9. Walker
NINE
Walker
If I were a skipping sort of man, I would have been capering into the community center.
Instead of prancing from my truck—as in I had driven myself to my art class, praise all the gods of independence—I walked along enjoying the several inches of snow piled beside the salted walk. I was going for nonchalance on the outside, while inside I was stupid-excited.
Not only was tonight the night I was going to give Finn his gift, re-wrapped neatly, but I was going to ask him out on a date.
An official one. With no other jeering lemurs making fart jokes or starting sing-a-longs in the donut shop.
Seriously, who other than Arnaud in our little messed-up group knew the lyrics to “Petit Papa Noel”?
No one. Not even the donut maker Jean Claude.
My plans for tonight were to arrive early, gift Finn his statuette, and then, ask him out.
Also, I was going to pass along the news that I was officially cleared to restart my life.
Driving, obviously, but also hockey. Dr. Quackers had signed off on my returning to play, as well as being behind the wheel.
The side effects of the meds had lessened dramatically over time.
The good effects were still there, and I felt much more like a functional human being instead of a roided-out rabid gorilla.
Bubbling with excitement, I jogged into the center, down the hall, and exploded into the art room, expecting to find Finn setting up and looking super cute in a silly Christmas sweater.
We’d all agreed to wear one. Since I had not previously engaged in holiday mirth, I had to order one online.
The things a person did to fit in with his peers.
You’d think once you graduated high school that shit would stop, but nope. Humans were weird.
“Bonjour! I, too, have come early. I brought some homemade maple fudge just like my Maman makes.” I gaped at Arnaud, clad in a hideous sweater with little silver bells that jingled with each of his expressive arm waves.
“We are setting up for treats since the donut shop closes early for a rented party. Come in, mon ami, and help us make the punch!” Finn stood behind the desk, smiling softly as he dumped ginger ale into a punch bowl.
“It will be no alcohol as we are all recovering from our own mental things, plus taking the meds for happy brains. But do not fear. It will be magnifique, for it has a secret ingredient only my family knows of. Come, Walker, help us make ready!”
I seriously wanted to slap him for being here. Fuck his fudge. I had something to give to Finn. Now I’d have to wait until all the chuckleheads left after class.
“Why are you like this?” I asked the bubbly goalie. He merely shrugged before digging into a cloth grocery sack for some oranges.
“I am just a lucky, happy man,” he replied, then returned to his fruit, a knife coming from within the bag with a flourish that he also was known to display when catching pucks. “So, you can come work with us. Maybe you will catch my good mood, non?”
“No,” I mumbled and removed my coat. Finn’s eyes widened when he saw my candy cane sweater.
His was cute. Just little pine trees. Not ugly at all.
“Not one word,” I told the two punch makers.
They both bit back sniggers. I found nothing humorous at all and held onto my grumpy mood until I was nudging the jokers out the door after class with their dumb little oils of themselves as holiday cookies.
Cookies. How did Finn come up with these ideas?
What kind of cookie would you be? I’d been tempted to paint a turd cookie, but didn’t want to disappoint Finn, so I painted a ginger cookie because I was spicy and had a dabble of Swedish blood on my mother’s side.
When Chip bumbled out the door with a mouthful of fudge, I closed it behind him, then turned to look at Finn.
“Are you okay tonight? You seem a little agitated,” he asked as he stood by an empty easel, brows tangled in concern.
“I’m good. Honestly, I just… ” I took a second to center and breathe.
Dr. Quackers would be tugging his goatee in glee if he could see me putting his calming suggestions into play.
“I’m just a little edgy because I had plans for tonight and they kind of went south.
That made me feel anxious and out of control.
But, and this is a big but, I’m seeing my reaction for what it is and am working through it now. ”
“Wow, you sure have picked up that counseling jargon. Good on you.”
I would have risen up onto my toes at the praise, but I wasn’t ten.
“Yeah, well, it’s kind of been inserted into my brain over the past few months.
Emotional responses to triggers, underlying issues, yadda yadda.
” I shrugged it all off. I didn’t want Finn to see me as weak. “So, I got you something.”
He blinked. “I didn’t get you anything. I thought we were just doing the party and?—”
“No, hey, no, it’s cool. Seriously.” I hurried over to him, close enough to smell his cologne but not be too intimidating.
Man, Dr. Quackers would blow a psychiatric nut when I told him about tonight.
“I don’t really want anything. Holidays are tense for me.
I kind of… well, I’m working on all of that, so please don’t feel obligated.
I just wanted to give you something that showed how much this class has meant to me.
” He seemed unable to speak and just nodded.
I dashed to my coat, ran back, and held out the clumsily wrapped present.
“I’m not really good at wrapping gifts. Never had much practice, so if you don’t want to open it, then?—”
He shook his head softly as his eyes grew dewy.
“I think you did a fine job.” He tore into the paper like a Schnauzer sniffing out a new dog bone under the fancy blue and white wrap.
I had to chuckle. He stared at the little ceramic teacher for so long that I was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
Did he hate it? Was it a dumb gift for an adult to give another adult? Shit. It was dumb. I knew it.
“This is so sweet, thank you.” He turned those wet hazel eyes to me, and I felt something incredibly strong well up inside my chest. “It’s just so thoughtful… ”
“Well, you’ve been really patient with me. I know I’m an asshole.”
“No. You are not an asshole. You’re a tender man with a very strong suit of armor.”
That made me laugh out loud. “Oh yeah, that’s me. Sir Walker, Knight of the Copperheads, slayer of net crashers, hero of Rochester.” We both snickered. “I saw it, and it was so you. I know it’s probably something a kid would give you, but I’m not good at shopping and, well, yeah.”
“It’s lovely. I will cherish it always.”
That made me feel light as a snow cloud.
