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Unlike hockey practice, gym time is early in the morning. The kind of early that reminds me of my childhood. As a kid, there were two things quintessentially hockey: hockey smell and the early morning practice. And every time I head to the gym under the cover of darkness, I get that same déjà vu, transported back to when I was seven.
The hollow feeling the night before when you set your alarm to way-too-early o’clock.
The just-five-more-minutes in the morning when the alarm goes off way too loudly.
You microwave a bagel and stare into the distance while you eat and try to coax your brain into waking up.
You make your way to the rink in the dark. Your bag is thrown over your shoulder. Your hair sticks out in every direction. You’re geared up in sweatpants and that old hoodie you grabbed blindly from the corner of your closet because it was too damn early to turn on the lights, and even if you did turn them on, your eyes would’ve been closed anyway.
You nod at other lunatics up at this hour, because words take too much effort this early in the morning.
Every athlete knows that feeling—that aloneness while the rest of the world is still sleeping, but you’re making your way to the locker room.
It sounds so very unappealing when described like that.
I fucking love it.
Always have.
“Up and at ’em!”
Soren winces at my voice and lifts his middle finger. I grin and pat him on the back while he sits, huddled in a fluffy yellow sweater he insists is part of his ritual on gym days, but that in actuality makes him look like a baby chick.
“The early morning cheerfulness has gotta go, man,” he says. “Go back to last week and be quiet and surly.”
I snort. “You’ve been doing this your whole life. I’m thinking it’s time to get used to the hours.”
“Look alive, Calvers,” Coach Whitlock says as he walks past us.
“It’s seven a.m.,” Soren moans.
“I’ve been up since four,” Whitlock says back.
“Insanity,” Soren mutters, closing his eyes.
“All right. Let’s get this train on the tracks, people,” Whitlock calls out. He lays out the plan for the morning, and we all spread out. The next sixty minutes pass in a blur of activity. After three years, I can hear Whitlock’s voice in my head like he’s chanting the words into my ear.
“Lift fast, lift heavy, and then recover.”
Whitlock slaps me on the back as he passes me.
“Much better,” he says approvingly. I’ve been hearing that a fair few times after my less-than-stellar performance last week.
And it is much better. Muscles burning, drenched in sweat, every movement measured and even. It feels good.
The background noise becomes a hum in my ears while I get in the zone. After three years, I don’t have to think much about what I’m doing. It’s all muscle memory in some form or another, so my mind is free to wander.
The best part about having your quasi-husband/stepbrother/friend/whatever the fuck Lake is at this point jerk you off in your car is surprisingly not the fucking awesome orgasm.
It’s clarity.
Six months of confusion and doubts packed their bags and took a hike on Sunday, and fucking good riddance.
Yeah.
Clarity.
I liked it.
