by R J Scott
“What is twat?” He tried to sit back and get comfortable, but his frame was just too long and gangly for comfort in that chair.
“Oh, uh, it’s a word for a lady’s feminine region.”
“Ah, yes. Feminine freshness.”
I coughed on my sip of soup. “If you insist. I’ve never been close enough to a feminine region to say if they’re fresh or not. I like the boys far too much.”
Stan smiled. It was a kind smile that crinkled the skin around his pretty eyes and changed him from Mr. Intimidating to Mr. Cutie-Pie.
“You love Dieter like Tennant loves Jared. I see you and him making google eyes. Is good.”
Thank the gods my little Styrofoam cup of soup was empty. It slid from my fingers and landed on my lap. I stared openly at the goalie.
“No, no, no,” I said while fishing the cup from between my legs. “Love has not been mentioned. Not once. It was merely sex. Great sex, yes, but just sex. I can’t love a man like him. Never again. It hurts too much. Better to walk away now before we both end up being more crushed.”
Where the shit had my spoon gone?
“Never walk away from man you love.”
My eyes lifted from my soup search to find his. Lovely, they were – big and gray with dark lashes and topped with incredibly expressive brows. And sad. So incredibly sad.
“Sometimes walking away is for the best.”
He shook his head. “Is never best. Come.” He shoved to his feet. “Let us work on speed.”
I sat there with my cup sans spoon and watched him leave, his broad shoulders sliding through the door on an angle.
Stan and I got an hour alone on the ice. He was coming along nicely. He’d never have the speed that the smaller players had, but he was quicker on his skates now. His height was considered an advantage, or so I’d been told, in that he filled up more of the net, making it harder for the other team to score. He was pleasant to work with. The big man smiled most of the time, tried to tell jokes but always fouled up the punchline, and worked like a dog to implement all that I was trying to pass along.
Then the cameras arrived. And the makeup people, and the producer, and the sound men. Stan nodded and chatted. I sulked and bitched. So much, in fact, that my agent was called out by the show producer, a short round man named Kurt who was very nice, I was sure, when he wasn’t being a feminine region that starts with C.
Gayle found me sitting in the top row of red seats, my hands under my armpits and my skates resting on the back of the seat in front of me. She climbed up the twenty rows and flopped down beside me, her gloved hands holding two large cups of hot drink.
“Hot chocolate,” she said, then pushed the extra-large cup of calories at me.
I waved it away with my elbow and a sour look. “I’m fasting for the rest of the day.”
“Ah, well this isn’t food – it’s drink.”
She lifted the edge of the cup and blew a steamy cloud of cocoa goodness into my face.
“Cow-bag,” I huffed, then took the drink from her.
She smiled, and we sat side by side sipping for a few moments. The Railers and the production crew were milling around on the ice. I took note of the fact that Dieter was not among the men in dusky blue jerseys, and my heart grew more dejected.
“Would you like to tell me why you’re refusing to go on camera today?”
“I’m having personal issues,” I mumbled into my cup.
“What kind of personal issues?”
“Personal ones.”
“That’s not helpful, Trent,” she said with a touch of schoolmarm in her voice.
I cocked an eyebrow and took a drink. It was sinfully sweet.
“You know you signed a contract to deliver so many hours of film. If you start pulling back, they’re going to start getting crabby. Honey, you can’t afford a lawsuit for breach of contract.”
“Let them sue me. I’m a vile person who says vile things about people who are struggling.”
“Trent, you’re not a vile person.” She sounded tired.
Well, such was the life of anyone who got near me. I tired people out. Just ask my choreographer. She would attest to how tiresome Trent Hanson was. She was probably dancing in the streets knowing she wouldn’t have to put up with me anymore.
“You’re a wonderful person,” Gayle said.
“Pfft. You should have heard me around five this morning. You’d change your mind about my wonderful status.”
I lifted my right hand from my cup to rest it on my throat. It was still cold.
