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
A glass of water sits on the coffee table. In a wineglass. I'm pretending it's white wine even though I hate the stuff.
All night, I've been staring at my computer screen, trying to work up sober courage to send my manuscript off to a publisher. But I'm believing I'll need liquid courage for this. Whenever I think about my writing, self-doubt plagues me. Although I hired sensitivity readers, beta readers, and an excellent editor, I still worry about consistency and the overall plot. I like to believe it's not cliché, but what if it is? What if the publisher hates it?
I've never experienced rejection. I understand its motive—it contribues to making writers better. But that doesn't mean it doesn't terrify me.
Slouching against the couch, I expel a deep sigh and glance at the clock above the fireplace. It's just after seven. While I was working, prepping another post for the blog, Chase said he had a few errands to run. Inventory at the pub and then some other things. And now that tonight's game has been rescheduled, he should be back any minute.
With the freak winter storm that's occurring in Winnipeg, the team can't make it to Toronto. It was a last-minute decision by the league, despite the storm starting early this morning, but everyone here has taken advantage of it. Lennon and his buddies are out. Mom and Dad went out on a date. And now Chase and I can meet up with Amelia and Gabe later on.
If he wants to. I want to meet Gabe, so I'll be going, but I hope Chase will come along. He could use a fun and relaxing outing. I've noticed the tension in his body for the past few days. I'm not sure where the stress is coming from, but I have a feeling hockey has something to do with it. When I think about him returning to the game, I try to understand how difficult it must be. Especially when trauma is tied into his experience.
Good food and friends would be a pleasant distraction for him.
On cue, I hear the front door open. Because I've been here so often, I have his routine memorized. First, he closes the door and kicks off his shoes. Then he hangs his keys on the little hook next to the light switch. After that, he'll head to the kitchen and grab a glass of water. He'll drink it, fill up another one, and then feed his cat. Once Evie is happy, he'll come find me.
Each little noise that echoes through the house makes me smile. Being familiar with his routine makes me feel superior. No one else, except maybe Evie, knows him this well. It's like my teenage self is bursting through my maturity, giddy over these stupid little things. Take wearing his T-shirt, for example. Right now, I'm wearing his oversized T-shirt with a pair of boy-short underwear beneath. The fabric is soft, and it smells like his cologne.
When Chase walks into the living room, his head is down and he's tapping his phone screen. He's wearing a toque and little tufts of his hair stick out. The navy blue long sleeve beneath his grey vest hugs the muscles in his arms. Ever since he decided to join hockey again, he's ramped up his workout schedule. Every morning, Chase and I'll run the treadmills at work, seeing who can last longer. Although we're competitive, we have a lot of fun.
