Page 6 of The Game She Hates

5

Zane Ortiz

Nothing feels more like home than being on the rink. The sound of skates carving into the ice and sticks clashing resonate in my eardrums, creating a symphony of the sport I love. Coach watches us from the bench, jotting down notes as Tyler leads us through today’s practice.

The goal, as always, is to become better with each stride, giving our all and a little bit more. I face off against Trent, our eyes locking in a familiar rivalry that extends beyond the rink. I can feel sweat starting to bead on my brow as I resolve to prove to him once more that he can’t beat me on the ice. We engage in a flurry of skill and strategy, maneuvering through his defense with speed and finesse. Okland and Hunter flank me, while Fabrice flashes into position, the puck darting between us like a well-rehearsed routine.

With a swift pass from Fabrice, I find myself in a one-on-one showdown with Carson, one of the best goaltenders I know. But I also know him like the back of my hand, so I anticipate his every move. I deke left, then right, sending him sprawling as I flick the puck into the top corner with a satisfying thud.

The sound of Coach’s whistle cuts through the air, signaling the end of the scrimmage. We shake hands and exchange nods of respect, then gather around him for some final notes.

We march through the hallway and the echoes of our footsteps reverberate in loud thuds. From where I’m standing, it’s clear that everyone’s geared up and eager for Friday’s game.

I knock lightly on Coach’s office door before heading to the lockers, my mind swirling with thoughts about the therapist he practically strong-armed me into seeing. I’ve been keeping it out of my mind until today, and now I can’t even remember the appointment time.

Coach invites me in.

“I forgot what time the therapist is expecting me,” I admit, trying to show Coach I’m making an effort, even if I have no expectations of this therapy session being fruitful.

The possibility of becoming team captain when Tyler leaves is on the table, so I’ve got nothing to lose by seeing the child therapist—except maybe my precious time and the potential bruising of my ego.

“I scheduled your appointment for 2 p.m. But remember, she usually doesn’t see adults or athletes, so she’s doing me a favor. Please try your best to open up.”

“I can’t make no promises, Coach. I’m anything but an open book,” I reply with a shrug.

“Try, Ortiz. And please don’t be late either. She squeezed us in by a miracle,” Coach insists. I wonder if his constant optimism is a requirement for his job, or if he just has a lot of faith in this woman.

“Got it. Can’t be fashionably late, then,” I quip, but judging by Coach’s stern expression, my joke falls flat.

I turn on my heel to leave and Coach stops me with one last piece of advice. “Oh, and make sure you take a good shower before you meet her. It’s all about making a good first impression.”

I roll my eyes, quite frankly offended. I’ve never skipped a post-practice shower in my life. In fact, I’m more likely to shower three times a day than not at all.

Why is Coach being so weird about this? I’m going to therapy, not on a date.

I head to the locker room, noticing some of the guys already packing up to leave. I spot an available shower stall and quickly step in and indulge in a thorough cleanse. Coach’s words about making a good impression on the therapist echo in my mind. Is he insinuating something about my personal hygiene? Why would he bring it up? I mean, sure I can get ridiculously sweaty but some guys on the team smell far worse than me after a game. But from head to toe, I give myself a good scrub.

My body wash is a citrusy-spicy scent, and by the time I’m done, I almost wish I were going on a date instead of being poked about my issues. I’m never in the mood to explain why I’m just not a happy person.

Stepping out of the shower, I catch Tyler, Fabrice, and Carson eyeing me like there’s something on my face. “I would ask why y’all staring like I’m naked, but this is a men’s locker room, so that’s to be expected,” I say with my towel firmly wrapped around my waist. I’ll never be one of those guys who don’t care about people’s comfort levels and strut around Adam-style.

“You never take a twenty-five minute shower here. Are you going on a date?” Carson asks, and I can’t help but chuckle.

A date? I haven’t had one of those in years. Honestly, I’m not even sure if I remember how to talk to women anymore. Ever since joining the Glaciers, my online presence has blown up. Girls get weird with me, using me for their own social media boost. I’ve had to end things with many women before the third date because of subtle signs I noticed. The silver lining? I never let anyone get close enough to hurt me.

After being disappointed so many times, I’ve learned to bail at the first hint of someone being more interested in my status than in me. And now, I don’t even have the desire to try anymore. The idea of companionship sounds nice, but I’ve come to accept that no one will ever truly love me for who I am and, quite frankly, I haven’t felt like approaching a woman in a long time. So, I’ve given up on dating altogether. It just feels like a futile effort.

“We can assume it’s a date then since he won’t even reply,” Fabrice says, high-fiving the guys.

“No, I just have an appointment so I used the shower to think things through,” I reply, evading specificity. That’s how I like to relate to people. I don’t want any of these guys knowing that I’m going to see a therapist. They all respect me on the ice, and I don’t want that to change. But I also don’t want to explain that I’m doing it for a shot at captaincy. Whenever people mention it, I act like it wouldn’t mean the world to me. And lastly, I’m not going to out myself and tell them about Coach’s comment about my personal hygiene—that’s still not sitting well with me.

“I know what that’s like. The shower is one of the best places to talk to God, at least for me. It’s the only place I get solitude nowadays,” Tyler concedes, and I force a smile, pretending to relate. I don’t have four kids under six years old, and I can’t even remember the last time I talked to God, but I know it’s when I was living with my Aunt Melissa in Chicago.

6

Zane Ortiz

I pull onto Main Street and immediately find a spot to park my Audi, grateful that both the therapist’s office and my favorite coffee shop are conveniently located here. I usually prefer coming to Randy’s around 3 p.m. when the place isn’t crowded. It allows me to grab my order and head home without running into fans. As much as I’d love to give Randy’s coffee free promotion for their incredible pastries and coffee blends, it’s a double-edged sword. It would work in one day, but it would also turn Main Street into a paparazzi camp.

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