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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Spencer
Prior to my meeting with the publicity and entertainment branches, I find myself in the workout room at the arena at five a.m. The room is silent when I step through the doors. It's a state-of-the-art facility, with several types of machines and access to weights and other equipment. Mirrors line the far wall, and blue and white mats cover a quarter of the space. Above, the lights are bright, making the white-coloured walls pop.
Despite the time, I feel energetic. Now that I've gotten into a routine, early mornings are tolerable. Jumping into this job has taken away any sense of insecurity. No players have tried to flirt with me. I'm treated with respect and my voice is never suppressed, which is a major brownie point considering hockey is dominated by cis-gendered white men. People are also very friendly. Feeling like I belong makes this job ten times easier—as do the perks.
As per my usual workout routine, I step onto a treadmill and set my water bottle in the holder. Then I pull on my headphones and scroll through my music until I find my workout playlist. With the music pounding, I choose an easy setting. It's best to begin with a light jog before starting my sprinting intervals.
I jog for thirty minutes before ramping up the speed. For three minutes, I sprint. Then I allow myself a two-minute cool-down. This pattern continues on for another thirty minutes until I have to take a break and wipe the sweat away. With my feet on either side of the treadmill, I take several greedy gulps of water while patting my forehead with a towel. Exercising in the morning makes me feel proactive. Like I'm ready for any obstacles thrown my way. Like—
My mind shuts down when I see Chase push through the entryway. He's dressed in mid-thigh shots, a simple grey T-shirt, and black runners. A Gatorade towel hangs over his shoulder. He's carrying a water bottle in one hand and his phone in the other. Around his neck rests a pair of headphones.
Nothing seems out of the ordinary. Aside from the fact he's not wearing a hat.
While the treadmill continues to whir, I watch Chase's reflection in the mirror. Keeping his head low, Chase saunters over to the treadmills. When he's a few feet away, he glances up. His gaze meets mine in the mirror, and I glance down, overwhelmed by his presence. In the back of my mind, I'm thinking about the jersey hanging in my closet. And his reddish-blonde hair. His dark-brown eyes.
To distract myself, I step back onto the treadmill and start jogging again.
From the corner of my eye, I watch as Chase climbs onto the treadmill beside me. He tosses his towel over the panel of the machine and positions his water bottle in the holder. Without a single glance at me, he pulls his headphones on and then taps on the speed and incline. Soon enough, he's jogging at a similar pace to me.
Every cell in my body is filled with tension and the air feels stagnant between us. Chase hasn't attempted to contact me and apologize. Nor have I seen him since our last exchange. We arrived home from a seven-day road trip yesterday. During the car ride home, Lennon was trying to convince me to make the first move. I refuse to because I'm petty. Chase put himself in this position by disrespecting me, so he can remedy it—even if it pains me. Having unresolved conflict fester is one of my biggest pet peeves. Yes, I'm aware it contradicts my pettiness. I never said I was perfect.
