5. Ryan
Ryan
Ninety percent of the time my job with the Copperheads was awesome.
There was the game day rush of fixing broken laces or repairing nicked or lost blades.
Between periods was chaotic, as I had multiple pairs of skates to sharpen for the players.
I got to chill with the team, listen to bench talk, and share the highs and lows of each game.
I’d made some new friends on the team and with the staff as well.
Overall, it was pretty awesome, aside from a few things that made it not so awesome.
Like handling stinking skates every day.
No amount of foot powder truly helped cover the smell of sweaty, rank man feet.
The grinding itself was pretty repetitive.
It was the same basic motions over and over and over on dozens of nearly identical steel blades every single week.
It was messy as well. Steel dust everywhere, sparks that could singe the skin, noisy machines, and the steady smell of coolants and the previously mentioned sweaty hockey boots.
What got me the most, though, were the long-ass hours.
As part of the equipment team—the lowest member of the equipment team—I often worked late into the night.
Way after most everyone else had gone home.
There were always blades that needed sharpening as well as gear that needed to be prepped for the next practice or game.
Tonight was one of those late nights that not only wore me out but gave me way too much time to think.
Thinking led me to some really odd places.
Even with my earbuds in and Dave Mustaine singing about a parade of puppets, I tended to get lost in my thoughts.
Most of those thoughts of late were about Gideon.
Taft. Why I didn’t call him by his hockey nickname, I couldn’t quite figure out.
Maybe using his given name seemed a little more intimate?
If so, then my having those feelings creeping in should be examined closely.
Back in rehab, they advised, and so did Lyle, that we avoid serious relationships during the first year of recovery.
It was best to avoid emotional overload.
There was also the risk of substituting a new partner for your drug of choice.
Working on the program required a significant amount of time, including daily meetings and self-care.
Then, if the relationship goes to shit, there’s the real possibility that the conflict and heartbreak trigger a relapse that would propel someone right back into using. All wise recommendations.
But I was one year clean.
So, did that mean I could maybe start dating someone without the stress of worrying about my early sobriety?
Or was that twelve-month thing a little fluid, like me, and so it could be thirteen months, or even fourteen?
And if it was thirteen, would having a pretzel with Gideon be counted as starting a relationship?
I shook off the cloud of question marks floating in front of me and snapped off the skate sharpening machine.
The big red bench model hummed, then slowly quieted.
I lifted the boot being worked on, checking the hollow to make sure it matched what the player liked.
A smaller blade profile was perfect for defensemen, while a larger profile improved glide and speed.
Each player had their own blade profile, focusing on acceleration, transition, speed, and stability.
Then we had to make sure the hollow radius was correct.
Goalies tended to have a different ROH than the rest of the team.
There was a lot to keep track of, and if the blades weren’t right, we—meaning me—would hear about it from the players. Rightfully so.
Being distracted by Gideon worries wasn’t cool, so I checked the blade, found it within specs on the color-coded skate hollow chart hanging next to my stool, and placed the boot next to its mate on a rolling cart.
I checked off the player’s name, signed my initials and dated the entry, then rose.
My spine popped so loudly I winced. Tipping left, right, left, right, I worked out the kinks before checking my phone. It was well after midnight.
With an afternoon game tomorrow, I had no choice but to work late.
The team needed sharp skates to play well.
So far we’d been meh. Not great, not terrible, just mediocre.
I didn’t want to be the reason anyone felt off on the ice.
Humming along to Megadeth, I wheeled the cart out of the small, stuffy room down the hall to the dressing room where I hung each set of skates in the proper stall.
When I came to Gideon’s stall, I paused, then glanced over my shoulder.
No one was here besides security and the cleaning crews.
By the smell of things, the showers, locker room, and dressing room had already been cleaned.
The lingering scent of antimicrobial cleansers still clung to the air.
Seeing no one, I gently hung his boots in his cubicle, then lifted out a big gold hoodie with a smiling panda eating ramen on the front.
I knew the logo. It was from my favorite ramen shop, The Shared Bowl.
How cool that he went there too? They had the best shio ramen in the state.
I would fight any fool who said otherwise.
