36. Ash #2
The hallway opened to a sunny room made of floor to ceiling windows. Fingerprints and stickers covered the lower couple of feet of glass. Trip gestured to a large sofa, using the crutches to position himself at an angle before dropping down to lean on a corner.
“How’s it going? Those last few games were brutal.”
I winced and pushed my hands through my hair. “Yeah. It was bad. How are things here?” Trip’s eyes were dull, but with the pain meds he was on, I didn’t blame him for being less alert.
“Bored as hell. Ready to get back on the horse, so to speak.” A wry look twisted Trip’s features; his blue-grey eyes shadowed for a moment. But don’t worry about me.” Typical deflection, but if Trip wasn’t ready to talk, I wouldn’t press. “You’re here for advice, huh?”
The urge to sink to my knees and beg for help was strong, but I resisted. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Cap.”
Trip nudged the toe of my sneaker with a crutch. I pulled my foot back, mock affronted at the nonexistent smudge on the pristine leather. “You’re the captain, now.”
“Only on a trial basis. And I’m not sure I should be.”
“Why not?” Trip settled back into the cushions, leaning his crutches on the arm of the sofa.
“You saw the games. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
“What happened? You’re not playing like you usually do.” Trip leveled me with a stare, bringing me back to earlier, stupider days.
“It’s like something is…”
“Missing?”
Idly, I traced the petals of the sprawling flowers in my tattoo, my mind following the lines rather than my thoughts.
The pain of the tattoos was a dull memory, the buzz and burn of the needle dragging along skin an outlet for the roiling anger and hurt and yawning uncertainty residing in my chest. “I guess. I just don’t know what. ”
My former captain seemed thoughtful, commanding, “Let’s have coffee. Bring that.” Trip rose jerkily from the couch and pointed to the boxed cake still in my hands. “Come on.”
The Harrison family kitchen was colorful and warm.
Inviting. It reminded me of the kitchen in Nana’s old house before we moved.
Not my parents’ house; cooking never gave them the joy it gave Nana.
Though every now and then, when I needed a hit of nostalgia, I’d eat a can of SpaghettiOs with a handful of Goldfish.
It didn’t taste the same as when I was ten, but the memories of my parents working at the kitchen table while I ate and read fantasy books weren’t about the flavor.
Here in Trip’s house, artwork covered every flat vertical surface.
Little tableaux of stuffed animals and toys sat in the windowsills and on the table.
Trip pulled a ‘Best Dad Ever’ mug and a Knights mug from the cabinet, setting them with a clink on the marble countertop.
An enormous pot of coffee percolated in a corner. It smelled amazing.
I asked to help, and Trip directed me to the knife block with instructions to cut the cake while he hopped on one foot to get cream for the coffee.
We ate the cake and drank our coffee leaning over the counter, as Trip proclaimed it was too good to wait for a plate.
“Did you ever freeze up?” I was halfway through some seriously strong coffee when I blurted the question.
“Were you around when Lauren got pregnant the first time?”
I shook his head; it was about a while before I signed with the Knights.
“Right. So, when we first found out, I started second-guessing everything. Literally everything . My car, my clothes, even my haircut. It wasn’t as much about the baby as what would come after. How would I be as a father? What mistakes would I make then?”
“Right, but I’m not pregnant.” Trip’s analogy sort of made sense, but I still didn’t quite follow.
“My point, dumbass,” he pointed with the piece of cake in his hand, “is when things change, sometimes we change with them. And that leaves you questioning. So, you’ve got to figure out what you want.
What kind of captain you’ll be.” Trip took a massive bite, crumbs falling gently to the counter.
“But you’ve also got to realize you’ll make mistakes.
You have to recover and learn from them. ”
“So, what you’re saying is it’s okay to screw up.”
“I guess so, yeah. It’s inevitable, especially for a bonehead like you.”
“Dick.” But I said it affectionately. I realized I missed having Trip around, giving me shit but keeping me in line too. Dante was too good-natured, Allen was too grouchy lately, and Goldstein was just like him, but maybe with fewer brain cells.
