Grief and Glitter on the Ice

1. Ryan

Ryan

Bobby Blue Hair had just lived a pretty shitty week.

I felt for the guy. I’d been there. Strung out, in pain, looking to score in any way possible, even if it meant committing a crime.

Been there, done that. Addiction is a real motherfucker.

Bobby finished his share, and we all gave him kudos for coming to group instead of prowling the streets searching out a dealer.

Lyle, the group leader and a man twenty years sober, smiled at Bobby Blue Hair.

No one used last names in meetings. Never.

There were rules here, just as there had been in rehab.

No last names, no cutting off a person who was speaking, and what was said in the room at the community center stayed in the room at the community center.

No sign-in sheets for attendance, which fed into the whole anonymous thing.

Not every addict here was as noteworthy as I had been.

Most didn’t try to lure a fucking hockey player back to a cheap hotel with the intent of stealing his cash, only to be taken down by said hockey player on the street, then beaten up.

Headlines. Yeah, big ones. The story had flared up big time.

Walker Hannan had been demoted to the minors.

I’d gotten two luxury visits after that altercation: one to an ER in NYC and the second to a rehab center here in Rochester, my hometown.

Fate, uncanny she-dog that it is, thought it would be funny to dump Walker here in Rochester for his stint in anger management, aka being in the minors.

Big step down for him. Dude lost a lot but found his man, so I guess it all panned out.

I got clean, finally, and was now trying to get my life back on track.

Still hiding some secrets of my own from the world.

Things that I didn’t trot out at work at the arena where Dad was an equipment manager and had begged the powers that be for a job for his ex-junkie son.

Dad had given me so much over the years, and I’d thrown it all in his face for so, so, so long. I had so many amends to make…

“We’re all glad you chose to come to us tonight, Bobby.

Well done.” Lyle remained seated but led us all in a round of “congrats, man.” Bobby nodded, edgy as fuck, working the inside of his lip with his teeth as he forced a wan smile.

“I know it’s late. I can tell because Trucker dozed off,” Lyle joked.

Lyle reminded me of Kris Kristofferson in Blade with his long gray hair, matching beard, and love for sleeveless tees.

He’d seen years of shit and was now paying it back as the fellowship advised.

God knows he’d pulled my ass out of the fire of longing for a high a few times since I’d been back home.

I know some people think that once you’re clean, the fight is over.

Wrong. So wrong. It was a daily—sometimes hourly—battle to stay on the straight and narrow. “Can someone give Trucker a nudge?”

Pretty Pam gave Trucker—his group name as he drove a semi—a jab in the belly. He snorted, blinked, then farted. Everyone laughed long and hard, even Trucker.

“Sorry, I had a bean burrito for dinner,” Trucker confessed while waving his hand to clear the air behind him.

Not even the smell of the old, old coffee in the pot by the bowl of mints in the corner could counter the stink.

Rita rose to grab the can of air freshener from the bathroom down the hall—by the art room—then returned to fog the room.

Lyle gave me a soft smile before calling the group back into some semblance of order the passing of gas had eradicated.

Which was okay. We’d all spent two hours listening to tales of woe, misery, and struggle. A good fart always lightened the mood.

“Okay, okay, let’s give Ryan our attention for a minute.

Tonight, as I’m sure you could tell by the tubs of specialty cupcakes Rita brought, one of our own has reached a milestone.

Ryan has been one year clean.” Lyle stood as did I, blushing slightly at the clapping from the other eighteen recovering addicts in our little Tuesday night family of societal misfits.

Rita was a nice lady in her mid-40s, and she loved to bake.

Had been with Lyle through the worst of his addiction.

Loved him just as fiercely now as she ever had, maybe even more, she would say on occasion.

I whispered a thanks to Rita, seated next to her man, then walked to Lyle for a handshake and a new key fob.

The recovery program’s logo, emblazoned in bright blue on the plastic, held my gaze for a moment.

“Congrats, man,” Lyle said. “We all know how hard it is. We’ll all have some coffee, some chocolate cupcakes, and a prayer after the closing.

Ryan, why don’t you lead us out tonight?

” Lyle lowered his head. I did the same even though I wasn’t particularly religious.

