NHL/NHLPA Player Assistance Program—Art Class, 1/10.
My stomach turned. Jocks.
Mr. Angry was smirking now, a slow, deliberate smile that spread across his face as a wolf sighting easy prey. He stalked across the room toward me, each step heavy and intentional. Three of the other four men fell in behind him, moving as a unit, like soldiers closing ranks, but the man who’d been leaning on the wall pushed his way in front of them, and he was the one I was now facing -- brilliant brown eyes and the build of a linebacker -- and I froze. My rucksack seemed to gain weight on my shoulder, straps digging into my skin. My inner bullied child—the one who always found safety in art, the one who’d mastered the art of walking with his head down, slipping through school corridors unnoticed, and escaping into sketchbooks filled with worlds no one could touch—curled up and died on the spot. Memories flickered back. Sharp whispers, locker slams, and laughter that always seemed to follow me home. Those feelings prickled under my skin, my breath catching in my throat as five towering figures closed in.
This was way worse than a class of six-year-olds.
THREE
Walker
The manwho I assumed was the art teacher looked as if he’d just walked into the lion’s den clad in only a breechcloth with a slingshot in his hand. Then, because the little man with the soulful hazel eyes hadn’t pinged my radar enough simply by being slim, blondish, and adorable, he jerked up his chin. Ah. So, we had David facing down five Goliaths. Dad’s Bible readings in the evenings had paid off, it seemed. Lucky me and Harper. Beatings at six, biblical hour at seven, bed by eight. Hallelujah. No rod was spared in our home.
I felt the slight surge of upset that thinking about my father always brought, but it was dulled. Go mood stabilizers. Pity the other side effects weren’t as enjoyable as my head and body adjusted to the newest prescription. The headaches and lethargy were shitty, which meant I wasn’t allowed to drive or play hockey. Not even for the Copperheads. Nothing that could be considered dangerous for another two months. That gets us well into January. Half the season gone, and here I was sitting in Rochester with no wheels, no hockey, but tons of fucking therapy programs. Talk, talk, talk. That was all I did on the daily. Rehash old trauma, skate at the Copperheads rink, and go tomy new apartment to dwell. Thank God Harper had come with me on this temporary move, or I would have thrown myself off the balcony of my condo that overlooked Lake Ontario. Kidding. Mostly.
“I’m not the coach. I’m your teacher. You all may call me Mr. Carter. Now, please tidy up this mess and place your canvases back on your easels.”
Mr. Cuteness spoke up in a teacher voice that stalled all the other orangutans in this mandated art class. All five of us were Copperheads. And all five were here for various reasons, which the other guys had not divulged, aside from Bob, who talked all the time. Totally fair. I’d not told them my issues other than what they could read about in the press.
“Okay, apes, you heard the man. Tell him your names and then tidy up. It’s time to fingerpaint,” I barked to the four hulks. “I’m Walker.” Mr. Carter gave me a curt nod as the other bozos called out their first names. He then gave me an appreciative look before spinning to march to the old metal desk at the front of the room to drop his satchel. He had a nice ass. Tiny but firm. Each little cheek a handful. When he stopped at the desk, the setting sun touched his hair to bring out soft red highlights in the dirty blond mass.
“Mais bien sûr,” Arnaud replied. The lanky French-Canadian second-string goalie gave the teacher a wide and very charming smile before nudging the other chuckleheads into doing as directed. For some bizarre reason, the four seemed to follow orders from me rather well. Maybe I just had that kind of tone, or perhaps they were lost like me and desperate for someone to lead them along the straight and narrow path to recovery. If it was the second reason, the poor bastards had joined the wrong fucking wagon train. If they thought I was some wagon master, they’d be dead before we reached the border. We would ride intothe lake before we even had the chance to croak from dysentery. Nope. I was not a leader.
Sensing I was supposed to be helping and not gawking at the teacher, I joined in, righted my easel, and placed the blank canvas on it.
“Wonderful. Well done. Now, I brought some paints with me and a few palettes.” Mr. Carter moved through the small circle we’d made to hand out supplies. His speaking voice was calm, kind, perfect for this little group of knot heads. He had a vibe that resonated with me. Seeped into my skin to settle under the flesh to lessen the tension in me. I had found out, through thirty days of rehab, that I was more than a little tense. I was a lot tense, all the time. A duress symptom, one of the counselors had called it. Kind of like PTSD from being on the edge all the time as a kid. You never knew where the fist or kick would come from, so you lived your life stretched tight as a bowstring at full pull, ready to fire at the slightest hint of abuse.
“What are we painting?” Bob O’Ryan called from the back, his voice loud enough to cut through both the music and the hum of the heater.
Bob was a D-man. Big, burly, built like he could take a hit from a truck and barely flinch. He had a voice like gravel and hands that looked too clumsy to hold a brush, let alone do anything delicate with it. He wasn’t the type anyone expected to show up for team art therapy, and from the way he slouched in his chair, arms crossed like he’d rather be anywhere else, he wasn’t thrilled to be here.
His anger issues were legendary—short fuse, big reaction, worse than mine even—and they only seemed to get worse whenever Arnaud was in the room. No one ever said why. No one really had to. You could feel it in the way Bob’s jaw clenched when Arnaud spoke, and how he bristled if they were paired for drills.
Now, Bob was eyeing the blank canvas like it had personally insulted him. The brush Mr. Carter handed him looked absurd in his fist.
“What are we painting?” he repeated, sharper this time.
Arnaud didn’t even look up from his palette. He was already swirling red and blue together with a kind of lazy precision, like he was born holding a brush. “Your feelings, non?” he said, voice smooth, that faint French-Canadian lilt curling around the edges of his words. “But maybe for you, Bob, just painting something that isn’t being an asshole would be a good start.”
Bob’s chair creaked as he sat forward, his knuckles tightening around the brush as if it might suddenly become a weapon. His shoulders rose, a slow, deliberate movement. It was like watching storm clouds gather.
“Say that again,” he muttered. Fuck, the two assholes were at it again. Wasn’t it enough he’d already pinned Arnaud to the wall for dissing Oreos? I mean, even I’m not that bad.
Arnaud finally glanced up, eyes gleaming with amusement. “You heard me. Or do I need to speak slower for you, mon grand?”
Everyone else had gone quiet. Even Mr. Carter had stopped mid-step, holding a tray of paint like it might break the silence instead of the mood.
Bob didn’t move, not really, but his jaw locked and his breathing shifted, becoming tight and shallow. He looked as if he was two seconds away from snapping the brush clean in half.
Then, from across the room, Chip piped up, not even looking up from the weird little sketch he was working on.
“Did you know that red paint increases aggressive behavior in group settings by 12.4 percent? It’s something about how the brain processes warm colors under stress.”
Everyone turned to look at him.
Chip finally glanced up, blinking. “What? It’s a real study.”
For a second, no one spoke—complete silence—until Bob let out a low grunt that could’ve been a laugh or just air escaping a balloon.