“So, I hear you’ve got a new girl.” Trip grinned, but I held back a grimace.
“Remember how you said it was okay to screw up?”
* * *
The first few sessions back after traveling were brutal. Each night ended with burning muscles, though I relished the exertion.
This was what I was good at, though, the smooth glide of skates over ice, the slap of my stick against the puck, the scraping of my blades when I stopped.
The familiar whoosh of tape wrapping around the handle of my stick.
The muscle memory of gearing up, of sliding my hands into well-worn gloves.
Even pushing my body to its limits, being slammed into the wall, or getting my ass handed to me. It was all part of the game.
I’d only ever been good at that part, breaking and getting broken. Bodies and physicality. Never connecting.
If baseball was romantic, hockey was its horny brother.
I was the grinning playboy to my cousin’s surly focus.
That was what I should stick to. Blades and sweat and skating.
Seeing Trip, taking his advice to heart helped, but I was still…
lost. Not up to the job. But at least the conversation with my old captain sparked a plan.
Enough late nights, missed sleep, and a whole lot of desperation made up most of the stupid plan.
Okay, maybe not stupid , but definitely unconventional.
When I messaged my cousin Ethan about my idea, I got a novel-length text rant about yoga mats and team building.
Good thing yoga wasn’t on the agenda. Maybe I should invite him, his new wife, Ivy, and their kids to a game.
As much as it hurt to think about her, the idea to implement better teamwork came from Olivia.
At the concert, she’d said how much she loved dad rock.
Then I remembered how much fun we had that night, dancing and singing along with the wrong lyrics.
In a fit of insomnia-fueled inspiration, I decided the way to prove myself to Coach and the team was for us to learn something together, to work together to improve as a team.
Then I had the brilliant idea to teach them a routine set to music. Sort of like Ted Lasso, but on ice and not set to N’SYNC.
All it took was putting together a handful of simple moves and a playlist titled ‘hype jamz’.
I was absolutely enough of an asshole to leave the z.
With enough tricks, we’d stay entertained enough to keep practicing until we got it right, plus the music was enough to get anyone moving.
Besides, the plan was for practices and warm-ups, not a show for an audience. It was for us.
At first, the team objected, but I pretended I was confident in my decision and went through the whole thing on the ice by myself. Dante clapped and loudly proclaimed he wanted to try, too.
I could’ve kissed him. I didn’t, because he wasn’t Olivia, but it was damn close.
My semi-success in pitching my idea had me throwing myself into learning more about leadership, reading books, and listening to podcasts.
Still, something was missing.
* * *
Enough time passed over the next couple of weeks for the ache of missing Olivia to solidify into an amorphous throbbing rather than stabbing pain in the center of my chest. Except when I found some little reminder of her, like the bookmark she’d left in one of my books, or the toothbrush she’d deposited in my bathroom, or worst of all, books I’d set aside to share with her. .
Finding it so casually left open on an end table, as if she always intended to return, was a jolt of electricity, both good and bad.
All the good of being with her and the bad of the things I said.
We said. The little sounds she’d made, and the words she left unspoken when she didn’t choose me.
Every fraying thread connecting us slowly drifting apart.
At least I had this new team-building exercise to focus on, pulling the team together during games too.
Our efforts trickled into our teamwork like a slow spread of water in the way we moved on the ice, though a few, like Allen, still balked.
Viewing my time as temporary captain as an opportunity to prove myself not only to the team but to Coach and myself made it easier on the days when it seemed impossible to move forward.
Most of my teammates were, if not enthusiastic, at least participating.
Some of them even enjoyed it, and the way we all had fun together, even if we were shit at figure skating.
* * *
Dante
Guess who’s back in town.
Idk the WNBA player you had the hots for last month. You know she’d crush you like a walnut, right?
Although I’d gladly let her crush my walnuts, no.
A certain pretty lube doctor.
Lube…doctor…
She has a PhD and she worked with lube. It works.
Just… no.
YOU ARE MISSING THE POINT
Wait, she’s here?