Where are you Numbnuts?
Cherry
UGGHHH. Billie didn’t sleep again last night. I think I might fall asleep standing up.
Cherry
There’s a new nurse on my ward and he’s hot AF. I think he’s bi. Fight you for him.
Cherry
I’m bored. Where are you?
Cherry
Will you be home when I finish my shift?
Cherry
OMG mom keeps messaging me. Get a life, woman.
Then there’s the non-stop group chat our new idiot captain started. I’m that idiot. A well meaning one, but an idiot all the same.
Evan
Who’s up for O’Reilly’s tonight?
Tom
Stupid question, bro. You know we’re all up.
Sam
I should be back from NYC by 5. See you there, boys. Cubby, you in?
I glance at the time, hoping it will be too late to head out when I get home, but no such luck. Even allowing for unpacking and a nap, I’ll have loads of time.
Dammit.
It’s important I do this. Big league call-ups, graduation, and Brady’s long term injury, means we’ll be starting this season without five of our best players. Bonding with the new guys in a relaxed, Coach-free zone seemed like a good idea. It wasn’t. Not for Cory the introvert, anyway.
When I’m at the rink, it’s easy to forget who I am. Maybe it’s the endorphin and dopamine high, or the Zamboni fumes, but on-ice or locker room Cory is confident to the point of obnoxious, and always up for post-game partying.
Normally, by the time I’ve showered and dressed, my interest in heading out wanes. Edginess hits me in the parking lot, and roughly five minutes after arriving at our teams hang out, O’Reilly’s, all enthusiasm tobro it uphas vanished.
Most erosion is due to the intense pressure to get smashed and take home the first consenting blonde. I don’t mind a beer, and obviously, hook-up culture isn’t something I’m adverse to. It’s morewhoI’m expected to hook upwiththat is.
Bunnies. Bunnies, and more Bunnies.
In not coming out, I am contributing to my own misery. I do know that. But it’s a new season. A new team. And ‘til I suss everyone out, the closet is where I will stay.
Loaded up with gas and snacks I will not tell the team dietitians about, I jump back in the car and merge back onto the A 35 with Boston in my sights.
Miffy,my mom’s long-haired dachshund, is at my feet, loudly protesting my return as I carefully make my way through the screen door hanging by one hinge. It’s been like this for maybe two years and I’ve offered to fix it several times, but Mom says it adds character.
“Is that my baby boy?”
“Yes, it’s me, but no, I’m not your baby. I’m almost twenty-one, Mom.” Much to Miffy’s disgust, I drop my bag on the floor, toe off my shoes and sloth my way to the sofa.