“Trent, you have to perform today for those cameras. I’m not sure what happened off-ice, but you know better than anyone that athletes can’t let what happens in their personal lives affect them on the field…or ice, as the case may be.”
“I’m not a skater anymore…”
“Tell that to the kids who idolize you,” she said softly. A tiny marshmallow stuck in my throat.
“You’re a terribly shitty woman to say that to me,” I snapped.
Gayle patted my thigh, then got to her feet.
“I just want…”
“What do you want?”
I searched among the hockey players, and when my eyes couldn’t find him, I knew what I wanted. I just wasn’t sure I had the guts to be with him.
“I want courage.”
“I’ve never seen a man with more bravery than you have.” She smiled at me, then went back to the ice. Her hand-knitted hat was atrocious, but in a way that made it cute. Not fashionable, no – far from it – but cute. Like a soccer mom kind of cute.
I sat there and drank my hot chocolate. All the while I thought of Jonah and Dieter, of my mother and Clay, of my grandmother, of this rink and those cameras and the men on the ice and the kids in school. My kids. They needed me to do this. My mother and Lola needed me to do this. Dieter needed me to do this. I needed me to do this.
“Okay, the chocolate has made me feel all better! Let’s make some reality TV!” I shouted from the rafters, my smile firmly in place. I hoped the makeup man had good foundation. My face and neck were a wreck, as was my life. But at least I wasn’t walking away from this or from Dieter. Stan would be thrilled.
Ten
Dieter
If anyone was looking for me, they would see I was there. Up in the gods, three rows from the back in the nosebleed chairs, looking down at the men on the ice. Watching them and wishing I were down there with them.
I’d missed three sessions now, but none of this was obligatory; no one was on my ass demanding that I attend. But I wanted so much to be learning more. I was missing out, because every one of us who’d listened to Trent was faster, more focused, and I was stuck now.
And not just because of the shit that had gone down with the tablets, no – this was about the fact that I was there for results on my knee, and I knew they wouldn’t be good. The only thing keeping me on the ice had been painkillers, and look where that had gotten me.
I was losing my last chance to get an NHL spot; the Railers would take one look at me, my knee, my stupid fucking addictions, and I would be gone.
They were a progressive team, focused on inclusion and fairness and all kinds of things PC, but even they couldn’t carry a skater who couldn’t skate on the roster.
On the ice, the guys were working on glides again, and even from up here I could see the improvements. Stan was on one side talking to Trent, and my chest tightened when he lifted a wriggling Trent and held him up in a parody of a lift. He soon set him down, but the damage was done; I’d seen Trent laughing, enjoying his time with the team.
And I wasn’t there.
Trent’s work might prove to give us an edge as a team, just that small difference to push us one more round in the playoffs.
Us? There wouldn’t be an us. I was looking at injured reserve, or even worse.
The session finished, and I slid down in my chair, pulling my ball cap low over my face, hidden up in the shadows where no one would think to look.
This place was no East River Arena, only thirty or so rows of seats, but I was far enough away to hide for sure.
When the rink was empty, I left my seat, heading for the exit to the parking lot before anyone noticed me.
“I saw you,” Trent said from behind me.
I turned to face him, carefully because I felt like shit, and my knee hurt, and I was done with today.
“Hey,” I said, which was all I could manage.
Trent looked tired but good. His eyes were smudged with kohl, his hair artfully tousled and streaked with what looked like a jade green in this light. He was all in black, his familiar diamanté piping around his collar, and he looked so good.
And I had fucked up; thrown it all away.
“You should come down on the ice with us,” Trent said when I stood there looking at him blankly.
“I have to get back to Harrisburg today. I have…” I waved at my knee, then up at my head, like that explained everything. I didn’t expect him to understand. “I’m sorry,” I blurted out, with no framework for what exactly I was apologizing for.
