Sin-bin

Chapter 17 - Marcial

I had been cleared. 

Both David and Shelia sat me down before they would give the players' association the all-clear. They wanted to know if I was ready, if I was feeling confident enough in myself and my sobriety to play hockey again, and what kind of culture I would be in again—the pressure and attention, the common talk of drinks, all of it. They wanted me to give myself permission to play again before they would permit me. 

With much worrying, thinking, and phone calls between Cap and Toi, I said yes. I was ready to play again. It's been nearly three months at this point since I knew I was going to play a game. Though I've been on the ice multiple times a week the entire time, game days are just different. There's more anxiety, pressure, expectations, relief, and adrenaline. I miss it. I miss the excitement of the lights, the music, and the cheering. I miss Cellys at plays and the way the locker room is after a good play. I even miss the shitty parts like the goalie blocking my shot or the demeaning silence of a coach after you fuck up a game. 

Six months ago, I never thought I would miss hockey, but I do. It's been my everything since my first breath. While it's hard, anxiety-inducing, and not perfect, it's still me. Hockey is just as much a part of me as anything else, and I miss that part. 

But boy, is it hard still. 

I've been sitting in my car in the players' parking lot outside the arena for nearly thirty minutes. My first game back is a home game against the Dallas Outlaws. They're a good team, especially their offense, so the defense will be on their toes tonight. But I can't get myself to open my car door. It's cold since I've turned off the car, so there's no heater. It's still early enough that the sun is still setting on the horizon, making the sky a dark blue. It's a perfect night to play hockey. 

But I'm scared. 

I haven't played competitively in a while. What if I've lost my touch entirely? It was fading the past few seasons. What if this time off made it go away completely? What if I don't mesh well during the game? What if I hear the crowd boo, and it sets me off? What if an opponent says something to me? What if I disappoint everyone that may or may not be waiting for my return? What if Dad tries to call me?

I'm so excited to play again. I can already feel the adrenaline in my veins, but some of that is anxiety adrenaline. I think this is what David and Shelia were afraid of: the fear and worries swarming my head and leading me to bad decisions. I understand now. I fear myself, too. 

I don't remember all of my thoughts and worries in the thirty minutes I sat in the car. I'm spooked enough to jump in my seat at the sound of a fist against my window. There is Cap, with his bag over his shoulder, a ball cap on his head, and an easy smile on his face. 

Because the car is off, I have to actually open the door to hear or speak to him. Which means I should probably just get out of the car now. Cap steps back to let me out but raises his hand in the air in a clear invite for a greeting. 

After we've slapped hands and patted each other's backs, Cap squeezes my shoulder, "Thinking about how you're going to win this game for us?"

I can only let out a pathetically weak laugh, "Yeah. And all 700 ways I can fuck it up." I open the back, Cap following me to grab my shit from the trunk.

"Nah," Cap waves his hand in the air physically like he's waving away my worries, "There's only like 100, and that's the same odds of fucking up as the rest of us. You've done great in practice. You'll be the M.O.M. tonight for sure."

Once I've got my shit, Cap grabs me again by the shoulders and starts leading me into the arena, waving past the security who recognizes us. I've only been in the Ball Arena as a guest player. Never as the home team. It's never been my arena. Its cement hallways and dim lighting make it a lot like all other arenas. It's when you hit the locker room, which is decked out in blue and grey—Yeti colors.