Howie
I am either concussed as fuck, or Ella Rujkowski just asked me to “deflower” her.
Baby Rookie asked me to put my penis in her vagina, stood up, rinsed her bowl, told me to think about it, and waltzed into her room as casually as if she’d asked me for a ride to work.
Which, what the fuck. She should not be taking the bus to that part of town in the dark.
My brain throbs, and the blood circles my crotch as I try to make sense of the world right now. Should I go wake up Jason and tell him what I probably hallucinated?
I want you to deflower me.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and try to think about literally anything else—forechecking strategy. Penalty kill rotations. The trajectory of a puck off the—nope, I'm thinking about Ella's mouth forming the word "deflower" again.
Here's the thing: every instinct I have says yes.
I've wanted her since the airport, when I didn't even know it was her.
I was hard against her this morning, and I'm half hard now on this stupid couch just from the memory of her voice, steady and clinical, laying out her proposition between bites of Gianna's meatballs.
But she said it like it would be a task. Like picking up dry cleaning. Like I'm a service provider, and she's got a coupon.
And that—I shift on the couch, staring at the ceiling where the streetlights paint long yellow streaks—that's what's messing with me. The reality of Ella’s situation lines up for me like coach’s notes on the whiteboard.
Nobody helps her with anything. Ever.
She’s fresh out of college in a new city, taking the damn bus to work at nightmare o’clock in the morning in January. How did she even know what bus to take? I have no clue how to ride the bus, now that I think about it.
Does Jason know any of this? Or is he too busy monitoring his lucky shoulder pads?
It dawns on me that Ella Rujkowski has been solving her own problems in the margins of other people's lives since she was a kid in the back of that SUV.
I told her I owe her, and maybe I owe her more than I thought when I said it.
I'm standing in the kitchen with my keys in my hand when she comes out of my bedroom in scrubs, hair pulled back, badge clipped to her pocket. She's got a bag over one shoulder, and she's moving quietly, clearly trying not to wake anyone.
She stops when she sees me.
"What are you doing?"
"Driving you to work."
"Bernard, you don't have to—"
"Get in the car, Ella."
She stares at me for a second. I watch her run the calculation—argue with me, or get a warm ride to work instead of standing at a bus stop in the dark. Practicality wins.
The G-Wagon is freezing when we climb in, but I started it remotely from across the parking garage, so the heated seats are already cooking by the time we get inside.
Ella sinks into the leather and lets out a tiny, involuntary sigh of satisfaction that goes straight through me like a blade.
I grip the steering wheel and focus on backing out of the parking spot.
We drive in silence for a few blocks. The city is dark and empty, just us and delivery trucks and the occasional bus lumbering along its route. The one she'd be standing in the cold waiting for right now.
She doesn't bring up “the question.” I don't either. But the air in the car is different—heavier, charged—and I'm aware of her in the passenger seat the way you're aware of a bruised rib when you’re sitting still.
She's got no makeup on. Her scrubs are Oxford blue. She looks like someone who saves lives for a living, because she does, and I have no business being this attracted to a woman in hospital-issued polyester.
I pull up to the entrance at Mercy, and she unclips her seatbelt. "Thank you, Bernard."
"I'll pick you up after your shift. What time?"
“That’s not necess—“
"What time, Ella?"
She presses her lips together. I think she's trying not to smile. "Seven-thirty.”
"I'll be here."
She climbs out, hoists her bag, and walks toward the entrance.
Two other women in scrubs are converging from different directions—one of them Indian with a low ponytail, the other one white with a high ponytail.
They spot Ella, and there's a chorus of greetings, a group hug right there on the sidewalk, the three of them laughing about something as they push through the doors together.
I sit in the drop-off lane, watch the doors close behind them, and feel something ease. She has friends. She's building something here that has nothing to do with Jason, hockey, or me.
I should connect her with Cam, Essence, and some of the other partners and wives.
That's the kind of thing Jason should have thought of—introducing his sister to the people who could make Pittsburgh feel like home.
But Jason didn't think of it, because Jason doesn't think about Ella.
It sucks to realize this, but my best friend and roommate thinks about Ella the way you think about furniture you've had so long you don't notice it anymore.
I drive to practice with the passenger seat still warm.
I'm first on the ice, which never happens. I skate laps until my lungs burn and my hip screams at me, and I'm still going when the guys start filtering in.
Spinner hops the boards and glides up beside me, matching my pace. "You look like hammered shit, Howie."
"Didn't sleep great."
"The couch thing? Dude, just tell Rookie's sister to get a hotel."
"She's fine. I'm fine. The couch is fine."
