeared to be the boy’s mom, so I figured I’d strike up conversation.

“So, uh, kid, what’s your name?”

“Justin,” he replied with an enormous grin on his face.

“How old are you Justin,” I asked, handing him back the card and glancing around. Still no sign of a mom.

“I’m four and a half!” he exclaimed proudly.

I was just about to ask him how he got started liking hockey when a loud, “Justin!” was heard over my shoulder. Turning slightly in my kneeled position, I noticed a girl who couldn’t be much older, if at all, than me running toward us. I stood as she neared but she completely ignored me, scooping Justin into her arms and holding him protectively.

“Justin, don’t you ever do that again,” she scolded. “I told you not to go running off. You had me worried sick.”

While she continued to coddle the boy and lecture him about running off, I couldn’t help but take her in. She wore casual clothes that didn’t cling to her body like a second layer of skin, but they were definitely tight enough to prove that she did in fact have, what looked to be, an incredible body. But unlike most guys, it wasn’t her boobs or ass that caught my attention, but her face.

The way she looked so sincerely concerned about the small boy in her arms was… endearing. The way her eyebrows knit together, trying to be intimidating and show superiority over the small boy was cute. The way her lips twitched, trying not to smile as Justin retold his tale of trying to me so as to keep the persona that she wasn’t pleased. Figures that a girl like that already had a guy, and a kid, apparently.

“But I did it Auntie Kayla! I met Mueller!”

Wait… did the kid just say auntie? As in aunt? As in not mom? As in potentially single? Fuck. They’re looking at me. Do something Pete, you dumbass.

“Peter,” I rushed out, hand thrust in the girl’s face. A light smile graced her smooth lips and I swear I could have grabbed her and kissed her right there. But that would be both inappropriate and probably give me another damn headache.

“Kayla,” she responded, her voice smoother than her lips.

“You, uh, you’ve got a cute kid there,” I murmured, taking off my hat, running a hand through my gelled hair and putting the hat back on. I had to take a shot in the dark.

“Oh, he’s not my kid,” she responded shyly. “This is my nephew. I’m just babysitting.”

“I’m not a baby,” Justin huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

The sight had us both smiling at the boy. “No you’re not, J, you’re right. You’re a big boy,” she cooed, smoothly stroking the boy’s small ego. I wonder what else she could stroke… Oh my god. What the fuck is wrong with me?! I barely know this girl! Damn I really need to get back into hockey. This Jersey Shore shit is getting to my head.

“Hey Justin, do you like mac ‘n cheese?” Kayla looked at me like I was insane, but Justin was overzealous with his answer.

“I love macaroni!”

“Great. I know this place that has the best mac in the world. If you’re up for it,” I trained my gaze on Kayla. “My treat.”

“Oh can we go Auntie Kayla? Pleeeeease?” The boy was practically bouncing out of the young aunt’s arms with excitement.

Thankfully, no one could turn down that face and so the three of us were walking down the street. As I held the door open for Kayla and Justin, I almost slapped myself for such a stupid line. Do you like mac ‘n cheese? I’m a dumbass that deserves to have his man card stripped away. If only Biz could see me know…

But I’m a dumbass who just bought more time with the girl. I must be doing something right. Just don’t screw up. Don’t screw up. Don’t screw up. Don’t screw up. Don’t screw up…