"Owen, it's going to be okay. Daddy is scared about starting his new job, too, but we're going to get through this day together. Then we'll come home and talk about all the fun things you did and have dinner tonight. I'll let you pick the movie, too."
"What if I'm not good at school?"
I really don’t know what has prompted any of these worries. He's never been worried about something like this. He's too little, innocent, pure, and kind for these types of thoughts. My heart hurts for him and I round the counter to pull him into a hug. He wraps his limbs around me, and I hold him tight.
"Buddy, you are going to be amazing today. I promise. You're going to have so much fun. Remember how much you liked the classroom when we visited? And you'll get to go outside and play on the playground, too."
I hear a sniffle, but I can feel him nodding. His chin digs into my shoulder with each bob of his head.
"How about we make a deal?" I wait until he pulls back to look me in the eyes. He scrunches his nose and huffs out a breath waytoo big for his little body. "You go to school, and I'll go to work. Then, when I pick you up, we'll go to Ma's for dinner instead?"
His answering smile and enthusiastic nod are a relief.
“Can I have the pizza again?”
My lips quirk. I guess Gabe has introduced Owen to new things, too.
***
Claremont College is huge. I've only been here once, back before we moved, to sign papers and officially join the Penguins as a physical therapist. I park in one of the employee spots behind the building that houses the hockey arena. The moment I step through the door and feel that rush of cold air, I sigh in relief and let the stress from this morning roll off my back.
"Let's do this," I repeat to myself. I ball my fingers up and give a pretend fist bump to the air, just like I did to Owen before watching him walk into his classroom.
"Justin!" It takes me only a second to recognize Coach Overton. "A bit early, aren't you?"
"Ah, yeah. The kid had a bit of a rough start this morning, but we got to school on time. It's kind of an awkward amount of time to go back home for half an hour."
"Well, I'm not going to complain if you're always early." His smile is infectious and settles my nerves. Dan Overton is attractive, with graying stubble and a thick head of dark hair. But, even though he’s built exactly as you’d imagine a former hockey player, he’s not intimidating at all. "Follow me. I know you didn't see much of the place last time you were here, but we have some timebefore the team arrives. It's a rowdy bunch this year. Six of them are Seniors and they're determined."
I don't really know a lot about hockey outside of movies and the few local games I went to back in Virginia. It isn’t a widespread thing back home, and none of the colleges in the area I lived in have their own team. I know I'm in for a lot of work if the videos I've watched of hockey players showing off bruises and injuries like they're trophies is anything like this team.
We walk down a corridor with cement flooring and cinderblocks painted in the school colors. Splashes of purple, white, and black arranged artfully really catch the eye. There are banners announcing the hockey team's season start and a list of the players. I only catch a few names in passing. Photographs and other banners hang on the walls between the different doors, and the corridor ends at the entrance of the arena. There is no door closing it off, which is where the draft is coming from.
It's chilly and I regret not bringing a jacket or anything with me. I'll remember tomorrow. There are doors spread randomly on either side. "This is the utility closet, if you need any cleaning supplies, trash bags, and so on." Overton points from one plain door to another across the hall. I swivel my head, following his motions. "Restroom. Then there’s the locker room where we'll meet the team."
Coach takes us right past the locker room door, to one more door only a few feet away from the tunnel which leads to the arena proper.
"This is your office," he says. "This is attached to the gym the guys use, and you'll share the space with one other physical therapist, Frankie. She'll be the one traveling with us to away games since you'll be here for home games."
He opens the door and steps to the side to let me look around. The space is clean. Sterile. There are white walls with a mix of motivational quotes and biology posters. A row of tables with navy mattresses sit to the right. Light exercising equipment like yoga balls and small weights are placed neatly to the left. A set of three stairs are against the back area, next to a floor-to-ceiling mirror.
"This is…Wow."
It wasn't quite so put-together last time I saw the room. They were still moving things around and getting ready for the season to start. It looks amazing.
"I'm glad you like it," Coach says. He glances at his watch. "It's about time to meet the team. Let's get going. I'd like to introduce you to one of the players specifically. He's one of our seniors this year and is getting his degree in Sports Medicine as well. I brought up the possibility of him shadowing you and Frankie from time-to-time, and he seemed enthusiastic."
"Happy to help," I smile.
He pushes the door to the locker room open and we're greeted with laughter and chatter. The volume is what you'd expect from a locker room full of college guys on the first day of a new season. The excitement is contagious.
"Hey, Coach!" someone yells and everyone follows suit. All eyes turn to us. Well, probably to Coach, but I'm standing next to him so I see a few eyes flick my way.
"Everyone, settle down!" I glance at coach and see his head moving slightly, like he's taking count of who is and isn't here. "Where's Nagy?"
The name piques my interest. Nagy. Gabe's last name. Surely, it's someone different. I know he goes to this college —kind of hoped I'd run into him once or twice— but maybe it’s a cousinof his or something. He’s always talking about how big his family is, but has never mentioned hockey in all the times we've talked.
"I'm here Coach!" Averyfamiliar voice calls across the locker room. Instinctually, my head whips toward the sound. I watch as if in slow motion as none other than Gabe, the man who held me in a rocking chair while I slept —the man I sucked off in a restroom designed for Littles— rounds the corner in nothing but a pair of pants.
