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Mar 30, 2008 10:28

Two Way Street part nine
Elise
PG13
Buffalo Sabres
Ryan Miller/Steve Bernier



Steve rubbed his face, standing in front of the bathroom mirror. He was getting tired after losing. He didn’t know why it took so much out of him. Checking the stats for San Jose, he knew that his team was most likely to clinch the second seed, and here he was in a battle, struggling to even make the playoffs. His little crush didn’t help matters. Steve turned the shower on, hoping that the steam would clear his head. He was excited to be closer to home, closer to the temperatures he was used to. He loved the city of Buffalo. He was excited, he told himself, over and over again. Taking his clothes off, Steve heard Ryan shifting around the room. Steve licked his lips, he felt his body react to thoughts of what Ryan could be doing. Shaking his head, Steve moved towards the shower when there was a knock on their hotel room door. The soft thudding of Ryan’s bare feet made it to the door, and he heard Ryan’s voice, soft and surprised, “Coach?”

“Ryan. I think we should have a talk.” Lindy said, his voice stern.

Steve’s eyes widened, he felt bad for eavesdropping, but he couldn’t stop. Ryan inhaled a bit and said, “Yeah... practice, that’s all I need. I know I screwed up in the shoot out. I’ve been terrible at it, I know.”

“I’m not here to talk about the shoot out. Directly.” Lindy said, “Is Bear around?”

“Showering.” Ryan said, “He can’t hear. What... what’re you here to talk about?”

Lindy nodded and said, “Alright then. I want to check in on you, about your situation and your family’s.”

“Both are fine, sir.” Ryan said, his voice quick and short.

“Ryan. It’s your 65th game, and you’ve got many more ahead of you. I can’t have you breaking down.” Lindy sighed, “Are you taking anything? Did the doctors prescribe anything?”

Steve covered his mouth to stop the gasp. Ryan was sick. He was sick and pushing his body. Ryan sighed, this time the noise one of aggravation, “No. No I’m not. I’ve got a handle on things, coach, It’s just hard.”

“I want you to see someone, Ryan. Full time.” Lindy said, “Now, I won’t force you, yet, but I highly recommend you see someone. A doctor, once a week.”

Steve’s head was reeling. He held his stomach, feeling sick. Ryan was so ill, that he had to go to the doctor once a week. He thought through all sorts of illnesses, from cancers to parkinsons to heart troubles. He began to feel woozy, when Ryan’s voice cut through the fog that had settled over him. “Lindy, I don’t need a doctor.”

“I beg to differ. Your game has been suffering. Now, I understand its tough-” Lindy continued, but Ryan interrupted him.

“I’m fine! I have it under control, Coach.” Ryan sighed, “Please... no meds, no doctors.”

“You’ve got two games left on this road trip, Ryan,” Lindy continued, “I need you to be serious, and honest. Do you understand? You can’t make playoffs, if you don’t survive regular season.”

“Yes, coach.” Ryan said, and Steve could imagine the mysterious goalie’s shoulders slumping, his face dropping.

Clearing his throat, Lindy opened the hotel door and said, as he left, “Try talking with someone first, ok? Maybe Maxim? Connolly? Hell, even Bernier. I’ll be checking in soon, alright? I’ve got some excellent doctors if need be.”

“Yes sir.” Ryan responded, voice dejected

Steve gripped the counter, head down. Ryan was very, very sick. Lindy thought he wouldn’t make it to playoffs. How couldn’t he have seen it before? Ryan was afraid to open up, he didn’t want to get close. Taking a deep breath, Steve grabbed the complimentary bathrobe, throwing it on himself. He couldn’t wait and fled the bathroom, causing Ryan to look up, startled. He had been holding his head, sitting on the edge of the bed. Steve shook his head and near ran up to the goalie, dropping to his knees. He looked into Ryan’s face, which was flush with guilt and shock, veiling his distress. “I heard...” Steve started, “I’m so sorry... I didn’t mean to yell at you, or to harass you. What do you have?”

