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
My schedule becomes repetitive, which isn't a bad thing. Mainly because the text messages I continue to exchange with Spencer are daily. She's devoted to our couple's costume. During her time off, she's scouring thrift shops, trying to find pieces of our costumes. When she's on the road, she's texting me about her ideas for the blog.
Compared to her text messages, mine aren't as descriptive, but I'm also not sending her one-word answers. Following Dr. Ames' advice, I'm trying to find an internal balance. Just like when Kayce and I became friends, I have to take things slowly. The same happened with Lennon. Over the years, I've learned that I can't rush into things. Otherwise, it overwhelms me. There's nothing wrong with limiting the information about yourself until you trust someone.
Especially when sexual tension is at play. Only a fool would say our brief exchange in the exercise room was normal. I could've sliced through the tension with a butter knife. I've had on-and-off relationships over the years. Plenty of which had tension, but not as much as there was between Spencer and I.
Plus, she owns my jersey.
What the fuck is up with that?
I know she was a fan, but to that degree? It blows my mind. I thought she would've wanted Madden's or Deaver's jersey. Not some bender rookie's.
Stubble scratches against my palm as I rub my jaw, staring at the Zamboni before me. Much like the season opener, tonight's game is significant. Next to the Montréal-Toronto rivalry, the Boston-Toronto rivalry is the next best rivalry in the league. Especially when considering the drama that's accumulated over the past few years. Whenever Toronto secures a spot in the playoffs, they're eliminated during the first round, usually by Boston. Fans are calling it a curse.
I'm calling it bad luck and shitty refs. Statistically speaking, Toronto can be a Stanley Cup-winning team. But the team seems to attract uncontrollable factors, like a bad call or an unlucky bounce.
Either way, the present is all that counts. It's a new season with a new rookie who has the potential to shake things up. If Lennon can continue post some points and add to the friction, tonight's game will be phenomenal. It will also be loud and busy, which makes my anxiety increase. Hearing the chanting of the crowd and blades scraping against the ice is a brutal reminder of what would've been.
I drop my hand to my side and sigh, sliding the old rag off of my shoulder. It leaves a damp mark on my T-shirt. There's no use in analyzing the past. I can't change anything. No matter how much I miss hockey, I can't dwell on my time as a rookie. All I can do is pride myself on making it as far as I did, even if the outcome wasn't what I wanted.
With another excessive sigh, I get back to work. Polishing the Zamboni is a tedious event. It's my least favourite part, but it's part of the job. However, there are days like today where I feel agitated and wish something would go wrong within the inner-workings of the machine. That way, I can get down on my knees and keep my hands busy. Mechanical issues take time and concentration. Polishing is a repetitive job that allows the mind to wander.
