Chapter Text
My therapist gave me this journal to write in. Says it’ll help to get me thinking. According to her, it’s good to get your thoughts down on paper. I don’t exactly agree. Oh well.
Well, I think I’m supposed to introduce myself. My name is Raymond Novak. I’m twenty years old, and 6’1”. I have brown, spiky hair and green eyes. A bit of fuzz on my chin. Pretty normal looking, I guess.
I live in Utah and I work at a Joann’s. Lamest job on the face of the Earth. You’d be surprised how many angry old ladies come in on a daily basis. It’s terrifying.
I’m also on a Junior hockey team. It’s kind of a big deal, I guess. I mean, it’s not the NHL, or college hockey, or even a minor league or whatever. I’m the starter goalie, so yay for me.
I gotta say, hockey is probably the most prominent thing in my life. I’ve been playing since I was in 8th grade, which isn’t much, but since then it’s all I can think about, really. I do have other hobbies, like playing video games and reading comics. I’m even going to school to become an artist. But hockey isn’t like that stuff. It’s part of my life, and I don’t know what I’d do without it.
But yeah, enough of that deep shit. It's stupid.
I'm apparently supposed to write about my daily activities now.
Well, today's been surprisingly eventful.
Work was slow. Very slow. I hadn't had my tea with cream and sugar like I do every morning. I'm not exactly a coffee person. Stuff makes my stomach hurt.
Anyway, the day dragged by, as usual. Most of the customers were middle aged or elderly women.
Mrs. Buckingham was there like she always is. My coworkers decided that I'd be the one to deal with her today.
I walked to the yarn aisle, where she held about seven different rolls of brightly colored yarn in her small, fragile arms. Turning to me, she smiled. “Hello, Raymond! How has your mother been?” She spoke in a soft British accent. I sighed and flashed a small grin at her. “She's been doing better, Mrs. Buckingham. What can I help you with?”
She explained to me that she wanted to make scarves for the children's hockey team since her grandson played. (Frank Buckingham. Good kid. Excellent defenseman, for an eight year old.)
Honestly, I don't know any hockey players who'd be interested in receiving an itchy homemade scarf from an old woman that they didn't know, but I kept my mouth shut. I didn't wanna be ‘that guy’.
Though, I did recommend to her a darker shade of blue that would match the team's colors better. She thanked me, and I took some of the balls of yarn from her and escorted her to the checkout area.
As soon as she said her goodbyes, a shy teenage boy with turquoise hair came up to the register. He placed a package of highly expensive, orange drawing markers on the counter.
“That'll be $15.27,” He slid me a twenty dollar bill and I gave him back his change and a receipt. “Would you like a bag for that?” He just shook his head, smiled, and left. I watched him leave.
After work, not much went on. I got gas in my car. Went and picked up groceries. And then I went home and took a nap.
Aaaand when I woke up, I rushed to get ready to go to dinner with the Captain of my hockey team, Eric Green.
It was mildly chaotic. He decided to bring his three little girls. Triplets.
You see, Eric’s a single dad. His wife died of brain cancer two years after their girls were born, and he was left to raise them. He's honestly a great dad, but the girls love me and never leave me alone. Whenever they see me, they drown me with questions like “Uncle Ray! Are you gonna win the next game?” “Why’s your teeth missing?” “Look at this picture I drew!” and my personal favorite, “Why do you and daddy always smell so bad?”
I never really mind answering, but they're just a bit… overwhelming?
Anyway, at dinner, Eric and I discussed the game tomorrow. He talked to me about my strengths and weaknesses. Chirped at me for teasing the opposing team too often. Told me to “start staying in your goddamn crease, Ray! Jesus fuck!” And to quit making googly eyes at our backup goalie, William Vista. At that, my cheeks got hot and I slugged him in the arm.
And the night basically ended.
Tomorrow's a game. We'll see what's in store. This journal sucks ass, by the way.