“Cool. So, uhm, I know I’m not exactly the finest catch in the sea, but if you were okay with it, I thought maybe we could go out sometime?
” A tiny twitch at the corner of his lips confused me.
“Or not. I mean if there’s some sort of thing where a teacher shouldn’t date a student.
Oh. Well, okay, obviously teachers shouldn’t date underage kids, but I’m not sure about that line when it’s two grown men and?—”
“Walker, there is no wrong or right gift. If it’s from the heart, then it’s the right gift.”
I nodded dully. His gaze held mine. “I would really like to kiss you, but you haven’t said yes or no to a date. I don’t want to kiss a dude who isn’t into going out with me.”
“Sorry. I am feeling all the feels right now. I would very much like to go out with you sometime.”
“Cool. Okay, cool.” I blew out a long exhalation. “So, I guess we should maybe wait until after this class ends in a few more weeks just to like ensure I’m back on my life track and no one can fault you for doing something morally gray.”
“That sounds wonderful. Our ten-week class is over in two weeks.”
“Yeah, good. And I’ll be back on the ice by then, so I’ll have to check my schedule, but for sure, I want to take you out for dinner.”
He rose onto his toes to kiss me gently on the cheek.
Soft as a kitten’s whiskers, and just as ticklish.
His lips lingered on my scruffy cheek for a few moments.
It took every ounce of willpower I had not to turn my face or hug him to me.
When he lowered back to his feet, I gazed at him with a doofy smile.
He returned my dorky smile with one of his own.
“Guess we should clean up and head home,” he offered, and I bobbed my head.
I toted all the easels out for him, tucked them into his car, and then took his hand in mine to press a kiss to his cold knuckles.
“See you next class,” I whispered, then dropped his hand. He patted my face before driving off. I looked around, saw the area was empty, and skipped back to my truck.
The following night, I was on the ice. In a game. Ya-freaking-hoo.
Instead of listening to a lovely young lady singing the anthem, I was being barraged by a rather upset goalie.
“I do not understand why you do not tell the rest of us about the statue. It is not such a thing as being big or not small, no, it is that we would have liked to maybe chirp in.”
I shot Arnaud a glower as we stood in a tidy line in front of the bench.
I’d never guessed that Finn would share a picture of my gift on his Instagram account or that the other guys in art class followed him.
I mean, yeah, I did, but that was because I was a sappy shit who liked to look at the images of him doing fun things while looking super adorable.
Masturbation may have been involved as well while scrolling, but I was a guy with an active libido. Sue me.
“Chip,” I growled over my shoulder as the singer reached a high note that made the entire bench wince.
“Yeah?” Chip asked, craning his head to look back at me.
“No, not you. I was telling Arnie that the term is chip in not chirp in,” I explained. Coach gave me a dark look. I shut up. Chip nodded. Seemed he didn’t care. Nor did Bob or Taft. Only our emotional second-string goalie was upset.
Chip nodded like he didn’t care, but then, as usual, he couldn’t help himself.
“Actually, ‘chip in’ comes from poker,” he said, twisting slightly on the bench to face me.
“Early 1800s. Everyone had to put a chip into the pot to be part of the hand. So it just sort of morphed into meaning contributing to anything: money, ideas, effort.”
Arnaud rolled his eyes. “Chirp, chip, chap. It is all for the good you know what I am meaning. I am not angry. No, no, I am hurt. I wish for next time, when we do art classes, we will present Teacher Finn with a gift from us all. This way, emotions are happy and not flat. Oui?”
“Yes, oui, sure, da, ja, whatever.” Oh my God.
I wasn’t sure which tendie was worse. The Russian who called people otters and broke his stick in half when he missed a save, or the French Canadian who talked incessantly while trying to make friends with the ice.
Goaltenders were a whole different breed.
“Fine, we’ll all chip in to buy Finn something. Can we maybe play hockey now?”
“Oui. We can play. Thank you for consideration of my feelings. You are not always un gros canard.”
“Thanks?” He clapped my shoulder and sat back down in his backup goalie chair.
I dropped onto my ass on the bench, eager for the third line to roll.
I was ready. More than ready. I was stoked.
This was the way back to Manhattan. Getting to play, proving I was a new man, letting the GM back in New York eyeball me being a good noodle.
I shot Bob a look as we hit the ice. He and I had been paired up, a blessing because I knew him from art class, and the other D-men seemed to be kind of wary of me.
Like they didn’t trust me not to clock them for some minor infraction.
Which, given I had punched one of the Vipers in the face a year ago for some stupid practical joke, was a legit concern.
The road back to the pros was a long, long, long, long one to walk. I saw many foot blisters in my future.
“You ready to knock heads and chew gum?” Bob asked as we skated out to join in a breakaway in the making.
I saw Taft lose the puck, a nasty turnover, and got the puck carrier for Jersey locked into my sights.
My check to his shoulder was clean but hard.
It knocked him into the boards, leaving the puck sitting there like a cupcake for a good boy.
I did love cupcakes. I shoveled it up, chugged down the ice to the Jersey net, and fired.
It bounced off the upright with a clang.
The Copperhead fans all AWWW’d at the same time.
I skated behind the net, eyes on the puck, and entered a nice little knot of players in the corner.
Elbows were higher than they should be as we all poked at the little frozen rubber disc down by our skates.
When one such elbow connected with my eye, I did not react.
Left eye watering, I kicked the puck free and grinned at the Jersey player as a whistle blew.
My smile followed Elbow Boy all the way to the sin bin. We didn’t score on the power play, but I did pull a penalty, which made me and our defensive coach happy. Blood pumping through my veins, sweat in my sore eye, I felt about as good as a man could feel.
Win or lose, my life was back on track. Now all it needed for a cherry topper was a dinner date and a goodnight kiss from the world’s best teacher.