And they served their soup in large ceramic bowls that two people shared.
The tiny eatery was tucked away on a side street by the Susan B.
Anthony House. I studied the happy panda, smiling softly, and then buried my face into the soft fleece.
With my nose crammed into the logo, I inhaled pine and bergamot.
It was a crisp, masculine smell that was so Gideon.
Gideon. The big hockey player who didn’t care that I wore makeup or frills.
How could anyone be a massive jock yet so damned accepting?
Those two things generally didn’t jibe, at least in my understanding of the world.
Most of my interactions with sport dudes ended with me shoved into a locker or punched in the face.
The high school shit was not on me. The attempt to rip off a hockey star totally was.
Most aggressive men reacted to feminine men with disgust or violence, but not Gideon.
He’d been sweet and understanding, and he’d handed control of his wardrobe to me.
That took real trust. Eyes closed, I drew in another long, deep breath, then slipped the hoodie back onto its hook before I got caught huffing Gideon Taft’s clothes.
Explaining that would be uncomfortable. Probably I’d just violated his space.
Ugh. Crap. Okay, I was now a creepy stalker.
Yuck. What the hell was up with me? Just because the guy was nice and let me pick his pocket square didn’t mean I was allowed to touch his personal belongings.
Now I felt like shit. Like total shit. Like the kind of shit that is so terrible if you step in it, you don’t even try to scrape it off; you just toss your shoe into the dumpster.
Then set it on fire. That was how shitty I now felt.
And that dive into the bog of self-hate set off a craving to lose myself in a ketamine high where nothing was bad and everything was good.
Fuck. I’d been doing so good too. Shaking with the crushing grip of my old demon, I sat down on the bench in front of Gideon’s locker, pulled out my phone, and dialed Lyle.
He picked up on the third ring. My gut was twisting in on itself as my heart sped up.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. A familiar whisper in the back of my mind reappeared, telling me the only way to survive the next five minutes was to get some K into me fast. I was talking before Lyle even said hello.
“Hey, it’s Ryan. I’m sorry it’s so late, but I’m dealing with a really bad moment. Like, uhm, I feel really bad about something I did and… now I feel like I’m in a plane that’s on autopilot that’s flying toward bad habits. I know you have a life outside of group and—”
“Ryan, breathe.” His craggy voice slid into the oncoming panic attack, easing me back to the here and now. “I’m here for anyone who needs a hand at any time. God knows I called my sponsor enough times during my first few years. Where are you? Can I come get you? Meet you somewhere?”
“Thanks. I’m…” I drew in several deep breaths. “I’m at work. It just hit me out of nowhere. I did something bad, creepy, and I felt really shitty about what I did, and the urge was just there, Lyle. Like a ghost that you run into without warning. This is fucking scary.”
“I know, man, but hey… listen, you did the right thing. You reached out. Let me come get you. We’ll go have pie and coffee somewhere. We’ll talk.”
“Okay, yeah, sure. Thanks. I’m… I have my car. I’ll text Dad to let him know I’ll be later than the usual late.”
“You sure you’re good to drive?”
“Yeah.” Was I? Mostly. I hoped.
“Good man. You’re a strong motherfucker, do not ever forget that.”
“Right. Strong.” I didn’t feel strong. I felt like a weak loser who had to call his sponsor in the middle of the night. “There’s a coffee shop that sells donuts by the community center. Want to meet up there?”
“I know the place. Yep, sounds like a plan.”
“Cool. See you there. Thanks, Lyle.”
“Any time, man. No one gets through this thing called recovery alone. See you soon.”
I ended the call, sent Dad a text in case he was still up, and slunk to my car.
The night was cold. A brisk wind rustled up dead leaves and a few gum wrappers by the players’ entrance.
Coffee would keep me up all night, but I’d sooner be wired on caffeine than sitting on Mental Mike’s sofa in his garage stoned out of my head in a K-hole for who knows how long.
Days sometimes. Lyle was a god in my eyes.
Anyone who would roll out of bed in the middle of the night to hold some ex-addict’s sweaty, trembling hand was as close to divine as anyone could ever get.