Eric Bittle (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
puckandpie) wrote2015-11-22 08:21 pm
puckandpie) wrote2015-11-22 08:21 pm
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It's not a date. It's not. I know it's not. I don't even know if Simon likes guys at all so there's no reason to believe this could possibly be a date.
Unfortunately, my nerves are having a difficult time remembering this and by the time we reach DIA, I'm fidgeting and babbling more than I ever thought possible. My skates are slung over my shoulder and I keep switching my helmet from one hand to the other and I'm deep into the story of how I'd scored that goal against Yale back at Samwell and meeting Bad Bob Zimmermann and how well Jack and I had played on the ice together even if it'd been clear he wasn't too happy with having to skate with me. Remembering Jack's bad attitude is somehow a good memory these days even if it makes me ache in a way I have a feeling will never really go away. He'd gotten better once we'd played a few games together and, if nothing else, he's my teammate, a fellow Wellie, and I have no doubt, even now, that somewhere back home he's still fast on his way to graduating and, hopefully, making it back into the NHL. I know he's good enough, we all know he's good enough.
Hopefully he doesn't let his past demons overrule him ever again.
"Anyway, we were on the same line in the game I was playing just before I got here," I tell Simon as we climb the few steps up to DIA. I really can't seem to stop rambling. "We had a play all planned out and then I got checked into the boards, hit my head pretty hard. When I woke up, I was on the train platform here."
I hold the door open for Simon and wave at Wendy, one of the few women who works the front desk for the pool before heading toward the rental counter. "I had a concussion, too. I'm a lot better now, though. What size shoe do you wear?"
Unfortunately, my nerves are having a difficult time remembering this and by the time we reach DIA, I'm fidgeting and babbling more than I ever thought possible. My skates are slung over my shoulder and I keep switching my helmet from one hand to the other and I'm deep into the story of how I'd scored that goal against Yale back at Samwell and meeting Bad Bob Zimmermann and how well Jack and I had played on the ice together even if it'd been clear he wasn't too happy with having to skate with me. Remembering Jack's bad attitude is somehow a good memory these days even if it makes me ache in a way I have a feeling will never really go away. He'd gotten better once we'd played a few games together and, if nothing else, he's my teammate, a fellow Wellie, and I have no doubt, even now, that somewhere back home he's still fast on his way to graduating and, hopefully, making it back into the NHL. I know he's good enough, we all know he's good enough.
Hopefully he doesn't let his past demons overrule him ever again.
"Anyway, we were on the same line in the game I was playing just before I got here," I tell Simon as we climb the few steps up to DIA. I really can't seem to stop rambling. "We had a play all planned out and then I got checked into the boards, hit my head pretty hard. When I woke up, I was on the train platform here."
I hold the door open for Simon and wave at Wendy, one of the few women who works the front desk for the pool before heading toward the rental counter. "I had a concussion, too. I'm a lot better now, though. What size shoe do you wear?"