Page 11 of Grief & Glitter

“There!” Coach shouted. “That’s exactly what we’ve been missing. Quick feet, inside body position, second effort.”

I peeled away toward the boards with Walker skating alongside me, and I pulled my helmet off long enough to drag a towel across my face. Ryan was standing near the stick rack, talking quietly with his dad. He looked up, caught me looking, and smiled—not the hesitant little thing from the mall, a proper one—and I smiled back before I could stop myself.

“Earth to Taft.” Walker bumped my shoulder. “You planning on marrying your water bottle or getting back out there?”

“Huh?”

Walker followed my line of sight. “Oh.” His grin spread. “I see.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mmm.” He took another drink. “You’ve got exactly the same expression Finn gives me when he thinks I’m not looking.”

“I was looking at the sticks.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I like sticks.”

Walker snorted so hard he nearly sprayed water across the bench. “I’m sure you do.” Then he waggled his eyebrows. “I have questions.”

“Nope.”

“They can wait,” he threatened.

Thankfully, Coach blew the whistle again, and we were back at it. What would I say anyway? I liked Ryan. He was…

Cute. Fun. Damaged. Happy. Sad. Confused. Sweet. Scared.

And I was me.

And me carried the black dog of depression on my back too many days to count.

Ryan was a friend.

That was all.

Chapter 5

Ryan

Ninety percent of the time my job with the Copperheads was awesome.

There was the game day rush of fixing broken laces or repairing nicked or lost blades. Between periods was chaotic, as I had multiple pairs of skates to sharpen for the players. I got to chill with the team, listen to bench talk, and share the highs and lows of each game. I’d made some new friends on the team and with the staff as well. Overall, it was pretty awesome, aside from a few things that made it not so awesome.

Like handling stinking skates every day. No amount of foot powder truly helped cover the smell of sweaty, rank man feet. The grinding itself was pretty repetitive. It was the same basic motions over and over and over on dozens of nearly identical steel blades every single week. It was messy as well. Steel dust everywhere, sparks that could singe the skin, noisy machines, and the steady smell of coolants and the previously mentioned sweaty hockey boots.

What got me the most, though, were the long-ass hours. As part of the equipment team—the lowest member of the equipment team—I often worked late into the night. Way after most everyone else had gone home. There were always blades that needed sharpening as well as gear that needed to be prepped for the next practice or game. Tonight was one of those late nights that not only wore me out but gave me way too much time to think.

Thinking led me to some really odd places. Even with my earbuds in and Dave Mustaine singing about a parade of puppets, I tended to get lost in my thoughts. Most of those thoughts of late were about Gideon. Taft. Why I didn’t call him by his hockey nickname, I couldn’t quite figure out. Maybe using his given name seemed a little more intimate? If so, then my having those feelings creeping in should be examined closely. Back in rehab, they advised, and so did Lyle, that we avoid serious relationships during the first year of recovery. It was best to avoid emotional overload. There was also the risk of substituting a new partner for your drug of choice. Working on the program required a significant amount of time, including daily meetings and self-care. Then, if the relationship goes to shit, there’s the real possibility that the conflict and heartbreak trigger a relapse that would propel someone right back into using. All wise recommendations.

But I was one year clean.

So, did that mean I could maybe start dating someone without the stress of worrying about my early sobriety? Or was that twelve-month thing a little fluid, like me, and so it could be thirteen months, or even fourteen? And if it was thirteen, would having a pretzel with Gideon be counted as starting a relationship?

I shook off the cloud of question marks floating in front of me and snapped off the skate sharpening machine. The big red bench model hummed, then slowly quieted. I lifted the boot being worked on, checking the hollow to make sure it matched what the player liked. A smaller blade profile was perfect for defensemen, while a larger profile improved glide and speed. Each player had their own blade profile, focusing on acceleration, transition, speed, and stability. Then we had to make sure the hollow radius was correct. Goalies tended to have a different ROH than the rest of the team. There was a lot to keep track of, and if the blades weren’t right, we—meaning me—would hear about it from the players. Rightfully so.

Being distracted by Gideon worries wasn’t cool, so I checked the blade, found it within specs on the color-coded skate hollow chart hanging next to my stool, and placed the boot next to its mate on a rolling cart. I checked off the player’s name, signed my initials and dated the entry, then rose. My spine popped so loudly I winced. Tipping left, right, left, right, I worked out the kinks before checking my phone. It was well after midnight.