5. Walker
FIVE
Walker
Weirdness.
My head was filled with it. Rolling away from the sun glaring through my window the next morning, I plucked the napkin with the cartoonish impression of me from the nightstand to stare at the sketch.
Finn really did have talent. Much more than I could claim.
I studied the drawing, wondering if this was truly how he saw me.
Did he think I was attractive? I mean, seriously, this could be a sketch of Patrick Schwarzenegger.
I’d looked at my mug in enough mirrors to know I was not this good-looking. What generally stared back at me from a looking glass was some fucked-up version of a paranoid kid trying to keep meaty fists from landing on his baby sister.
The napkin floated back to the nightstand as I caught the not-so-light tread of Harper stepping up to my door. She knocked like a marine gunnery sergeant. Barked out orders like one too.
“Hey, you have a therapy session,” she shouted through the door. How one little woman who barely came up to my chest and weighed a hundred pounds with her combat boots on could be so damn loud was a question for the ages.
“I’m up. Make some coffee.” I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and waited.
“I’m not your maid, you know,” Harper snapped back, then left.
She would make coffee. Mine was undrinkable.
So yeah, she totally had the coffee situation in hand.
I kicked off the covers, pulled on some sweats, and took a second to gently fold the napkin into a tiny square and tucked it into my wallet, right between a condom and lube packets.
Opening the door, I picked up the aroma of dark brew and maple oatmeal.
As usual, Harper was singing along to some punk rock slash darkwave slash goth rock.
No one had ever been happier than Harper Jean Walker when the Wednesday series debuted.
My sister had been a dark goddess ever since she was old enough to apply black lipstick.
Dad hated all the goth crap, which made her embrace it even more.
We’d not get into the many nights he’d lashed out at her for looking like a zombie slut, and I’d taken the blow meant for her.
No point digging that shit up now. I could save it for the team-appointed therapist and tell him. He lived for that kind of trauma.
After a fast piss, I washed my hands, rubbed my fingers through my hair, and called it good. There was no reason to shower. I’d come home and wash off the session in a long, hot bath. Sometimes, old memories stick to your skin like leeches.
She was bouncing to an old Sisters of Mercy song, and I reached for her phone to turn down the music. Deep brown eyes, the same shape and color as mine, flew from the hot water she was pouring over her bowl of instant oatmeal.
“Dickhead move,” she said, then shoved the bowl at me.
“We’ve been here for like a month, and the neighbors have already given us shit about the noise.” I nudged her bony hip with mine. She smiled with pride. “Yeah, no, don’t smile. We’re supposed to be walking a straight line here, Sprite.”
She grimaced at the pet name, but deep down, she liked it. “Fine, I’ll keep it down.”
She totally wouldn’t. I had to respect that kind of dedication to being a rebel.
That came from growing up fighting. Something we both were experts at.
Only thing was, Harper channeled her aggression into healthy things like kickboxing.
She was so good she landed a job at one of the local gyms on the same day she applied, teaching a new class to the members.
The various WIBA tournaments she had won here in the States, as well as in the Caribbean, had been a large part of her fast hire after moving.
Also, and this is just me, but I think the guy who owns the gym was crushing on her.
Not that he stood a chance, but hey, if he wanted to hit on her while hiding his wedding band in his desk drawer, he could.
Harper brooked no bullshit from men. Another carryover from our childhood, I was sure.
“Can you drop me off at the rink?” I asked. She nodded, wavy black bangs falling into her eyes. “Your roots are showing.” I tapped her head with my spoon.
“I know.” She swatted the spoon away. “I’ll touch them up tonight. How was the art class? Did you paint smiley skies and harmonious trees?”
“No, we painted happy things from our childhood.” She grimaced. “Right? So, I did find one thing that made me less stabby. It’s in the hall closet. It’s for you. Hang it up on the wall next to that poster of Jenna Ortega.”