Some here were working the love of Jesus hard.

More power to them. Whatever got you through the day.

There was a poster of the Serenity Prayer on the bulletin board—a standard for any addiction meeting, I was sure—next to the guidelines for the group, so God’s love was kind of a thing for many.

Lyle would take those down at the end of the meeting since the community center had lots of groups using these rooms.

“Oh, sure, okay.” I rubbed the fob between my fingers, took a deep breath, and dove in.

“Recovery is built one choice, one day, and one meeting at a time. Thanks for being part of this journey. Wishing everyone a peaceful week.” I repeated the Serenity Prayer, then added an amen to close things out.

The group stood, then moved to shake my hand before heading to the folding table holding rancid coffee, cupcakes, mints, and brochures.

I chatted a bit, drank some bitter coffee, had a delicious cupcake, and offered to clean up after the meeting, so Lyle and Rita could cut out early to pick up their son at a school function.

“Go, seriously, go. I know where the chairs and tables go,” I said, waving them off as I began dumping empty coffee cups into the trash can under the window.

The glass was foggy; early October nights were chilly here.

I was glad I wore a coat. Wished I could have worn something nicer to such a special night, but people here didn’t know that side of me.

I wasn’t sure I was strong enough yet to handle that part of Ryan Vale being public. “I got this.”

Lyle glanced at his wife, who nodded, and then back to me.

“Okay, if you’re sure. Thanks for the offer.

Hey, and congrats once again. A year is phenomenal.

Oh, and take home the cupcakes that are left to your dad.

If they sit around, I’ll eat them, and my doctor is on me about my creeping blood sugar levels. ”

“Okay, will do, thanks. He loves cake.”

They left in a rush, already late, and I gave the room a long look.

The fob was attached to my keys now. Even though I knew it was all in my head, I could feel the warmth of it in my pocket as it rested against my thigh.

Stupid, I know, yet the pride of that small accomplishment sat heavy in my pocket.

Dad would be proud. Knowing he was waiting at home enjoying a night off before the madness of a new season kicked off in three days, I leaned into the cleanup.

Once the trash was taken care of, the coffee pot was rinsed, and the table was wiped with a sanitizing wipe, I started stacking chairs by the door.

The table with the coffee pot stayed for the next group using the room.

Hoisting two chairs under each arm, I backed out of the door, swung around, and cracked a ginormous figure of a man in the shin with a chair leg.

He grunted. I gaped up at the face of Gideon Taftwell, known as Taft at the barn.

It never failed to shock me just how big hockey players were even out of pads and skates.

Taft, a winger, so not as massive as some of the guys, still stood several inches above me.

He probably had forty pounds on me as well.

I’d yet to gain back the weight that I’d lost to my ketamine addiction.

Probably never would. Stunning blue eyes flared as his buddies filed out of the room across the hall, chattering amongst themselves, carrying small canvases with dashes of color.

Art therapy class. Right. Walker appeared with the teacher, his boyfriend Finn, Arnaud, the goalie, and Bob, a defenseman, rounding out the close gang of friends.

My heart rate doubled just seeing Walker.

I did my best to avoid him at the rink and worked incredibly hard not to feel a wave of terror wash over me whenever he appeared.

Being battered by someone isn’t an easy thing to overcome.

Most days it was fine if we kept a good distance.

But the moment he stepped into my little bubble of personal space, the tingle of anxiety would appear, ready to trigger the lingering PTSD.

Walker took note of my reaction, took a few steps in reverse, and then gave me the kindest smile he could muster.

“Oh, sorry,” I whispered, easing back a foot or so with my four chairs now angled to serve as shields.

Which was stupid. Walker and I had made our peace.

I’d apologized for trying to scam him, and he had said he was sorry for overreacting.

Nice. Tidy. Just as the program says. Make amends.

Done. The rules of the program didn’t touch on the instinctual fear or the flashbacks to being used as a punching bag, though.

Would have been nice to have that covered, just saying.

“I was… I was here for a thing. Sorry. I was… trying to clean up.”

“Let us help,” Walker said immediately, his eagerness to make this awkward, painful chasm between us less horrible only making it worse. “We’re happy to carry some to the closet.” They all shoved their artwork into Finn’s arms.