wwwhitmore80

[wwwhitmore80]

You're On Your Own, Kid || Self-Para

LOCATION: Wyatt Whitmore's Apartment, Los Angeles, California TIME: April 1st - 2nd, 2024 NOTES: A bit of an introductory self-para for my new character.

The flight felt like forever, but finally they were back on the ground in Los Angeles. Hitching a ride with the one of his other team-mates who lived in the same apartment building, he grabbed his bags before climbing out of the car, using the box near the door to put in a code and open the large glass and metal door, entering the building followed, he made the slow and quite decent in the elevator to his 8th floor, 1 bedroom apartment. Turning on the light switch, lighting up the entry way as he tossed his hockey bags onto the floor near the door, to be ready for practice in the morning.

Once his hands were empty of his bags, he dropped his keys onto the counter top as he entered the kitchen, the sound was deafening by how quiet the whole place felt, moments like this was when he wished he could be home, some of the older players on the team always joked about how being at the rink was home, but for him, being back in Chicago with his family was home, not the quiet cold apartment in LA. Don’t get him wrong, he was 3 years into his NHL career, and he loved LA because it allowed him to play the sport he loved, but he always felt as if something was missing in his life.

With the return home, Wyatt disappeared into the shower, not to wash away his worries, but let the jets of the shower were much needed on his back after the road trip they had, and the hotel showers never hit the right spot between his shoulders to really relieve the tension he had been carrying. Before he knew it, he was climbing into bed barely dressed in clean gym shorts, and his hair not even remotely dried.

Flopping face down on his bed mashing his face into the soft bedspread he lays there for a minute, taking some time to catalog his body’s latest damage. He can feel his knee starting to pang, knowing it was probably because of how he balanced when he shot for his goal, and his ankle wasn’t thrilled about it either, but nothing else seems too bad now that he’s been iced and massaged post-game. Mostly he just feels tired, tired of traveling, tired of losing.

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The 7AM jingle that emitted from his phone on the side table next to the bed would’ve been almost too soft to wake Wyatt, but he was already awake, staring up at the ceiling. Wyatt had friends, but there were days like these when he returned from away games, and always felt as if he was dragging, feeling like an NHL Veteran that’s played 1200 games. 3 seasons and almost 300 under his belt, was still a bit of a rookie compared to the other players who had been playing for almost as long as he’s been alive.

Grabbing his phone and sliding it into his gym shorts pocket, he slowly got out of bed, his arms stretching upward, his back popping with the effort as he stretched his body. He then reached forward, trying to get everything stretched out, as all his joints sang a popping chorus. After finishing his morning stretches, and with a few more pops, he got to his feet, the hardwood floors creaked.

With his usual pace, making his all too familiar walk towards the coffee maker, making his usual cup of coffee. Waiting for the Keurig to finish the cup, he jumped up and sat on the countertop, looking out the window, watching as the city skyline was already in a buzz. With a low constant beep from the machine, it notified him that the cup finished, reaching over to grab the mug from the machine, setting it down on the counter next to him as he climbed down, making his way to the refrigerator was his next step. Getting the creamer out and pouring his usual half cup into the bitter black coffee, then taking a spoon out of the drawer in front of him to stir the two together in his usual morning harmony.

Once finished with the mixing, he tossed the used spoon into the kitchen sink and wandered to the large windows looking out into the world. The quiet moment he thought he had was only interrupted by the high pitched sound that came from his phone, notifying him that he had a text, pulling it back out of his pocked, he took a sip of his coffee as he typed in his phone code to unlock his phone, allowing the full message to be read. ‘can I hit u up 4 a ride, jeep won’t start’ It was Quinton, one of the rookies, and his winger ‘Sure’ he typed back quickly, ‘Meet you in the lobby at 8’

Before tossing his phone back into his pocket he looked back at it, checking the time before deciding to wonder back into his bedroom, knowing he had to get ready for practice, and since there was no game tonight, he was able to just dress in casual wear, which for Wyatt means jeans and a hoodie.

As 7:45 rolled around Wyatt lead himself downstairs, with his own bags in tow and he could already see Quinton was waiting for him with his own bags. “How’s everything going in Webby-land?” the rookie quipped as he sipped quietly on his Starbucks he had gotten, “You seem a bit out of it this morning, your face is kind of flush, have you eaten anything”

“Writing a novel?” Wyatt said, a little too harsh in his opinion, he started their walk toward the parking garage, “I had a Coffee.”

“No need to get defensive, man,” the rookie stood up and threw his bags over his shoulder, making sure he didn’t spill his iced latte, he followed and turned to older male, “I was just asking a question.”

“It’s… ha-well you could say-”

“-Let me guess, ‘complicated’?” Quinton stopped, his hand up, as almost to stop Wyatt from anything else. “You always seem to be super grumpy after hard road-losses, I just wanted to check on you.” He inquired as the two finally reached the apartment’s parking garage.

Anyone could tell Wyatt was about to retaliate; his body tensing up, straightening up, they approached his truck. “Are you sure your jeep isn’t running? Or did you ask for a ride so you could check on me?” Wyatt thought out loud, turning his body to face the younger man, the two of them let out a laugh as they tossed their bags into the bag of Wyatt’s truck.

Quinton laughed again, pointing out the jeep in the spot next to them, “Yeah, it’s dead, I’m pretty sure it’s the battery, I may have left my light on… all week.”

[wwwhitmore80]

POV: you’ve completely forgotten how to hockey

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