Four

It is the night after I have gotten my fifth postseason shutout, oh, and we won the Western Conference Finals. I am sitting in my gigantic mansion in Bloomfield Hills, relishing it. Mmm. Tasty. I pick up my gold-plated telephone and dial the hotel number of my bitter boyfriend.

“Allo?” he grumbles.

“Halo, sore loser,” I greet him. “How you doing?”

“I was doin’ much better before you called me.”

“I sorry. Would you feel better if I say I love you?”

“No.”

“Ohhh, darn. I love you?”

“I tink you are a ‘tuck-up bastard! YAH!” he shouts. He crashes the phone in my ear and it hurts me. I am distraught, so I leap into my expensive car and zoom away. Soon I have made it to his hotel.

“You! You are Dominik Hasek!” the desk clerk shouts. I nod.

“Yes I am.”

“You’re awesome!” he screams. I nod again while bolting for the elevator bank. Within a few minutes I am standing in front of my petulant boyfriend’s hotel room door. I knock quickly then crouch down so he can’t see me through the peephole.

If someone were to come walking along this hallway now to find the most spectacular goalie in the world crouching in front of a hotel room door, I would be in trouble.

“Allo?” he opens the door. I leap out at his ankles and he falls down.

“Surprise!” I shout.

“Wat in da ‘ell is wrong wit you?! Don’t you know dat my roommate might be here?” he spits. He’s lying down, shouting at me, and I’m still wrapped around his ankles. Hmm.

“Is roommate here?” I ask.

“No. You lucked out, you lucky boy,” he says. “Now why in da ‘ell are you ‘ere?” he asks.

“I miss you? I love you and not want to leave you ever. So I come to hotel room to cheer you because you unbelievably sucky goalie.” Should I not have said that?

Patty leaps up, but I am still hanging on to his ankles.

“YOU! IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT DAT I LOSE MISERABLY! IT IS YOUR FAULT DAT MY TEAM IS NOT GOIN’ TO DE FINALS!” he screams.

“Yes, that be my fault,” I say.

“AUGH! Even if I am a moody French-Canadian, I was DIS CLOSE to winning da Cup for da next time! DIS IS DE END FOR US, DOMINIK! I’ll keel you dead!” he shouts.

“That’s what happens when you kill someone.”

“STOP IT! STOP IT! GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY ‘OTEL ROOM!” His voice slowly gets louder. “OUT RIGHT DIS SECOND!”

“I can make you feel better,” I say.

“No you can’t.”

“Yes.”

“No.” This is stupid, so I stand up. I face Patty, whose face is all red and contorted. He slams the door behind me.

“I t’ink you need to leave now,” he says.

Suddenly there came a rapping on my petulant boyfriend’s hotel door. Ah! Ah! I leap into the coat closet and hide behind a—ooh, a nice leather coat.

“Allo?” Patty growls. “Footer, wat do you want?” he asks. Adam Foote is here? Why?

“I need to borrow your good leather coat,” Adam says. Patty leaps in front of the closet door.

“Why?”

“Because I have a date.”

“A date the night after a Game 7? It’s two-fifteen in da morning,” Patty complains.

“Do you have a problem with that?”

“No…” Adam rips open the closet door and takes out the leather coat, storming out. He slams the hotel room door behind him. I am mystified, but I leap out of the closet dancing.

“He not see me, he not see me! I am so clever!” I sing. Patty is grumbling to himself on the bed. I plunk my clever self down next to him. “Are you sad, boyfriend?”

“How could you tell?”

“I make you feel better!” I kiss him hard and knock him down onto the bed while I laugh. Slowly I kiss him harder and harder, licking his lips.

“Maybe I don’t need anoder Cup,” Patty murmers. “All I need is you.”