After a career-ending fight, ex-professional-hockey-player-turned-Zamboni-driver Chase Cassidy has never looked back at the sport. He's perfectly content cleaning the ice between periods and chatting with fellow staff members, and running a pub outs...
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Chase
Toronto's season opener is a landslide. They win 6-2, and Lennon scores his first hat trick in his debut game. Fans and media eat it up, and everyone leaves with a smile.
After the game, there's a private party at the pub that runs until midnight. Kayce and I serve drinks while watching the hockey players and staff celebrate. Half of my attention is focused on mixing and serving. Half is looking for Spencer. But unlike her dad and Lennon, she doesn't show. It's a smart decision. She went through the ringer the other night, so I can't blame her. Disappointment does make an appearance, though.
Not that I'm allowed to be disappointed. I acted like a dick.
The next morning, bright and early, I'm sitting on a chair and tapping my foot against the carpeted floor. Although the window is open, allowing a crisp autumn breeze to trickle in, the space smells like mint and eucalyptus. The secretary sits behind the desk. If she's not typing away at her keyboard, then she's on the phone scheduling another appointment for a patient.
I continue to tap my foot. My arms are crossed and my hat is drawn low to shield my face from others. A few people sit next to me, either flipping through magazines or scrolling through social media on their phones. They're not focusing their attention on me, but it's the possibility of someone looking up and recognizing me that prompts the consistent use of my hat.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. My hands involuntarily rub together. It's a nervous habit I can't eradicate. No matter how many appointments I attend, the nerves still get to me. Each time my therapist calls me in, I swear we uncover new insecurities and past traumas buried inside me. Today is no exception. Something tells me this conversation will draw heavily on Spencer West.
And my dickish behaviour.
I expel a deep sigh, my chest ready to concave.
So many things went wrong yesterday. I never meant to offend Spencer. Putting space between us was at the forefront of my mind. We've had limited interactions, but they've all been memorable. Spencer West is hard to forget, and that's what scares me.
"Chase?"
I glance up, meeting the gaze of Dr. Dylan Ames. They're dressed in a dark-blue pinstripe suit with a white dress shirt underneath. Polished Converse shoes peek out from beneath the hem. Their icy-blond pixie cut it tinted with cobalt blue at the tips. Earrings line their left ear from the lobe to the tip, and they sparkle in the sunshine streaming through the window. They're pressing a clipboard and file to their chest.
I return their smile and climb to my feet. A fraction of relief filters through my blood. Seeing a familiar face always curbs some of the anxiety. There's no one I trust more than Dr. Ames with my words, emotions, and opinions. Therapy is one of the most underrated forms of coping, and it's appalling that Canada can't make it more accessible for people. I feel very blessed to have this outlet.
