Page 19 of Finding the Forward: Part One
“I love helping you out, but I have to teach a class this afternoon. See you all later.” With a wave, I left the locker room and used my badge to take the elevator upstairs. The team had facilities on the upper floors, some shared with the Knights. The two teams were owned by different members of the same family.
Rusty had gotten me permission to use the small weight room. While I was welcome to workout with the team, I didn’t want to annoy my sister. Also, I didn’t want them to see me struggle.
Alone, I went through all the exercises my physio told me to do. I was still in physical therapy and would be for a while. Then I did a leg workout and some cardio to keep in shape since I couldn’t play fútbol for fun anymore.
Cleaning off the equipment with disinfecting de-scenter, I changed, fixed my hair and makeup, and sprayed myself with more de-scenter. Post stroke, my scent had gotten strong, and it bothered me. But I could no longer use blockers of any kind.
Workout done. Time for a little treat. Downstairs, I got my usual chai latte from the cart. Banners and cutouts of the teams, as well as posters about their different programs and offerings, filled the lobby.
It was still something to see my little sister on a giant sign.
“Did you see those Knights last night?” the barista asked me, as she made my drink.
“No, I don’t really follow hockey.” I’d met some of the Knights, since they shared the facility with the Maimers. The rookies were quite sweet.
She handed me my latte. “No? I figured you were a Hurricane fan, considering that sweatshirt you always wear.” She winked. “Big Daddy Hurricane is a Knight now.”
Big Daddy Hurricane?That sounded straight out of a sports romance. Last night, I finished a racing one. Mmmm.
“The Maimers are doing a promo at their next home game. I’ll check them out. Thanks.” I took my latte to the rink they were using and sat in my usual spot in the stands to watch practice, resting my crutch against the rail.
While I didn’t have to stay once I dropped Mercy off, it was nice to take a moment to drink my tea and get organized for the day.
My big sister Grace had texted me. I might not talk to the parents, but I kept in touch with my siblings.
Pulling on my sweatshirt against the chill of the rink, I replied to some texts, checked my email, then did some reading for class. NYIT had us Briar students taking a few things to meet their requirements, though they’d been very flexible with us, especially me.
As always, the cozy sweatshirt made me think of Grif–that one bright spot in a horrible day. While I was curious who he was, given he wasn’t on any pro fútbol team I could find, I hadn’t sought him out beyond that.
Starting a new PhD program, my research, teaching, taking care of my sister, and physical therapy took all my energy. More sometimes.
Really, I should’ve listened to Grace and not taken the teaching position. I was also glad that Dr. Winters had me focusing on my research instead of helping with his.
Still, I thought of Grif. A lot. Every time I watched a rom-com. Every time I saw a plane–or a cat. Every time I touched myself.
Whoever he was, I hoped he’d won his game. Maybe I’d been looking in the wrong sport. Other sports had forwards. With his size, he could play rugby.
I just didn’t have time for that right now.
Selfishly, I was glad I didn’t find Grif. The sweatshirt helped get me through the most grueling parts of my stroke recovery, and I didn’t want to give it back.
Also, with him, I’d felt something. The kind of connection where if I found him again, I wouldn’t let him go. Him not wanting me in that same way would break my heart.
After all, I wasn’t much of an alpha.
Yes, it would be better to keep him as a fond memory.
Chapter Six
Grif
One of the rookies passed the puck to me. I focused on Jean-Paul, the goalie currently in the net. As I skated closer to the net, I deked to his glove side. JP leaned into it, taking the bait. I shot to his stick side. He dove toward the puck, but it flew into the net.
“Nice shot,” JP told me, in his thick French-Canadian accent. He was a beta and five-foot-ten, with a broad and stocky build, brown hair, and a beard.
“Thanks.” I left so someone else could take a turn.
It was a good shot. Unfortunately, that only mattered if the coaches agreed. I looked toward Coach Atkins but saw no reaction. He was older, with gray in his dark hair and a few wrinkles around his brown eyes, but he wasn’t that old. Coachwas a bit of a legend, having won Olympic gold and several PHL championships.
