It was distracting, and it's still bothering me.A similar thing happened last night when I was waiting for my carryout at Han's Sushi and Thai.There was a woman waiting for her carryout, too—a tourist, I think, since I'd never seen her before.And my god, the boobs on the woman.My stupid eyes kept going to them.And Iknowshe noticed.She didn't say or do anything, but there was something in the way she locked eyes with me for a second before taking her order and leaving.An amused, silent scold, sort of.She wasn’t pissed or offended, I don’t think, but she knew I was staring like a damn creep.
Embarrassing.
I just don't know what to do with it.Is it just hormones?Biology?My sex drive—used to sex two or three times a week for thirty years—is letting me know it's not happy about a three-year dry spell?Sorry, li'l buddy, but that ain't changing any time soon.
What does any of this have to do with Morgan Wheeler?Nothing that I can see.Just my brain being old and dumb and weird, I guess.
I snag my duffel from the passenger seat, my thermos of coffee from the cupholder, and head inside, flicking on lights as I go, including the women's locker room in case Morgan shows up.
Once my skates are laced, I take my coffee, water, phone, and radio out onto the ice and toss them onto the top of the net.The big overhead lights are popping and humming and flickering to life, casting a greenish glow on the ice as I push myself through several long, lazy, loping loops around the ice.My breath huffs white, streaming past me as I skate; this is an older building without the advanced climate controls of newer, fancier ice skating facilities, so it's generally pretty cold in here, cold enough to see your breath on the ice.
The sound of my skates skritching and carving over the ice is soothing, nostalgic, and almost meditative—it brings me back to my youth.To Dad and I climbing into his rattling old Ford F-100 pickup at four in the morning, my giant gear bag in the bed, Dad's coffee filling the dim cab with gray swirls of fragrant steam; we'd rattle and bump down the long dirt road from the double wide I grew up in through miles and miles of ruler-straight road through an endless ocean of pines into town, to the tiny, freezing, cigarette-smelling rink.
Dad, a combat pilot who flew F-4 Phantoms in Vietnam, believed in punctuality, practice, and the pursuit of perfection—those were the tenets by which he lived his life, and he instilled them in me…sometimes a little too aggressively, looking back.It meant, for ten-year-old me, that I wasalwaysthe first on the ice, usually by upward of thirty minutes.Dad would spend that time alone on the ice, drilling me in skating and stickhandling again and again until I was ready to scream.
I remember, viscerally, the feeling of being alone on the ice, cold air rushing past my face, the only sounds my skates carving over the ice and my panting breath, broken occasionally by the occasional bark of my father's voice from the bleachers: “Again!Faster!"
I remember sweat cooling on my face as I bolted to the side, skidded to a stop, and back the other way.I remember my breath huffing hot and white past my teeth as I wove in and out around small orange cones, dribbling the puck at least twice between each cone.
I'm back there again, now.Forty years later…different rink, same drills, same effort, same sounds, same smells.While cigarettes have been banned inside this arena for years, there's still a faint hint of smoke that clings to the walls and benches and rafters and boards.It's nostalgic, at this point, to me at least.
I get lost in the drills, then, sprinting around cones until I'm dripping sweat and gasping for breath and my thighs are burning; shooting puck after puck after puck into the net, aiming for each zone—top left, top middle, top right, dead center, center left, center right, bottom left, bottom center, bottom right.Miss one?Keep trying until you hit it three times; stopping drills, takeoff drills, speedwork.Sprint to the opposite end, bank around the crease, sprint back.Do it again.Do it with a puck.Do it with two pucks, leapfrogging the black discs ahead of you.
I'm winging slapshots from the blue line when I hear something from the other end: Morgan.Her hair is braided back today, a black beanie covering her head, highlighting the heart-shaped sharpness of her facial structure and the depth of her pale green eyes.She's wearing black leggings, a buffalo plaid flannel shirt under a black puffer vest, and thin black Smartwool gloves.She gives me a friendly wave and a bright smile as she hits the ice, pushing away from the boards to coast toward center ice, shaking out her hands and swinging her arms.
I half-heartedly snap pucks at the net from the left-hand circle while watching her warm up.For a good fifteen minutes, I continue my own practice while Morgan runs through footwork and conditioning drills.When she starts practicing jumps, I abandon any pretense of practicing and lean on my stick and watch as she practices a simple single toe loop—again and again and again, shaking her head in irritation every time, even though to my eyes, each rep looks pretty good.Finally, after what has to be her dozenth rep, she tips her head back in relief and gives a small fist pump of triumph as she coasts to the boards, panting breath huffing white.
I snag my thermos of coffee—the same decades-old green Stanley Taylor brought to every practice and game—and skate over to her; I may or may not have brought an extra tin camp mug.Sipping from her water bottle, Morgan gives me another smile and a wave as she swallows a mouthful.
"Hey, you,” she says, still panting.
"Hey, yourself," I answer, lifting the thermos in askance."Coffee?"
Her face lights up."I wouldn't hate that.Thanks."
I pour some into the tin mug and hand it to her; she glances at the coffee in surprise."Oh.It's got milk in it."
I snort.“Say what you want about me for it, but I don't drink black coffee.I like a hit of half-and-half.I don't go in for that whole 'real men drink their coffee black as Satan's soul' bullshit."I adopt a gravelly voice for the sarcastic part.
Morgan laughs, a musical, bell-like sound that's infectious and makes me want to make her laugh again."And I have to admit, I'm glad.Black coffee makes me gag.I don't need it sweet or super creamy, I just need something to cut the bitterness a little bit."She sips, sighing with a smile at the flavor."That's perfect, Noah."
"So."I pour some for myself in the green plastic cap-cup, sip, and step into the penalty box to sit; she sits next to me, close but not touching."You practicing for something, or just because?"
“Both.”She blushes."It's kind of embarrassing."
I laugh."Well now I'm curious."
She sighs, slurping her coffee; I'm a slurper, and it's something Taylor hated more than just about anything.She'd bring earbuds on road trips so she didn't have to listen to me slurping my coffee, and she'd leave the room if I was drinking coffee or tea around her.It was as much a source of humor as any real contention between us.She really did hate the sound of me slurping, but she knew it's just how I am and didn't expect me to try to change it about myself, though it did drive her batty on occasion.
Even as I'm thinking this, Morgan slurps, frowns, and glances at me, wincing."Sorry, I’m a noisy drinker."
I make a point of slurping and grin at her."So'm I.Annoyed Taylor to no end."
She seems to relax subtly, shoulders dropping a touch, chin lifting—small things, but they speak to a deeply rooted defensiveness for which her ex is likely the source.“Well, there are two reasons.One: Alaina’s son accidentally posted on the official Tomlin Falls Instagram page that I’m skating in the pre-show with my girls, which I wasn’t aware of, and I’m not ready for.The other reason I'm suddenly practicing again is that I got drunk."
I frown, puzzled."Sorry, but how does getting drunk lead to six a.m.skates?"
A soft laugh."I went out for drinks with Alaina, Kathy, and Ingrid the night before we ran into each other here."
