Page 76 of Puck Daddies
Fucking stellar.
Ultimately, I tell her that I’m going public. “This is a problem. And it’s not just a me problem. Lots of guys have mental health stuff, and we have to start addressing it. I figure if I can do that, I might get someone else to do it too.”
She doesn’t flinch. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep—that adds to your frustration. Share resources. Tell people what you’re learning and that you’ll mess up sometimes, and that’s okay. You keep going.”
Keep going. That’s been the name of the game ever since I can remember.
I walk out steady. In the lot, I text PR to set up filming a PSA about anger management for men. To my surprise, they’re on board.
I skate and keep it boring. Nothing fancy. Straight lines. Edge work. Puck protection. Good, clean, the way the game should be played.
In the locker room, Ellis chirps, “Zen Harris,” and bows. Carter asks if I’m giving away my sticks to atone for slashing his laces last year.
I roll my eyes at them. “Anyone else?”
No takers.
“Make your jokes, guys, but I’m not gonna be the one at forty in the ER because I had a stroke.” I wink and head over for my PSA in PR’s office. By two, I’m sitting in front of a black backdrop.A camera, a light, a mic on my shirt. No script. PR says, “Two minutes.”
I look at the lens. “I’m Hudson Harris. I play left wing for the Baltimore Black Devils. Last week, I snapped at a journalist in the tunnel. I’ve taken cheap shots when I was frustrated. I’ve done other things that I could have handled better.” I sigh, because it’s hard to say all of this out loud. Who wants to admit this shit?
Today, I do. I need to. So I continue, “That’s on me. I started anger management today. I’m talking about it because men’s mental health gets ignored, especially when the emotion is anger. We’re told anger is the only thing we’re allowed to show. It isn’t. I’m learning to notice it sooner and do something different. We have to handle this kind of thing better, and sometimes, that means reaching out. If you’re where I was, talk to someone. This is work. I’ll mess up. I’ll keep going. You can too.”
We do one more take. PR says the first one is better. They schedule it for tomorrow morning.
In some ways, that’s a relief. I don’t have too much time to get self-conscious, freak out, and tell them not to air it. It feels official in a way that keeps me calm right now.
In the gym, the guys rib me more. “Harris is going to breathe me off the puck,” Lane says.
I shrug. “Hope so, because the other option is hooking your ankles.”
Oliver hides a grin. Rocco taps his temple. “New play—mindfulnesscheck.” I flip him off without heat. He snickers and glances away.
It’s a long workout, and I outlast most everyone in the gym. Except for a few stragglers and Travis.
He waits until the room thins, then comes over. No camera. No audience. “I heard about what you did. The PSA thing. What you’re doing is important. Proud of you for owning your shit.”
I wait for sarcasm. A beat. Then another. It doesn’t come.
He adds, “Can you show me how to move faster? My first three strides suck. I can’t get enough grip on the ice. Never could.”
Again, no sarcasm. The fuck is he playing at?
The words come out slowly. “You want me to help you?”
He looks away. “Yeah. If you wouldn’t mind. If you’re busy, I get it?—”
“Yeah, okay. Far rink at eight tomorrow. Bring runners and off-ice shoes. We’ll start with starts.”
He smiles like a kid. “Thanks, man. I just…you know.”
“You’re bad at asking for help, so you act like a boy with a crush and pretend to be an asshole to get attention?”
He just stares for a minute. Then a weird-ass cackle pops out of him. “Yeah, I mean, kinda.”
“You’re just as simple as that fuck-awful haircut you got, aren’t you?”
“Hey—”
