Page 25 of Grief & Glitter

“Oh, hey, that’s pretty cool,” he replied after a moment. “What about your job?”

“I’ll keep it. This place that I’m looking at is pretty close. I can do part time. Like, I’d be able to do the theory and textbook stuff online while we’re on the road or whatever, but I would have to attend in-person for the labs.”

“Oh wow, that’s amazing. Really. I think you should do it, Ryan, truly. You’ve always been so drawn to hair and makeup, and now that you’re wearing it at home, I can see how skilled you are. I mean, look at those eyeliner lines!” He waved his fork at my face. “I couldn’t draw that straight of a line on my eyelid if my life depended on it. And your lips are all outlined. And you pulled your hair up into a fluffy roll then added a little barrette.”

“Thanks, Dad. I was really feeling femme today but had to wear this polo shirt.” I plucked at the required uniform for the team. “So I dove into my makeup kit just to make myself feel more me. I’ll wash it all off before I go back to the rink.”

He frowned. “I hate it for you that you have to wash away a part of you that is so Ryan.”

That choked me up. I swallowed down the emotion. “Yeah, me too, Dad. But I don’t think anyone is ready for an equipment handler to be wearing false eyelashes and a barrette in his hair.”

“No, I guess not, but someday they will be.” He gave me a smile. “Eat your spaghetti before it gets cold.”

I nodded and dove in. My hunger was fueled by the excitement of possibly, maybe, being able to do the one thing that I had dreamed of doing ever since I was a little boy who had days where khaki shorts and a Spider-Man tee felt way off while one of Mom’s soft sweaters felt perfectly right. When we were done eating, Dad pulled his chair around next to mine and asked to see the website for Luxe and Lace Cosmetology College. We talked and pointed at images, read over the admittance forms and applications, and then turned to look at each other.

“Do it, Buddy. Apply. We’ll work things out with the tuition, the team, and the other stuff. Your face lights up when you’re talking about it. Do it.”

“What if I fuck it up?” There it was, self-doubt, right on time with its rancid dark voice and poisonous words.

“You won’t.”

I wish I had as much faith in myself as my father did, but with Dad at my side, cheering me on, I opened the portal for an admissions interview.

Two days later, we were packing up for a road trip.

Just a short one along the East Coast for three games and then back home in time for the fundraiser that I was attending with Gideon.

As. His. Date.

I wished I had time to daydream about what that night could be like if I weren’t such a numpty and could wear what I truly wanted to wear. And not an oxblood suit. Sure, I’d rock that rich, dark red with my pale skin and red hair, but an oxblood dress…

Yeah, that would be to die for. With a low back but not too low, slinky strapped low heels, and a few black butterfly barrettes to keep my hair out of my face. Sultry tones for the face, thick eyeliner, glittery shadows, and a deep berry lipstick. My sigh was legendary as my dreams fizzled when another bag of equipment was tossed my way to load into the underbelly of the charter bus. There was so much shit to haul. Moving a team was a huge undertaking. The players were already milling around, the veterans razzing the two rookies. They’d ride in the front with the coaches as was customary for newbies. Why? Not a clue. But them were the rules, according to Arnaud, who was sipping some sort of non-carbonated drink from Canada that was made out of pine needles. Using a kid’s yellow straw with a loop in it, he just stood off to the side, bright sharp eyes keyed in on me. It was making me a little uneasy. Goalies had this zone they entered that most of us non-goalies could only puzzle over. Intense concentration.

I turned my back to him to start loading suitcases, even though I could feel his eyes on me. Goalies were weird. And goalies that drank spruce beer or whatever the shit was called were the tippy top of the weird triangle. Fall was blowing up some wild winds off Lake Ontario. Cold, biting winds that held the tint of winter. I shuddered inside my thin parka. The bus would be nice and warm, though, so I hurried to finish loading the gear then closed and locked the luggage bay. With a slap on the back from Dad, we climbed onto the full bus and took a seat near the middle, between the coaches and therapists in front and the players in the prime seats in the rear. Just like in school when the cool kids got the back seats. I’d never had a back seat.

I planned to listen to a couple of episodes of a TTRPG show that I enjoyed. With a soft lurch, the bus pulled away from the rink, heading west to Buffalo. Bob, who was seated in front of me, had his damn window open. No clue why, as it was fucking cold outside.

When I peeked through the seats, he met my look with a menacing one of his own. “Fresh air invigorates the nervous system,” he explained with zero patience.

“Oh, sure.” I turned back around to shiver in my seat. I didn’t argue with guys the size of the Innovation Square.

“Don’t torment the little one with the carrot hair,” Arnaud called from the seats behind us. Why was Bob up here with the trainers anyway? “He is cold at heart like a frozen codpiece, so the wind that blows in does make him feel at home.”

Bob’s reply was to hold his hand up over his head and flip off our starting goalie. “See! Witness the truth of my words. No heat resides in his furnace. His coal is cold, and his shovel is frozen to the icy ground. Doux Jésus! Save this burly man from the colds of his withering hot plates!”

Bob stood up, cracked his head on the overhead bin, and let loose a string of profanity that even made the head coach cough.

“What the fuck are you even talking about, Arnie?” Bob barked as he rubbed the top of his head. I began to slink lower in my seat as Arnaud was now leaning on the top of my headrest to address Bob face to almost face.

“What? What did you call me? Arnie? Ar-knee?!”

“Yeah, I called you Arnie. I wanted to call you something else, but this little kid here is shaking in his boots already.” Bob waved a big mitt at me. “Scared shitless because some pine-scented moron has their elbow in his head.”

“It’s okay, and I’m not a kid,” I meekly offered.

“See, he is fine. He is stout like the troubadours of Quebec!” Arnaud patted my head after removing his elbow from it. “You, monsieur Robert, are a cold pickled cod with no sense of humor or taste. Also, because you have been so long with the window open, I now proclaim you master of the winter wasted lands. Forever more you shall be called Sir Pickle, and we shall shower you with gherkins for homage to your bitterly cold feces. No, faces. Yes! Cold faces! English is tricksy for my skilled tongue!”

“You’re a twat,” Bob countered, huffed, and dropped down into his seat with so much force I felt the impact.