Shoot Your Shot

Chapter Two

Two

Jaylen

In hockey, they say you should always keep your head on a swivel. Drop your head at the wrong time and someone will come by and knock you clean off your feet. It’s a guaranteed way to wind up in concussion protocol for a few games. I might not have seen her coming, but now that she’s in my view, I can’t look away.

I know I’m staring because my eyes are getting dry. It’s like when you look into a burning firepit and suddenly you don’t remember how to blink. The way the purple strobe light shines down on her stoic face makes me wonder if she’s real or a hologram. How could I not notice her? How could I not stare? She looks terrifying.

As a professional hockey player, I know a solid check when I see one—or take one. I’m not usually so easily knocked around out on the ice. Luckily, my bruised ego makes a full recovery once I see how intimidating she looks.

She’s got the glare of a fourth-liner fighting to avoid a demotion to the minors—scary stuff to come up against. Strap some skates on her and put her out on the ice.

Maybe she’s what the Seattle Rainiers are looking for, since they clearly have no interest in signing a skilled player like me.

I haven’t taken my eyes off her since we collided. I can’t decide if I want to go apologize or ask for bodychecking advice.

“Let it go, JJ,” Wells says. “The last thing you need tonight is to get your ass kicked.” He pulls me back into the roped-off VIP section.

Wells is shorter than me but as sturdy as a tree trunk, which makes it hard to resist his pull. His face and hands are covered in tiny silver scars he’s earned as collateral for the eight minutes of ice time he clocks each night. His career PIMs outnumber his career points, but he’s just as respected in the league as any top scorer. Those guys never get a statue, but they’re the brawn that mixes the metal.

“I wasn’t going to fight a girl.” I might be having a rough night, but I’m not that far gone. “It wouldn’t even be the most embarrassing part of today if she did.”

Wells fishes around in a bucket of melted ice, pulling out a sweaty beer bottle. “You okay?”

We’re slumped over the railing together, perched up high in the VIP section overlooking the rest of the club. I pop the top of the bottle using the railing and nod. I’ve got a few drinks in me now and I’m not sure I can lie to him, so I keep my mouth shut.

Evan Caldwell was my teammate in New York my rookie year with the Skyliners. Wells, as everyone calls him, because hockey players are notorious for giving each other nicknames. Most are just a variation of a last name with an ie or er sound slapped onto the end. Even if the guy has a real simple last name, hockey players will find a way to complicate it.

Wells had already clocked a few years on the Skyliners’ roster before I was drafted. Our dynamic was simple: I scored, and he beat the wheels off anyone who tried to touch me. Back then, I was young, arrogant, and thought I was invincible. Wells took me under his wing and showed me the ropes.

When I signed my entry-level contract and collected my fat signing bonus, I thought the struggle was over; I thought I had arrived. I was naive to the business and wouldn’t have lasted a season without his guidance. There’s no handbook for surviving in the NHL, just a few vets who don’t want to see you make the same mistakes they did. Even though I don’t currently have an NHL contract, he’s still looking out for me.

I pull out my phone and, despite my better judgment, I scroll through my social media feeds. The news that the once-highly-touted draft pick was released from his PTO—a player tryout contract—is trending, much to the satisfaction of my hungry haters. Everyone is chiming in to proclaim what they’ve been saying for the last few years: Jaylen Jones is the league’s biggest draft bust in history. To the rest of the world, the crash from first overall pick in the NHL draft to being unemployed seemed to happen in the blink of an eye, but to me it was a grueling six-year free fall.

“Put that shit away.” Wells snatches my phone and turns it off before handing it back over.

“They’re right.” I shove my phone in my pocket.

I’m the only Black player to ever go first overall. As if that isn’t pressure enough, I’m still the highest drafted player of color in NHL history. I felt the weight of everyone’s expectations, and for a while I carried it on my shoulders, amassing over sixty points my rookie season and almost taking home the Calder Memorial Trophy for the NHL’s best rookie. Eventually, the load got too heavy and the metaphorical ice beneath my feet began to crack.

