Big Day

Well what do you know, I wrote something rated PG.  This is just how I felt after Crosby's press conference today - like I really wanted to hug him.
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“Hi.”

I say it without really looking, taking a seat at a diner counter where only one other stool is occupied.  The wall behind the counter is a big mirror and I can see the whole place is empty .  I’m grateful.  It’s been a long day and I need some time to get centered.

“Big day,” a female voice answers.

I don’t turn the seat, just my head because now I can do that without feeling dizzy.  My elbows are up on the counter and I look over my arm at the girl a three chairs away.

“Uh, yeah.”  I’m not sure if it was a question.

She finishes chewing, wipes a crumb from the corner of her mouth with a white paper napkin.  Dark hair is tucked behind her ear and bangs graze her eyebrows.  Without looking over she says, “Thanks for the gun show.”

“What?”  Another side effect of my concussion is that I doubt myself constantly.  I saw and heard and felt things wrong for so long that I compensate for it even now, when I don’t need to anymore.  

“I said,” she spins her stool a quarter rotation toward me, “thanks for the gun show.”

I can’t tell what color her eyes are from here but I know they drop to my biceps, which are bare beneath the short sleeves of my white polo shirt.  It was clean and casual enough - no need to wear a suit, today was not a funeral.

For the simple reason that this is the most absurd thing anyone has ever said to me, I bark out a sudden laugh that scares even me.  My biceps may be manly, my laugh is not.  As quickly as I can reign it in, the diner is quiet again.  I’m mortified more by my reaction than her bizarre compliment.

“Uh, thanks,” I say sarcastically.

“It helped,” she says, ignoring my tone.

Now I’m really confused.  I swing around till I’m facing her direction.  “Sorry, what are you talking about?”

She just turns back to her plate, but there’s a smile at the corner of her lip.  “You’re like a dad on a road trip - you knew we’d get bored, so you brought something to look at.”

“Are you talking about the press conference?”

Her eyes are brown, darker than her hair.  I see it when she gives me a big-eyed, deadpan look.  “You went to the Sidney Crosby press conference?”

Blame it on the concussion, but I am an entire second slow in getting her joke.  I just stare at her for about a month, until she lifts her eyebrows and makes a little apologetic smile.

“Sorry, bad joke.”

“No, no no no.  I get it.”  And I’m actually laughing, more at myself, but also at her odd sense of humor.  That was actually really funny.  “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, you’ve had a head injury.”

She’s pretty tall - her feet touch the bar along the base of the counter about the same way mine do.  Flip flops are topped off by dark jeans and a lemon yellow t-shirt.  Over the back of her chair she’s slung a bright blue messenger bag.

“So you saw the press conference?”

She nods.

This isn’t something I’d normally do, talk to a stranger about myself.  This is interview material, not for normal conversations.  God forbid people think I expect an audience all the time.  But she brought it up and honestly, I need someone honest.  The people close to me love to say what they think I want to hear.

“What did you think?”

She tilts her head in real surprise before glancing over at me.  I’m facing her, one foot resting on the seat next to me so my stool won’t turn back.  I shrug to encourage her.  She puts down the half a sandwich she was about to eat and turns toward me the same way.

“No news is good news, right?”

“There was some news.”  I feel defensive, knowing we called the conference just to say that nothing had changed.

“It would have been news if you knocked out that CBC guy who asked about you never playing again.”

This gets another girly laugh from me - because I was thinking the same thing.  We knew it would come and my back was up all morning just waiting, biting my tongue and rehearsing my careful response.  I get the impression the same words won’t go over well here.

“Yeah, I thought about it.”

She smiles and it’s electric - all dimples.  Wow.  I haven’t seen a smile that flashy in a long time.  Even without it, she’s on the very side of pretty.  Her hair brushes the shoulders of her t-shirt, which turns out to be for someone called Ben Lee, a singer I would guess.

“I learned a lot about concussions, more than Bettman taught anyone in his All-Star Game conference.”

“You watched that?”  I listened to it, laying on the floor in my room in the dark where the light of the TV could not reach me.  I couldn’t listen to the game, but the droning monotony of Bettman’s Rule 48 address had been tolerable.

“Yup.  Boring as shit.  Your doctor explained it better.”

Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.  It’s a safe bet that I’m not real happy with Rule 48 and the concussion epidemic in general, so badmouthing Bettman is one thing.  But actually having watched that?  This girl’s opinion might be education beyond her obvious appreciation of excellent upper arm tone.

“But you got bored with us too.”

She drops her eyes to my arms again.  “I got... distracted.”

This time it washes over me like a warm shower, the glow of thinly veiled sexual compliment from a cute girl.

“What else?  How’d I do?”

She gets up from her stool.  I straighten, unsure of where she’s moving to as she approaches my seat and a little surprised at the curvy little package that was hiding in her seat.  Her jeans have star patters on the back pockets and I watch them go around the side and right behind the counter.

“Do it again,” she says.

“Do what?”

“Sit like you were at the table.”  

She leans back against the counter, opposite me like she’s going to pour a soda.  I put my elbows up and cross my arms in front of me.  I think it’s the way everyone was sitting.

“Defensive,” she says. “You’re all Hulked out trying to take up space.  That was the only giveaway.”

I’m stunned.  This girl I don’t even know, who walks around this diner like she owns it, just called me out.

“And what exactly did I give away?”

“That you’re scared.  And you’re human.”

I pull my elbows down and fight the urge to huff like an annoyed child.  Of course I’m fucking scared, this is my whole life on the line.  And human?  What does that mean?  She takes her time circling back to the customer side of the line.

“Hey.”

She lays her hands on my shoulders and I jump so hard the stool nearly snaps.  I wasn’t expecting her touch.  Or her words.  Or her honesty, though I asked for it.  She flinches, taking her hands with her until she’s two steps away.

“I’m sorry,” I say instantly.  Why have I apologized three times since I walked in this place?

“Sit.  Here.”  Her hands guide my shoulders down till I’m back in my seat.  The hint of a dark, comfy scent cheats past me - blackberries or something vanilla that smells like waking up in a clean bed.  We look at each other in the mirror and for the first time, she really smiles.  

“Wow, no wonder.”

My shoulders are so tense they vibrate beneath her fingers, like a spasm that won’t stop.  Ever since I couldn’t fall asleep last night I’ve been locked up tight.  What’s one more hour spent laying in the dark wishing for something that wouldn’t come?

I hiss sharply when she pinches her thumb and forefinger into the space just below my neck.  She might as well stick her finger into an open wound for how deep the pain shoots.  Maybe it’s a pressure point and she wants to render me unconscious.  But she doesn’t stop.

“Take a deep breath.”

For reasons unknown, I do.  I close my eyes and draw the same long, slow breath I used to stop the room spinning or my stomach rising.  I fill my stomach, then my chest and finally my throat with air before letting it all out at once in a big rush.  When it’s gone, there’s space for her fingers to knead.

“OhmyGod,” I groan.  It hurts so incredibly good.

“Jeez,” she laughs softly.  “How do you sleep like this?”

“I don’t,” I grumble under my breath, meaning it to be sarcastic but it just comes out sad.  She assaults the spot half an inch higher up and I jerk in my seat.  The scenario repeats until her touch is releasing lactic acid in my rigid muscles like rain down a gutter.

“What do they do for you, the trainers?”

I roll my head to the left, away from her spot, offering her more of my neck.  It’s not till her smooth fingers dip beneath the collar of my shirt that I realize what I’ve done.  The surface of my skin sizzles at her touch - no one but doctors have touched me in nine months.  No one.  The trail of sparks races right down my chest and hits home in my crotch.

“They do...,” my voice is strangled, “this, kind of, but it’s....”

It’s not like this.  It’s clinical and cold with the sheer desperation of everyone to get me healthy again.  It’s not for comfort or compassion, though I know they feel those things.  The fear of uncertainty hangs like a pall over everything.

Her knuckles graze the tendon in my neck where it meets the back muscles.  She does it again, harder, then again until she’s working it with the elbow up, using her body weight.  I tip my head forward and move with her.

After another moment, she steps back.  Her hand slides out of my shirt and off my skin.  The burn remains.

“I shouldn’t be... sorry.  You’re hurt.  I’m not trained.”

“No, wait,” I say feebly, but she’s already swinging back into her seat.  “That felt really good.  You’re not trained?”

Stealing a bite of sandwich, she shakes her head. “No, but I love to get massages and I try to pay attention to what they do.”

