First play, I don’t bother trying to play with him; instead, I check him into the boards. “Learn how to skate, asshole.”
I’m being childish, I won’t deny it. But with how fucked up the last few days have been, I can think of no one better for me to take my frustration out on than this fucking yahoo.
Warren bounces off the board this time, spinning around and chasing after me. “If you got something to say, how about you just fucking say it, you goddamn dickwad.”
“Pretty sure I already said what a piece of shit you are.”
“You’re just jealous that you ain’t getting any younger and pretty soon you’ll be shipped off to an old folks home while I’m still here skating for glory.”
That son of a—I throw my stick down, then my gloves. “You want a fucking piece of me, you motherfucker.”
Warren comes at me, stick and gloves down. “Yeah, old man, I’ll kick your fucking ass.”
We crash into each other, hands grabbing, fists swinging, but mostly we just fling each other around in an attempt to get a shot in. Hands grab at me, but then Coach barks, “Leave ‘em be,” and everyone steps back.
I’m bigger than Warren, but he’s a lot younger, so basically we take turns knocking the snot out of each other, neither of us trying too hard because really, what are we gonna do. Our teammates look on, not cheering or rooting for either of us, likely because all we’ve done is make practice more difficult for all of them.
We only get a few minutes into it before we step away from each other, both of us lying on the ice, panting for breath. I half consider a last sucker punch just cause he deserves it, but then Dave is in front of me, urging me to stand on my skates. Someone brings me my gloves and stick, and then my helmet gets dropped on my head just in time for Coach blow his whistle, loudly.
“Now that you got blood on my ice, I think we can call it a day,” Coach states, his dirty look directed at me. “Be back here bright and early tomorrow and bring your A game only. Your B game may as well fucking stay home.”
Everyone mutters their agreement, knowing full well that showing up tomorrow with anything less than a full tank will be a mistake.
Slowly, I make my way back to the locker room, limping to my stall, where I start dumping my gear haphazardly. My phone lights up on the shelf, so I retrieve it, taking note of the multiple messages before opening the message app.
Cassidy: I’m sorry.
Cassidy: I’m also sorry this apology is not in person, but since apologizing isn’t something I’m very good at, I figure this is a good start.
Cassidy: And to be clear, I’m sorry for not telling you as soon as I suspected. And I’m sorry I didn’t at least tell you once I confirmed
Cassidy: And I’m even sorrier for the HORRIBLE things I said to you when I felt cornered and scared. There’s no reasonable excuse for treating you like that, and I’ll try to work through it in a more appropriate manner in the future.
Cassidy: I also want you to know that I only went to one appt so far. It was my PCP, just for a blood test and an OB referral.
Cassidy: And now I’m sorry I sent these during your practice, and I have to wait for your response. A fitting punishment, I suppose lol
I stare at the string of texts, not entirely certain how to respond. I fully expected her to pretend none of it had happened, and I was okay with it. So having her bring it up, even in text, feels like a huge obstacle has been removed from the equation.
Ren: Thank you for explaining, Cassidy. I appreciate it.
Cassidy:
Cassidy: Will you come to my first OB appt?
Ren: Of course. I want to go to all of your appts with you.
Cassidy:
Cassidy: And thanks…
Ren: For?
Cassidy: Sending in reinforcements.
Ren: I got u babe
I stare at my last text, feeling like an idiot. Who the fuck says that?
