Chapter 6 Hands
HANDS
The next morning, I wake up before sunrise, not because I want to but because my body has decided that four hours is all I get, and maybe there’s some evolutionary logic behind it, like if you never sleep you can’t have nightmares, or maybe it’s just that my brain is so allergic to peace it refuses to let me rest even when the only thing on my schedule is self-destruction.
The morning routine is the same as always, but meaner, cold shower, no soap, just enough water to scrape off the last layer of sweat and whatever else you sweat out in the small hours when your head’s not right, and then a protein shake made with three scoops and no milk because flavor is for people who like themselves.
I strip down in front of the mirror, flex my hands, trace the faint lines of scar tissue above my left shoulder, remnants from a college fight I pretend was a training accident, and for a minute I study my face, which looks older, tighter, like the skin is shrinking and my eyes are being pulled back into my skull.
There’s a text from Nia, nothing urgent, just “You up?”, and a voice mail from my mother that I delete without listening.
There’s also a group text from the team, something about a new league counselor and a reminder that practice resumes Monday if, “God willing,” they can finish steam-cleaning the last of the evidence out of the utility corridors.
I ignore all of it.
I tell myself I’m going to do legs, but by the time I get to the gym I’m so wound up that I head straight for the heavy bag, no warmup, just wrap the hands and go, and for the first three minutes I don’t even count reps, I just punch and punch until my lungs feel like they’re packed with wet sand and my knuckles start to throb under the tape.
When I finally stop, I’m gasping, head down, sweat running into my eyes, and every muscle in my arms is alive with that clean, surgical kind of pain that’s better than sex and way better than therapy.
Three weeks in, and the gym has become the only thing on my calendar that doesn't feel like punishment.
Ash shows up exactly on time, which is weird because I know he’s the type to leave a ten-minute buffer in case of traffic or a volcano or a plague of frogs, but he ghosts through the door at seven on the dot, bags under his eyes, mouth twisted in a shape that’s almost a smile but not really.
He doesn’t see me at first; he heads to the bench row, sets down his bag, and does this little stretch where he touches his toes and then snaps upright like a jack-in-the-box.
For a minute, I watch him, try to figure out if he knows I’m here, but after thirty seconds he turns, meets my gaze in the mirror, and gives me the two-finger wave, the “we survived, guess we’re in the same cult now” kind of acknowledgement.
I nod back, too tired to try for a joke, and finish taping up my left wrist, which still pops when I rotate it past ninety.
We don’t talk, not for the first ten minutes, but we do the routine, squat racks, then pull-ups, then the death-march of weighted sleds down the length of the turf, and by the time we’re both doubled over on the green, sucking air, the weirdness of being together is almost gone, replaced by the old competitive hum that made practice bearable when we were the only sober ones in the room.
He’s the first to speak. “Your form is bullshit,” he says, not even winded.
“Yeah, well, I’m compensating for the fact that my left leg is mostly dead,” I say, which is only half a lie.
He grins, a real one this time, and wipes his forehead with a shirt that’s one size too big for him. “I guess you don’t need legs to stop a puck, huh?”
“You do if you want to get out of the way,” I say, and this time it’s my turn to almost-smile.
We finish the circuit in silence, then stand by the water fountain, both pretending not to be eyeing the same slot on the dumbbell rack.
I give him the nod, the go-ahead, and he grabs the fifteens, does a lazy set of curls, and then sits on the edge of the bench, head in hands, breathing like he’s about to puke.
“You good?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Didn’t sleep much.”
“Yeah. Same.” I almost leave it there, but something about the way his shoulders are caved in, like he’s bracing for another impact, makes me add, “You want to grab food after?”
He blinks, looks up, surprised. “Yeah. Sure. I could eat.”
We don’t even shower, just throw on hoodies and walk the two blocks to a bagel shop that caters exclusively to hungover tech guys and ex-athletes with nowhere better to be.
I get two eggs, black coffee, and a plain bagel with nothing on it.
Ash orders a blueberry with “enough cream cheese to kill a small dog” and orange juice, and when we sit down I notice his hands are shaking, barely, but he manages to get the food in his mouth without dropping it.
The place is loud, every table full, and we have to lean in to talk. For a minute, neither of us says anything, just chew and stare at the street outside, but eventually he breaks the silence.
