BETWEEN EAGLES PRACTICE, therapy, working out, and coaching… I’ve managed to stay pretty busy during this suspension. It’s going by faster than I thought it would. One week down… four to go.
Monday morning I’m lacing up my skates for practice with my Eagles teammates. Last week I worked with a trainer by myself since the guys were on an away stent for most of the week. Even though it was obnoxious that they came to the Wombats game over the weekend, I’m disturbed by how much I’m looking forward to everyone being around today.
The noise, chatter, chaos, friendly smack-talking. Did I actually miss it? Surely not. I’m just out of sorts from spending so much time at home.
We’re working with our power play coach today, which I love. My position as a defenseman means I keep my eyes on the puck at all times. It’s my job to ensure the offense doesn’t get anywhere near the net with said puck. Keeping the other team from scoring is just as satisfying to me as getting the puck in the net myself. I think it’s why I connect with Noah, because his defensive skills take me back to when I was twelve. When I lived with my granddad, until he passed.
Colby tries, unsuccessfully, to zoom past me. He has the puck and I’m in front of him, skating backwards. With my stick, I steal the puck from him and pass it to West. Colby catches up to him, trying to steal the puck back, but West does one of those fancy moves of his to fake him out, then shoots the puck to me.
I’m surprised at first, usually West would just put it in the net. He’s a puck-hog.
And since I’m unprepared, it flies right between my legs. I spin and catch it quickly, taking it across the ice and shooting it towards the top right corner of the net. Bruce reaches up and nearly catches it in his glove, but just barely misses and it goes in.
I glance at West and he winks at me. I’m not sure what’s going on today, did we slip into some portal to a magical fantasy land? First, I’m enjoying being around people, and secondly, I don’t want to punch Weston Kershaw’s face in. I blink a few times and West skates off.
Bruce whistles low through his goalie mask. “Man, all this rest is upping The Machine’s game!”
Remy slams into me from behind, almost knocking me to the ground. He’s the one guy on the team who’s even bigger than I am.
I shove him off and he chuckles. “Ahh, there’s that grumpy face we all love. When’s the next Wombats game?”
“I’m not telling any of you that information.” I remove a glove with my teeth and play with the tape on my hockey stick.
Bruce, who’s leaning against the net a few yards away from us, yells, “I already got their schedule online!”
I swear under my breath, causing Remy to chuckle again. West shoots a puck into the net easily since Bruce isn’t paying attention. “Forward it to me! Mel wants to come next time.”
Colby perks up and skates over to join the conversation. “Is she bringing Noel?”
West shakes his head. “You’re hopeless.”
“Hopelessly in love,” Colby says with a dramatic sigh. West hooks his leg with his stick and sends him flying across the ice on his stomach.
Bruce laughs, settling back into the net and blocking shots the rest of the team is sending at him. I skate over to the bench and grab my water bottle and guzzle half of it, Colby, West, and Remy following closely behind.
“When do you start coaching that kid? Noah?” Remy asks before taking a swig of his own water.
“None of your business,” I answer.
Colby and West share a look.
“What was that?” I ask, looking between the two of them.
“Will, um, Andie be getting one-on-one lessons too?” Colby asks, somehow managing to keep a straight face.
I shoot him an unamused glare.
“You could give her a different kind of one-on-one lesson,” Colby offers. “Something a little hotter than ice skating?”
My eyes narrow and I’m about to lunge for him, but he’s smart enough to see the blaze in my eyes and skates off quickly, laughter rumbling from him the whole time.
And here I was thinking I was actually enjoying my teammates for once.
The next morning, I walk inside Dr. Curtis’s office for our weekly session. He looks up from where he’s sitting behind his large oak desk and smiles, his glasses resting at the tip of his nose like he was reading something before I walked in. As usual, he’s wearing slacks and a dress shirt.
I’m in an Eagles tee and jeans, I wonder if other people dress up more for therapy… but I also don’t really care.
“Mitch, good to see you,” he says calmly.
I grunt and sit in my usual spot, the large, dark-blue armchair. Closing my eyes, I inhale a deep breath and hope he doesn’t make me talk about what happened last week. I hear his footsteps as he moves across the room, then the rumpling of fabric when he takes a seat across from me. When I open my eyes, he’s typing on his tablet—a picture of cool, calm, and collected.
He finishes whatever notes he’s making and looks up at me, those warm brown eyes making me feel just a little more relaxed. The brown makes me think of Andie’s eyes, but hers have gold flecks throughout the brown. Mesmerizing. I blink a few times, wishing away thoughts of the woman I can’t seem to keep out of my mind no matter how hard I try.
“I realize you’re not ready to talk to me, Mitch. And that’s okay, you’ll talk when you’re ready.” He sets his tablet on the side table and crosses his legs. “But I want to give you some tools to calm your racing thoughts, if and when the situation occurs.”
“Are you going to hypnotize me?”
Dr. Curtis’s cool facade cracks and he laughs, it’s a warm, hearty sound. “I’m sorry. I’ve never been asked that. But no, no hypnosis.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, which draws another laugh from my shrink.
“We’re just going to work on some breathing techniques, and it doesn’t require any talking. Sound good?”
I exhale an annoyed breath, but it’s better than talking about my family history, so I nod my head once.
“Alright.” Dr. Curtis uncrosses his legs, leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “So, this is the 7/11 method. It’s very simple, first you inhale for seven seconds, then exhale for eleven seconds. You can count fast, no Mississippi or anything. Go ahead and try it.”
He waits expectantly. I roll my eyes but oblige his request, and count while inhaling and exhaling. I look out the window while I’m breathing, wishing I was outside enjoying the sun.
I glance back at him when I’m done and raise an eyebrow as if to ask, what next.
He chuckles. “Good, good. Now let’s try it again, but this time, think of a scenario that could cause you to feel angry, and think about the consequences of reacting in anger in such a situation.”
I narrow my eyes at him, knowing he tricked me here. I might not be talking about my shit outloud, but now I have to actually think about it. Dr. Curtis is unfettered, waving his hand in a silent decree for me to begin again.
Looking out the window again, the first thing that pops into my mind is, of course, my dad. The day he got arrested, leaving me without a mother or a father. If it wasn’t for my granddad, I would’ve ended up in foster care. The rage starts to burn deep down in my gut and moves up to my chest and shoulders, I tense.
“Don’t forget to breathe,” Dr. Curtis says quietly.
I inhale, counting to seven. I think of what the anger makes me want to do: punch anything or anyone in sight, or drink myself into oblivion. All of which would ruin my career. That’s the consequence. And the reason I don’t drink.
Exhaling for eleven seconds, I feel my shoulders relax a little and the feeling in my chest start to ease. Not completely, but enough to make me realize this stupid breathing thing may actually work. Not that I’m going to admit that to the shrink.
“Great work,” Dr. Curtis says. He has his tablet again and starts typing. “How do you feel after that?”
I grunt and shrug one shoulder.
Dr. Curtis smirks, like he knows it helped and that I won’t admit it.
