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
Two weeks after the birthday party, Lennon catches me in the hallway just as I'm about to clean the ice. He grabs my bicep, dressed in his hockey gear (minus the skates). "Chase! A few of the guys and I are gonna stick around and play some more hockey." He pauses and frowns. "Well, we want to. I'm here to ask if you're cool with that. If you don't mind loitering around for an extra hour or if you, uh, y'know, want to join in?"
His voice is several octaves higher by the end of the question. I have to fight off a smile. Whenever Lennon tries to hide his eagerness, his voice reverts to sounding like a prepubescent boy.
My first instinct is to decline his request. But then I remember the appointment I had with Dr. Ames. If I'm going to return to the ice, I need to continue to ease myself back into hockey. Being a bystander doesn't benefit me as much as participating. Plus, if I play tonight, I don't need to go to the gym after cleaning the ice.
All my equipment is in the vehicle, too.
"What the hell?" I shrug. "Let me grab my stuff, change, and I'll meet you on the ice. Which jersey do you want me wearing tonight?"
Lennon and the team go through several warm-up jerseys throughout the season. He's handed down a couple of his old ones to me, one blue and one white. They're a little tight because I have a wider figure than Lennon. But they're good enough.
His eyes light up and he slaps me on the back. "Fuck yes! The guys are gonna go nuts! Wear blue."
My lips pinch to one side. Once again, Lennon is projecting. Some of his teammates have been star-struck in my presence or excited to play hockey with me. Lennon, however, is the one who goes nuts every time I'm on the ice with him. He's admitted to me being his idol when he was a kid, but I think there's more to it. I've always considered Lennon's heart to be too big. Me being on the ice gives him a high dose of joy. He wants to see me succeed as much as I want to see him succeed.
"Okay, man," I say. Somehow, I'm able to keep my face neutral. "I'll be right back."
Ten minutes later, I'm stepping onto the ice, breathing in the crisp air from the subzero temperature. The stands are empty, making the echo of skates scraping the ice and pucks slamming into the boards more prominent. I pause at the gate, staring down at the ice.
The drop from the bench to the ice is minuscule. When Lennon first asked me to take shots on the net with him, this drop felt like a cliff. Now, it feels like a bump in the road. An obstruction I can handle.
When my blades hit the ice, my mind switches into hockey mode. Although it's not an intense playoffs game or a 3-on-3 overtime to get that extra point, it feels just as riveting. Adrenaline is pulsing through my veins and my grip on my hockey stick tightens as I skate the ice's perimeter.
Everything, from the chemical smell of artificial ice to the lingering smell of concession stand grease and sweat, makes my subconscious mind react. The noises are like a symphony that's stuck in my head. I skate to the emblem painted onto the ice, just beneath the large scoreboard. When I tilt my head up, I feel small. It stirs something nostalgic in me.