I never wanted to be a role model; I wanted to play hockey. When I couldn’t even do that right, I found myself turning into the villain overnight. Thinly veiled racism disguised as critique eventually shattered what was left of my confidence. I know I should stay off social media and ignore the haters, but I’ve never been good at that.

“What’s that saying? Those who can’t do, talk shit on the internet or something.” Wells’s smile resembles that of his six-year-old daughter’s—gummy and proud. A black hole where a front tooth once sat will remain void until retirement. He digs his shoulder into my arm, trying to elicit a smile from my thinly drawn lips.

“What the hell am I going to do next?” I slump over the railing.

“You’re going to go buy that girl another drink. She’s not snarling anymore, and you owe it to her.” Wells points toward the bar, where the goon from earlier is unsuccessfully trying to get the bartender’s attention. It wasn’t what I meant when I asked, but maybe it’s the answer I needed to hear.

I gladly abandon the VIP section, where the entire team is hidden away to celebrate surviving the Rainiers’ training camp with bottle service. I was released this afternoon from my PTO and have little to celebrate, but when the guys found out that my flight home doesn’t leave until the morning, they dragged me out with them. Now, while everyone parties, I quietly wallow.

I would have preferred to stay back in my hotel bed racking up a room service bill that would rival Kevin McCallister’s, but this girl looks like a fun distraction, and I could use one of those tonight. I’m willing to face the mob of crowded bodies for a chance to get another glance at the five-foot-nothing bruiser who sent me flying into the boards. I need to know her name. Something like Punisher sure fits her demeanor.

I wiggle in next to her, waiting for the right moment to lean down and talk. I’m more apprehensive in my approach than usual because my confidence already took a huge hit today when I was cut from the team, and I’m not sure how much more of a beating I can endure.

I lean over the bar top, and as if the bartender was expecting me, she gleefully greets me with her best customer service smile. She practically bounces over to me like a little bunny. Not only can twenty-some guys show up to a club last--minute, flash their NHL cards, and get a VIP table immediately, but they also rarely have to wait around for someone to serve them. It’s one of the many perks of being a professional athlete that I will miss. I mean, that and all the free hockey tape; you would be surprised what a good roll of hockey tape can fix.

I lean into the mysterious tattooed girl and say, “What are you trying to order?” I do my best to shoot her a disarming smile. Judging by her stone-cold scowl, it might be coming across as creepy.

Right when I think she’s going to tell me to fuck off, she says, “I’m good.” She slumps against the bar with her chin falling into her hand in a defeated exhale.

“You’ve been standing here waiting forever. Tell me your order.”

She glances at me out of the corner of her eyes. They narrow. “You’re not hitting on me, right?”

“Technically,” I say, leaning in, my mouth curving into a slanted smile, “you hit me first.”

“Fine, but only because you owe me for spilling all my beer earlier. Five shots of tequila,” she says dryly.

“Damn!” My head snaps back. She drinks more than any goon I’ve ever met too. At this point, I really want to ask her if she can skate. I turn to the bartender, who is patiently awaiting my instruction. “Six tequila shots, please.”

The bartender sets up six glasses and fills them each with top-shelf tequila. As I’m pulling my credit card out of my wallet, someone squeezes by and knocks my card out of my hand and onto the ground. Having retrieved it from the floor, I hand it over to the bartender and turn to formally introduce myself. “I’m Jaylen. What’s your name?” I say as I grab my shot off the bar top and turn to clink glasses with my new friend. Only she’s already disappeared back into the crowd, and I’ve just used my best pickup line on a couple of men wrapped up tightly in each other’s embrace.

“Oh,” I say, locking eyes with them.

“She’s gone,” one man says.

“Sorry, babes,” the other adds with a sympathetic pout.