“You get the good kind, at the spa?  All relaxing?  Ours are not - they’re on stinky tables with every light on.  Maybe it works better but it’s not enjoyable.”

Her straw hits bottom and makes an empty slurping noise.  So she gets up again, goes behind the counter and does in fact pour herself a Coke.

“Where’s the waitress?” I ask, realizing that I haven’t eaten.  Or seen anyone.

She holds up a second glass, empty.  “Oh we’re not open.”

“Huh?”

“This is my aunt’s dinner, it’s closed on Wednesdays.  I just came in to make myself a sandwich.”

I look around again more carefully.  Sure enough the lights are mostly off though it’s harder to tell in the daylight.  There are no ketchup bottles on the tables.

“I’m sorry!  The door was open, I just....”

“It’s cool.  Your options are a bit limited though - turkey sandwich?  Ham and cheese?  I can fire up the grill if you want a burger, but it takes a few minutes.”  She gestures over her shoulder toward the kitchen.  The way she stands behind the counter, the way she moves among the appliances and kitchenware tell me she worked here as a kid, maybe still works here.  She might as well own the place.

“You don’t have to make me lunch.”  I’m already getting up to leave, though I can still feel her hands on my skin.  My stomach is growling and there’s a piece of pie in the deli case that looks like heaven.

“Sit down, Crosby.”  She says it like she’s known me forever.  It’s the way the guys talk to me, like I’m just another face on the team bus who’d better carry his own shit and not fart in his sleep.  Without my order, she takes out bread and opens the fridge.  I watch with widening eyes as she proceeds to make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  She spreads each side perfectly, leaving no dry bites, then cuts it diagonally into perfect halves.  It goes on a plate, which slides to a stop in front of my chest.

“Milk?” she asks, but she’s already pouring.

This would be weird if it weren’t the best fucking sandwich I’ve ever had.  The white bread is thick and fluffy, the jelly cold and the peanut butter rich and creamy.  I polish off a half in three bites, take a huge swig of milk and smack my lips.

“Perfect.  Thank you.”

She’s back in her seat, one knee up like she’s comfortably hanging out.  Her toenails are purple.  Her arms are tan, the left slightly more than the right from driving.  Summer’s over but she looks like the middle of July.  I want to know how she got here, who she is.  I want to know...

“Oh my God.  What’s your name?  I never asked.”  I stutter it through a bite of sandwich.  What a shithead.

“Ryan.”

“Like the boys name?”  

Oh I am batting a thousand today.

“Yes, like the boy’s name.  Sidney.”  But she laughs as she calls me a girl and the sound is musical.

“Fair enough,” I say automatically.  But then I have an idea.  “Speaking of fairness, Ryan, will you let me take you out to eat?  Since you made me lunch?”

Another thing I never did before my concussion was ask girls out.  A lot of the time they ask me, and a lot of the time I say no.  Occasionally I date but really, it isn’t worth the trouble around here.  Now I feel differently.  I almost lost it all.  Call in a the near-death experience of a career that puts the rest of my life in perspective.  For nine months I have woken up wondering what I’d do if there were no hockey tomorrow.  It’s time to actually have something in that category.

“If you really want to be fair, you would cook for me.”

Even better, even if she doesn’t know it.  No prying eyes.  No blogs wondering how I can lift a fork if I can’t take contact.  And most of all, closer to my bed.  Another thing I haven’t done in nine months. The doctors haven’t approved it, but some things are best self-diagnosed.

“I can do that,” I lie.  But I’ll make it work.  My plate is empty and I wonder if right now is too soon to start this dinner.  I want to be around her, just her, but I’m running out of reasons to stay.

Ryan collects her glass and plate and comes near to pile mine on top.  The cotton her her shirt is thin and soft - I want to rub it between my fingers.  She wears little sparkly star-shaped earrings.  The dishes go in a bus tray behind the counter then she comes back around.  I sit perfectly still, like a puppy hoping to be petted.  Her footsteps run out right behind me.

“There’s something else you owe me,” she says quietly.  Her words reach my ears as her fingers reach my sore, aching, throbbing neck.  They quickly find the mark and drain breath and pain from my body.  I deflate like a balloon, collapsing into her - and the chair, for good measure.

“I’m not trained,” I tease as she pushes her knuckles against a ropey ligament and I feel the pull down into my ribs.

She laughs softly. “Sounds like you’ve got time to practice.”
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