Ryan’s eyes widened, the realization hitting him. “What... you heard Lindy?”

“Ryan, don’t hold back. Tell me what illness you have. You need to let it out.” Steve’s voice hitched, “I’ll get you whatever help you need - the best. I know doctors, trust me.”

Ryan pulled back. He blinked a few times, his shoulders relaxing. He smiled softly, looking down at the young forward, whose eyes were wide in fear, but genuinely caring. “Steve... you’ve got it all wrong...”

“I heard everything.” Steve said, leaning forward, his hands on Ryan’s knees, “Please, Ryan, don’t lie to me.”

Ryan shut his eyes, “Lindy was talking about a psychiatrist. Because I’m struggling and I don’t know how to stop it.”

Steve froze, no words coming out. He was both relieved and saddened. Ryan took this as a bad sign and backed up on the bed, wrenching himself from Steve’s hands. He took a deep breath, stealing a glance at Steve’s shocked face. “Say something...”

“I didn’t know.” Steve said.

“Course not.” Ryan said, his cold exterior rebuilding, “And I’m not weak either. A lot of people see therapists. I’m fine.”

Steve moved back and felt his face burn in embarassment, “I didn’t say that. I don’t think you’re weak. The opposite, actually.”

“How?” Ryan said, “I’ve done nothing but let goals by. And now you know that the coach thinks i’m crazy.”

Steve’s head snapped up, his eyes flashing. “Psychiatrists don’t make you crazy. There’s nothing wrong with seeing a therapist. Or with taking medication.”

Furrowing his eyebrows, Ryan sat cross-legged as he watched Steve lean against his own bed, still on the floor. The two stared at each other for a moment, both nervous, and digesting their thoughts. Ryan spoke up, his voice small again, “I don’t think therapists are bad.”

“Good.” Steve responded, “Because they aren’t.”

“What gives?” Ryan said, “I don’t get you. I don’t understand you. There’s the quiet Steve, the excited Steve, the friend Steve, and the angry Steve.”

“It’s all the same Steve,” came the response, “I’m one person, a person who wants to be, in the very least, your friend.”

“You’re a mystery.” Ryan whispered.

Steve stood up, walking to his bag. He smiled sadly, picking up an orange bottle, and walking to Ryan. Ryan watched his every move, focusing on the bottle. Tossing it to the goalie, Steve took a deep breath, “My grand parents... they died when I was in junior high. I stopped everything. I wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t play hockey. I’ve been to psychiatrists since I was 13. I’ve been on medication since I was 17. It’s not bad. I promise.”

Ryan picked up the orange bottle, turning it in his hands, “What is this?”

“It’s an anti-anxiety medication. I can get... flustered... easily.” Steve looked at Ryan and awarded himself with understatement of the year.

Scratching the back of his neck, Ryan said, “Does... it change you?”

“For the better.” Steve looked down, feeling exposed, “It’s not for everyone. I just... you’re not alone, Ryan.”

Ryan stood up and walked to Steve, handing him the bottle back. “Thanks.” He said.

“If you need someone to talk to, Ryan,” Steve said, “I’ll actually know what you mean. I’ve been there.”

The goalie stood beside Steve, contemplating his words. He took a deep breath, “I’ll try.”

Steve smiled and looked up at Ryan, grinning, “Good. Trying is good.”

Caught by the contagious smile, Ryan grinned in return and laughed, “Good. So... friends?”

Steve’s smile widened. He laughed and nodded his head, “Yes, friends.”

Ryan beamed, looking into Steve’s eyes. His own were dark, black, but they were shining. Licking his lips slowly, Ryan stepped back, realizing how close they were standing. His face flushed red and he said, looking to break the intensity of the past few moments, “You should shower, man. You reek.”

Steve rolled his eyes and walked past the goalie, lightly shoving him, and shutting the bathroom door behind him.

ryan miller, steve bernier, two way street, buffalo sabres

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