The little shit dashed off, bowl of creamy oats in hand.
I waited while wearing a smile. Harper squealed.
She had never outgrown that little-kid glee over a gift.
Probably because we didn’t get many as children.
Even at twenty-two, she always got excited over the smallest present, which was why I tried to gift them to her as often as possible.
“Okay, I love this so much!” she exclaimed as she thundered back into the kitchen with the oil of that old cat in her hand. “It looks just like her.”
“It looks like some asshole on brain meds painted it,” I tossed out and got a pout. “I’m glad you like it.”
“I love it.” She placed it on the counter. “Did you enjoy the mandated art class?”
“Meh,” I said, then spooned some oats into my mouth.
“Well, I think it’s a good thing. Expressing yourself in ways that don’t get twinks beat up.”
“Says the woman who kicks people in the face for a living.” She flexed a thin arm. “It’s okay. Better than some other shit the team could have dreamed up.” I glanced at my phone on the counter. “Shit, we better get going. Dr. Quackers is coming in early to meet me so I can watch morning skate.”
“Okay, give me ten.” Off she went, painting in one hand and oatmeal bowl in the other.
I peeled off in the other direction to dress.
In under ten, we were outside, the cold wind slapping us in the face as we made our way across the parking lot of our apartment complex.
It was a nice place, right on the lake, but mother fuck was it cold.
Not that we were beach babes or anything.
We’d grown up in Newton, New Jersey, so we knew cold.
This was a whole different level, though—probs because of the lake.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to live through some of the big snows they had here in Rochester, but I guessed there was no escaping them.
Fifteen minutes later, I stood outside the Rochester Energy Cooperative Arena, watching my sister speed off in my vehicle.
Someone might as well drive it. She enjoyed tearing up the roads in my dark blue Ford F-150 Raptor.
The tiny little woman sitting on a pillow in that massive pickup always made me snicker.
The titters withered up as I made my way through the rink.
The crisp bite of cold rink air did little to ease the tension creeping up the back of my neck.
The other players weren’t here yet, though the coaches probably were.
I did my best to avoid any staff as I slipped down the corridors past the weight room, dressing room, and laundry facilities.
The door to the mental health counselor sat open, with the aroma of honey wafting out of the room.
Bracing myself, I pushed in to scan the counselor’s office.
If you judged the rest of the rooms that we hockey players utilized daily, this one would be as far from those as humanly possible.
There was no sense of sport anywhere. Instead of the team colors of gold and black slathered everywhere, the walls had been painted a soft peach, with soft blue and green curtains, chairs, and throw rugs adorning the space.
Sitting in one of the chairs was Dr. Quackers, aka Dr. Milton Quackenbush.
Age around fifty-five or so and gray whiskers shaped into a Sir Reginald Hargreeves from The Umbrella Academy series goatee.
He wore slim, dark brown pants, a green sweater that looked like he knitted it himself—the sleeves were too long—and dino light-up high-top sneakers.
There was a lot going on with the dude. A. Lot.
“Good morning, Walker. I was making tea. Would you like a cup? The honey is from a small farm just outside of town,” Dr. Q asked, peering at me over his glasses.
My sight darted to a little tea set on a round coffee table.
A flowery teapot, two cups, a teensy creamer, itty-bitty spoons, and sugar cubes complete with silver tongs.
And of course, the honey in a white and blue pottery honey pot.
“Sure.” Why not. At least it gave me something to do with my mouth and hands.
I flopped down opposite him as he poured.
It would have been charming in a proper British way if we were British.
We were not. I was Jersey-born—my accent and attitude were a dead giveaway—and Old Doc Quackers was straight out of Flatbush.
His accent gave him away. His attitude? For a guy who grew up in Brooklyn with the name Quackenbush?
Nah. That didn’t jibe. He was way too Zen.
“You ever get beat up as a kid for having a last name that is so easy to make fun of?” I asked as he passed over a cup of dark red tea. “What kind of tea is this?”
