People are perplexing. I don’t enjoy them. One could even say I hate them. And for someone like me, someone who chose to build their life around healing and educating people,thatis an issue. Come to think of it, all that healing and educating may be the reasonwhyI hate people. They’re just too needy, with too many nuances. Too many layers. Too many ways to say one thing, and not enough of saying what they mean.
There are exceptions, of course.
Within ten minutes of meeting David Harris, coach of the Boston College men’s hockey team, I deduced not only that he was strikingly handsome, but he also possessed many qualities I seek in those I’m forced to interact with. Assertiveness, brutal honesty, and methodicalness being of utmost importance.
Perhaps predictably, the same cannot be said for his young charges. And it’s them, his players, who will consume the majority of my final twelve weeks of clinical training.
At the side of the man I’d spent a week practice-smiling at in my vanity mirror, I’m witnessing their first pre-season practice after summer break. Though it feels like I’ve been here for hours, one glance at my watch tells me it’s been fifteen minutes.
Fifteen.
That’s it?
The arena’s harsh lighting isn’t helping, but there is one, or twenty odd, reasons all the paracetamol in the world would fail to nullify the headache brewing.
“They’re a good group,” Coach Harris says, confidence briefly faltering as two forwards slam into each other, peel apart like two halves of a banana skin, then fall onto their backs. “Utter morons, but good.”
“So I hear. Faith mentioned you’ve created quite the NHL factory. What was it? Three Bears players that went on to the majors?”
“Five.” He nods, with a proud puffing of his chest.
Ugh, straight men are so easily fluffed.
“Two were drafted at eighteen,” adds his assistant—and my clinical supervisor—Coach White. “And three were picked up as free agents. This year is looking just as promising. Again we’ve got plenty of talent and two more draftees, Malkovich and Bailey. Both are at their respective team camps, but should be back?— ”
“Ah, Basse. Glad you decided to join us,” Coach Harris cuts off his 2IC and gives an un-enthused grin to a hulk of man more suited to the set of a Baywatch reboot than a hockey rink, approaching us from the right
“Hey Coach. Sorry ‘bout the time. Quinny was?—”
“Running late? Well, there’s a shock,” David huffs, looking at me like I’m supposed to know who Quinn is. “I know you two are attached at the hip, but maybe you should make your way to campus independent of each other.”
Blushing, he rubs one hand over the back of his neck and shoves the other in his pocket, fingers clearly fiddling with something inside. No one else seems disturbed by this, so I presume it’s not as suspicious as it looks. “Yeah, nah, that wouldn’t work. Troye has the other car. I could catch the Green Line, I suppose. Or Quinny could get Lotte to–”
“I lost interest before you started, Basse.”Andthere’s that refreshing brutal honesty. Exasperated by the ten second conversation, he points to the two goalies laughing hysterically as they whack each other’s pads with their sticks. “For God’s sake, go and do something with Larsson and Nurse before I send them back to their mommies.”
“Sure thing.” He flashes us a quick smile and wink, then hits the ice, slipping his helmet on as he goes.
“He’s your goalie, Coach?” I ask. Trying, but likely failing to keep the skepticism from my tone. “He looks young to hold such a position.” As I say that, I notice the manner in which Larsson and Nurse stand to attention as he approaches. There’s a level of respect. An eagerness to impress in their movements missing mere seconds beforehand.
Observing the trio, David Harris nods and pops a piece of gum in his mouth.
Great.
He’s a chewer.
No matter what he says now, that sloppy, gnawing of polyisobutylene will be all I notice.
“He’s one of them, yes. We have a full-time coach, but Basse will be helping out a few times a week. He was our starting goalie last season, but two concussions within weeks of each other put an end to his career.”
My stomach twists. “Poor kid.”
“Yeah. It’s a crying shame. He was a rare talent. And weird as fuck. The NHL would have loved him.” I’m not one that would usually be described as a giggler, but the last half of that sentence shocks one out of me.
“As a former tender myself, I should probably be offended.” I pause, waiting for the reaction. Types such as Coach Harris are normally surprised by my—ugh,I hate this term—jockhistory. David Harris doesn’t bat an eyelid at my revelation, which means one of two things. He’s not listening, or Faith already blabbed.
“But you can’t be, because I’m right. Right?”
“Right.”