He smiled at me – not a huge smile, more sad than happy, but it was a beautiful smile, and abruptly I needed to touch him. I stepped into his space and cradled his face in my hands, tilting his head to mine.
“I’m so sorry,” I repeated.
“I know you are,” he murmured. There was none of his usual sass, there was no fire in his eyes. All I saw was sadness. I leaned down and pressed a kiss to his lips. Just one, and then I left without looking back at him.
Maybe he’d still be there for me after I was done with whatever I had to do next.
Maybe he wouldn’t.
I just had to have hope, because somehow, in a short space of time, Trent had become the center of everything for me.
Everything.
My phone vibrated to remind me of the need to get my ass in gear and to the airport for my flight back to Harrisburg. The flight itself was short, the cab ride from the airport to the arena even shorter, giving me no time to get my head in a good place.
Grief took my breath as I walked into the East River Arena, under the banners with pictures of the team. I saw numbers and photos of Connor, Stan, Ten, Arvy, but none of me yet.
I suspected I would never make it up there. The shop held my jersey with my number and name on the back, but I doubted that anyone would buy it.
Idly, I wondered how many they’d brought in for my fans, and I couldn’t help the snort of derision that I even had fans.
Jeez, I have it bad today.
I slipped into one of the many small rooms off the main corridor, and took a moment to settle my thoughts. I couldn’t go into this meeting feeling like I was already done. I had to channel some kind of courage from somewhere, and lace it tight with hope. It took me a while to get my breathing settled, even longer to find that kernel of courage that I had to dig really deep for, but finally I was as ready as I would ever be, and I moved out of the shadow and into the brightly lit corridor.
When I knocked on the doc’s door, I was exactly on time, and I heard the gruff, “Come in.” He stood as I entered, extending his hand and saying something generic. I wasn’t sure what, because I was looking at his face, judging his expression, trying to see any microscopic changes that might indicate how bad the news could be. I wanted him to give me the news in words of one syllable, no fancy explanations. Was I done? What was wrong with me that PT and manipulation couldn’t help with?
“How have you been?” Doc asked, and I stared at him blankly.
“I’m good,” I said. Because what I really wanted to say would have the Doc consigning me to anger management and counseling all in one go.
He gestured to the X-rays up on the backlit boards, and encouraged me to stand closer, and then he began, with words that meant nothing. He wrote down what was wrong with me, and I read it to myself as he explained. Sporadic osteochondritis dissecans. That was what made my knee joint snap and swell and throw me off stride. That long name meant I needed surgery.
“It’s probably been caused by injury, but it could also be due to repetitive use of the joint.”
Repetitive use? Hockey players – hell, any kind of professional sports person – knew what repetitive use was all about. It was how we trained muscle memory.
He pointed at the X-ray, and I peered at what he was trying to show me. “The knee is a synovial joint where three bones articulate with each other – the femur, tibia and patella – and has two articulations.”
I must have looked at him blankly, because he frowned and repeated that again. This time I nodded to indicate that I understood. Of course I understood. I knew my knee intimately; each muscle, tendon and bone when I pressed and pushed to get the pain to go.
He continued, and I tried to look like I understood so he didn’t repeat himself. I didn’t want to hear this, I wanted a conclusion.
“The articular bones are covered by white, shiny and elastic cartilage, and the smooth articular surface of the femur, here.” He tapped the X-ray with a pen. “That rolls and slides on the tibia plateau, with synovial fluid that nourishes and lubricates the cartilage.”
“And?”
Please cut to the chase. My head hurts, my stomach is a mess, and I need to get out of here to my next meeting – the important one where I tell management what a fucking mess of a skater they contracted.
“In patients with osteochondritis dissecans, the subchondral bone with its articular cartilage doesn’t get any blood supply anymore, and degenerates. Luckily, you’re at stage three with some partially detached lesions – what we call a dissecans ‘in situ’.”
“I’m lucky. Does that mean some rest and PT and I’m okay to play?”