He let the query about his name fly by. I was coming to learn he was not easy to rile.
“It’s Rooibos tea. It’s a lovely herbal blend with some tender notes of an earthy flavor, naturally caffeine-free and rich in antioxidants. It’s also purported to aid in weight loss.” He patted his little belly through his sweater. “I’m trying to drop a few pounds.”
“Ah. Cool.” I sipped the hot tea. Not bad. Not coffee by any means, but whatever. Thinking of coffee made me recall Finn, and just for a second, things felt a little lighter.
“So, now we’re settled in with our tea and some lovely Tibetan bowl music in the background, why don’t we discuss the past few days?”
“You go first.” I jerked my chin at him.
He smiled at me over his cup of red tea. “Well, yesterday I spent time with my daughter and her son. We went to the library for drag story hour, then had lunch at a little café with amazing stromboli. Afterward, we went to a matinee movie.”
“Very Leave it to Beaver ,” I commented, then sipped.
“Well, I’m no Ward, but I try my best.” He briefly stared at his drink before bringing cool gray eyes back to me. “What have you done with yourself since we met last Friday?”
“Skated, battled headaches, went to that art class you suggested.” I made air quotes around “suggested.” To the Vipers organization, “suggested” translated to “mandatory.” His eyes lit up.
He was pleased. I shouldn’t really care, but there was this kid’s voice that belonged to little Walker, who was happy to have made this older man happy.
“I painted a picture. Then, I flirted with the teacher. He made sketches of all of us.”
“Oh, now that is a busy night of art. What did you paint?” He leaned up as if he were really interested in what I had to say.
He probably wasn’t. Poor guy had to sit here and listen to hockey players with mental health issues prattle on all day long.
But he was getting paid the big bucks to act as if he gave a shit, so a little fake interest was to be expected.
“A cat.” I sipped and stared at him.
“Was it a special cat?”
I shrugged. “To my sister it was.”
“But not to you?”
My sight fell to the reddish tea in my cup. A few dark specks were floating around in the steaming liquid.
“She was a nice cat. Harper fed her scraps and snuck her into her room on good days.”
“I’m glad for Harper, but what about you? Did you like the cat?”
“She was a nice cat.”
“Did she have a name?”
Man, this was getting too close to shaky ground.
“Yeah.” I dipped my finger into the tea to try to push the floaters down, but the water was too hot to leave it in there.
“Harper called her Spearmint because she lived in a nearby field and spent a lot of her time rolling around in a patch of spearmint, we guessed, because she always smelled like chewing gum.”
“That’s a good name for a cat.”
“Yeah, she was a nice cat.”
He sipped softly, silently, giving me time to sort the shit in my head. My gut was tight now as memories I’d tried to keep buried clawed their way to the fore.
“Would you feel safe in telling me more about Spearmint?”
“She died. Dad… well, our yard wasn’t safe for cats.” And there it was. Trauma. Lying there on my lap as if I’d coughed it up like a phlegm ball. Fuck. “Harper didn’t know. I buried her and told Harper she got hit by a car.”
He touched my hand. My sight flew from the imaginary glob of past horror to my counselor, and then, to his hand. He held tissues. My teacup began to shake. Shit. I hadn’t even felt the tears chilling my face.
“Shit, sorry. That was… wow, this tea is making me weepy,” I coughed as I sucked it up. All of it. No place for that kind of shit in hockey. Tears, snivels, boohooing over a long-dead pet. “I don’t want any more.”
I shoved the tea back at him. He wouldn’t take it. The fucker.
“Is tea such a bad thing if it helps clear the soul of pains from our past?”
I had no answer, so I said nothing. I just sat there, wishing my head would stop hurting and dreaming of a bath to scour this all away. I thought to mention Finn to him, but that was a secret. It was good and sweet, and it was mine.
Keep the good things secret so no one can rip them away.