"You just said fine three times, which means everything is shit.” Spinner bumps my shoulder with his. "Let's get meatballs later. Gianna's got a new sauce."
I’m about to tease Spinner about Gianna when Mayhem materializes, six-foot-five and silent, smelling like a hockey sock. He says nothing. He just skates alongside me for a few strides, looks at my face, and says, "You good?"
"Yeah, man. I'm good."
He holds my gaze for half a second longer than comfortable, nods once, and skates away. That's Mayhem. He doesn't need you to talk. He just needs you to know he noticed.
Coach blows the whistle, and we run drills. Rookie shows up exactly on time, already jawing with Cappy about some play from the last game. He doesn't talk about Ella. He doesn't ask if she got to work okay. He doesn't ask if she ate, slept, or is adjusting to the city.
He asks me to pass the tape.
I bite my tongue so hard I taste metal. There's a version of me that grabs Rookie by the collar right now and says your sister saved a kid's life yesterday and took a bus home in the dark and you didn't even get her a game ticket, you absolute walnut.
But that conversation is coming. Not yet. Not here.
We scrimmage. I play like garbage—too distracted, always a half-step behind. Coach gives me a look. I give him nothing back.
I'm in the Mercy parking lot at 7:21 p.m. with the seat warmer on and my head against the headrest. I almost fall asleep, but then I see Ella pushing through the doors, shoulders tight with exhaustion, and I sit up and unlock the car.
She slides in. "You actually came back."
"I said I would."
That sound again—the small sigh as the heated seat hits her back. I am going to hear that sigh in my dreams.
We drive for a few blocks before she says, "So."
"So."
"Have you thought about it?"
I have thought about nothing else for the past eighteen hours, but sure, let's be casual. I turn onto the bridge and choose my words, which is not typically something I bother to do.
"I'm not doing it as a favor," I say.
I feel her stiffen in the seat beside me. "Okay—"
"Hang on. Let me finish." I check my mirror, merge, and buy myself a few seconds. "You asked me like you're checking something off a list. And I get why—you're practical, you've got a million things going on, you want to handle this efficiently.”
"What's wrong with efficiency?"
"Nothing. Except this isn't a blood draw, Ella."
She's quiet. I can feel her looking at me.
"Here's what I think," I say, and I'm building this argument in real time, which is dangerous, but I've never been great at planning.
"You deserve to know what you're doing. Not just the first time—like, all of it.
You should feel confident. You should know what you like, what works for you, so that when you meet the right guy… "
"The right guy," she repeats flatly.
"…you're not fumbling through it. You shouldn't have to figure it out with someone who doesn't know what he's doing, or someone who doesn't give a shit whether you enjoy it." I pause. “You’re right that I know what I'm doing. And I give a shit."
The silence in the car is enormous. I chance a glance at her. She's staring at me with an expression I can't decode.
"So you're proposing, what, exactly? A lecture series?”
"I'm saying I'll teach you. Just like I would teach you if you asked me how to change a tire. Because I want you to have a good experience, and because—well, you know what you look like, Ella."
"I know nothing," she says, and there's something complicated in her voice.
"You look like someone I have to try very hard not to stare at." The words are out before I can vet them. I keep my eyes on the road. "So if you want this, I'm in. But I'm not collecting on a debt. That's not what this is."
She's quiet for long enough that I start to panic. Then she says, "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay, Bernard. You can tutor me. In sex."
I exhale. I might be concussed. I am almost certainly unwell. "Good. Great. And listen, I can help you study for your boards, too. I'm good at that kind of stuff."
She laughs, and it's the first real laugh I've heard from her—sharp and surprised, as I shook it loose. "You want to tutor me for the NCLEX."
"Why not? I've been quizzed by every trainer, PT, and team doctor in the league. I know shit. Supraspinatus, infraspinatus, teres minor, subscapularis." I tick them off on my fingers, steering with my knee for a second.
"Did you just steer with your knee?"
"Focus on the muscles, Ella."
She's smiling. I can see it from the corner of my eye—a real smile, not the tight, polite thing she gives Jason. "Fine," she says as I pull into the parking garage. "You can tutor me. For both things. But not tonight. I've been on my feet for thirteen hours, and I smell like a hospital."
"You smell fine."
"I smell like betadine and someone else's blood."
"Okay, that's fair."
She gathers her bag and opens the door. We ride the elevator up to the condo in silence, and I unlock the front door, gesturing for her to enter first. “Thank you for the rides. Both of them. I mean… the driving. To work." She closes her eyes briefly. "I'm going to bed."
"Goodnight, Ella."
She disappears down the hall, and the door clicks shut.
I lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling and wonder what the hell trouble I just signed up for.