Doc looked right at me. He was an expert in being straight with players, renowned for it on the team. “No, Dieter, I’m sorry. You will need an operation. We would look to repair the blood supply by inserting an arthroscope through the cartilage and the site of the osteochondrosis into the healthy bones, then stabilizing the fragment by pinning or with screw fixation. Look, I know this is a lot to take in, but the operation itself is a simple one, and you would need six to ten weeks of recovery and physical therapy, then you could be back on the ice.”
I did a quick calculation in my head. Six weeks was right at the start of the season, ten weeks meant I’d miss games, sidelined. The Railers had pulled me from the farm team to play, not sit in the owner’s box looking down on games.
I was fucked.
“What if I don’t have the operation?”
Doc didn’t react like a normal doctor would. He didn’t look shocked or concerned – hell, he dealt with skaters who demanded to play even with broken legs or shattered eye sockets. He was used to the idiocy and bravado of the hockey player.
“That is your choice, of course,” he began carefully, “but my report to management with the advice for you to have an operation is the foundation for your inclusion in the roster. They will insist you get the work done, because you’d be no good to them otherwise.” He softened a little now he’d delivered his advice about what the team would want me to do. “Also, Dieter, the pain you must be in at times…we need to stop that for you, okay?”
I nodded, because I think he expected me to understand that last part.
“Now, we can have you in the hospital tomorrow. You’d be back and resting in a couple of days, rehabbing within a few weeks. Shall I set it up?”
He was asking me the question, looking at me for an answer, and I’d lost my words, all the words. I had nothing.
So I nodded mutely, and my chest hurt, and I felt sick, and the walls of the doc’s office were closing in on me.
He pressed a hand to my shoulder. “Let’s move this up to the meeting with management, okay?”
I followed him out of the office to the elevator that would take us the four floors to the team admin area, where management rubbed shoulders with marketing, and where the decision would be made to void my contract. Onc
e they found out about the opiates, about my addiction…
I would be gone.
Everyone was there. Felix Cote, the owner; Dawson Brown, the manager; the player rep, Anatoly ‘Toly’ Sokolov, a ten-year veteran who worked hard for the team; and Coach Benning. Connor Hurleigh, captain of the Railers, was there as well. I thought he’d have been in Philly with Trent and the rest, but come to think of it, I hadn’t seen him on the ice that morning. He threw me a smile and stood up to fist-bump me. I liked Connor. He was a good guy, a good player…hell, he was one hundred percent made of good.
I’d bet he never took Percocet to chase a high.
Doc settled on one of the array of sofas and so did the others, so I took my own seat and waited for the sentence.
“What we’re looking at is potentially having you on injured reserve for the start of the season, aiming to get you back on the ice for November – at least that’s our understanding from what Doc has explained.” Cote cut straight to the chase without any talk about the injury or how it might have happened. He wouldn’t care how, just about the mechanics of getting me on the ice. “You’ll travel with the team, and we’ll press-release a lower-body injury. How does that sound?”
To a normal man, one who had a fucked up knee, one who wasn’t battling addictions, that would sound fine; a solid plan.
Doc was talking to Coach, Connor leaned in listening, about rehab, and PT, and I was abruptly not even present in the room. I was a chess piece they were positioning, with plans in place to have me rehabbing, back playing November.
“I have something I want to say,” I said, but no one stopped talking. “Please,” I said a little louder, and one by one they looked at me. “I have something to say.”
I stared right at Connor and Toly. They were possibly the only ones in the room who would truly understand addiction in a player, or the need for pain relief that became more. They would have seen it on so many levels.
“I’m an addict,” I began, and swallowed, my mouth dry. “I’m addicted to opiates, and while I had everything under control before – attending sessions, having a sponsor – I didn’t tell anyone on the team or my agent.” I lied about that, because even though he’d dumped my ass, Bob was a good guy; I wasn’t going to throw him under the bus. “I relapsed when the pain became too bad in the playoffs, and I need help.”