“Do you ever think about, like, what you’d be doing if you weren’t here?”
I don’t answer right away. It’s a loaded question, and I can see from the way his jaw clenches that he doesn’t even know what he wants me to say.
“I’d probably be working construction,” I say, which is true, “or bartending. Something with routine. Something where you don’t have to talk about yourself.”
He smiles, just a little. “I always figured you’d go into coaching.”
I laugh. “I'd rather chew glass than do that.”
There’s a pause. He sips his juice, looks away, and I realize he’s not wearing any of the old scars anymore, the ones that used to decorate his chin and forehead like badges.
He looks different, softer but also harder, like the difference between plywood and solid oak.
“What about you?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
He shrugs. “Honestly? I’d probably be teaching. History or something. I always liked the idea of making kids hate their life a little less.”
I snort. “You’d be the kind of teacher who lets the class watch movies every Friday.”
“Only if it’s historically accurate,” he says, grinning.
We finish the food, and for a second I want to suggest we just sit here, maybe drink another coffee, just to avoid going back to our respective cells, but the words don’t come out.
Instead, I say, “You want to hit the track later?”
He looks at me, surprised. “I thought you hated running.”
“I do,” I say, “but I hate sitting still more.”
We agree to meet at the college field at 4,00. He leaves first, tossing his trash and disappearing down the street without looking back.
———
When I get home, I shower, then lie on my back on the living room floor and try to slow my heart rate.
I do breathing exercises like Dr. Sharma taught me, in through the nose, out through the mouth, and for a minute it almost works.
The ceiling is the same dirty eggshell as always, but today it seems farther away, like the room is expanding, or maybe I’m just getting smaller.
I try to nap, but every time I close my eyes I see the color red, not the bright spray of fresh blood but the way it turns dark when it pools, the way it crawls across the ice.
I see Cap’s face, frozen in surprise, not pain, and I remember the first time he called me “rookie,” how he slapped my mask and told me I was going to “fucking kill it” out there.
The memories come in waves, and after the third or fourth I give up, roll onto my side, and grab the phone.
There’s a text from Nia, “Call me when you can.”
I stare at it for a full minute before putting the phone face down on the rug.
Instead, I scroll the news, looking for any update on the second shooter, but the story’s gone stale, replaced by the latest outrage or scandal or whatever.
There’s a writeup about the Steelhawks in the local, a puff piece about “healing as a team” and “bravery in the face of adversity,” but it’s all recycled quotes and hollow optimism.
They use a photo from the vigil, me and Ash in the background, and I wonder if anyone else sees the white-knuckled grip I’ve got on his arm, like I was afraid if I let go we’d both be erased.
I go to the fridge, find nothing worth eating, and instead drink two glasses of water and pour myself a shot of whiskey, which I don’t even want, but sometimes the ritual is all that matters.
I stand in the kitchen, glass in hand, and look out at the gray morning, the way the city is still moving, indifferent to the fact that half of it is still bleeding out.
I think about going back to bed, but instead I get dressed, lace up the shoes, and head out to the track an hour early, just to be safe.
The field is empty except for a group of old guys walking laps and a single jogger who looks like she hates every second of it.
I jog a warmup lap, then sit on the bleachers and watch the clouds. I wonder if this is what it’ll be like forever, marking time in circuits, waiting for the next disaster, never really moving forward.
Ash shows up at 3:55, as predicted.
He’s wearing shorts even though it’s barely above freezing, and a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off.
He looks almost happy, which is such a foreign sight that for a second I wonder if I’m dreaming.
He sits beside me, says nothing, just looks at the field, and after a minute we get up and start running.
We don’t race, don’t even try to keep pace, but we stay close, just enough that I can hear his footsteps, the steady slap of his shoes on the track, and it’s weirdly comforting, like the old days when the only thing that mattered was not being the last guy off the ice.
Earlier, at the gym, I spotted him on squats. Stood behind him, hands hovering near his hips, close enough to catch him if he buckled. He didn't buckle.
But the proximity was electric, I could feel the heat coming off his back, smell the sweat cutting through his shirt, and my hands stayed hovering even after he racked the bar.
I told myself it was just spotting. I knew it wasn't.
We do four laps, then sit again, both winded but not dead.