Shoot Your Shot

Chapter Eight

Eight

Jaylen

The word Delayed flashes beside my flight number. My boarding time is pushed back two hours. The last thing I want right now is to be stuck in this city any longer than I have to be. I want to get home to my house in Chicago, crawl into bed, and host a pity party for one while I figure out my next move.

My phone vibrates in my pocket—an incoming call from my agent, Lamar. I silence it. I’m not ready to talk to him yet. He wants to discuss European hockey league options, and I’m in no mood to hear the offers. I don’t want to know how low my value has dropped since being released from my PTO with the Rainiers.

I slouch lower in the stiff airport seating, hoping to find a spot comfortable enough to doze off for a bit before boarding. Closing my eyes, I think about sneaking out of the hotel this morning. I picture Lucy out cold, snoring like someone struggling with sleep apnea. I feel a pit of guilt sink into my stomach—and not because she never got her adenoids removed as a child—because sneaking out on her without an awkward goodbye feels scuzzy, even for a hockey player. I hope she got the forty dollars I left on the dresser for her ride home this morning.

I remember the way she giggled uncontrollably while I carried her on my shoulders last night as we ran down the block. I quickly realize I’m struggling to get the visual out of my mind because I don’t want to leave her quite yet.

Not in a love-at-first-sight type of way. Not even in a potential fuck-buddy type of arrangement. I just like her. She’s cool. What type of music would she recommend? What viral videos does she find funny? What did she think of the House of the Dragon finale? Does she even watch House of the Dragon ? At least I’m leaving Seattle with one decent memory.

Seattle kicked my ass this month. It took away the only constant I’ve ever known in life. It took away my last shot at saving my NHL career. It took away the only thing I’ve ever loved.

A man settles in on the chair beside me with a loud sigh. The commotion disrupts my failed attempt at a nap. “Were you visiting Seattle for work or pleasure?” He points to my Chicago Bulls hat. The man’s attempt at small talk taunts me.

I can’t believe I got fired before I even got the job—that’s what it feels like when you’re released from a PTO. I was so desperate for a job that I took an audition. I still remember my draft year, when teams were salivating over themselves at the thought of drafting me in the first round. Agents, general managers, coaches, everyone was blowing up my phone trying to get a piece of Jaylen Jones. Now no one would even take a league minimum flier out on me. I might have been in town for work, but I am leaving unemployed.

“I guess pleasure.” I sink deeper into my seat.

Speaking of agents blowing up my phone, mine is calling me again. I chatted with Lamar yesterday after my meeting with the general manager, but I assured him I would call as soon as I landed in Chicago to meet up and discuss what’s next. I send his call to voicemail.

My head is throbbing from lack of sleep and electrolytes. I don’t have the energy to deal with my agent or the chatty stranger next to me. Not wanting to stick around long enough for him to recognize me, I excuse myself and head for the coffee line—maybe some caffeine will help me survive this delay.

On my walk to the coffee kiosk, I find a company gift card on the floor. I’m not above checking to see if there’s a free coffee on it—especially since I’m newly unemployed. Lucky break, there’s ten bucks loaded on the gift card. As I begin to transfer the money to my app, I get another incoming call—Lamar again. I ignore the call and finish the transfer. Another notification comes through, this time a text message.

LAMAR:

I can’t even read it without hearing Lamar’s bellowing voice cuss me out. I do as I am told, and quickly call him back.

“JJ!” He answers on the first ring.

“Hey, Lamar, sorry I missed your calls. I’m at the airport right now waiting for my flight. Let’s talk about my next move when I’m back in Chicago.” I keep my voice low as I stand in line for my free coffee.

“You’re not flying anywhere today,” he says.

“Why? Was I delayed again? Is there bad weather in Chicago?” I peer past the couple behind me, trying to get a look outside at the weather in Seattle. It’s rainy, but nothing you can’t fly through.

“No, Jaylen, the only place you’re going today is practice. I’ve been trying to call you all morning because the Rainiers have changed their mind. They’re offering you a one-year, league-minimum, prove-yourself contract,” he says.

The loud buzzing background noise of the public airport goes mute, and everything blurs around me. I almost drop to my knees in the middle of the coffee line and sob into my hands. I can’t believe what I am hearing from Lamar. It’s far from the multiyear, hundred-million-dollar, league-record deal I once envisioned myself signing, but it’s one more shot in a game I thought already ended in a loss.

“Hello? You still there?” Lamar asks.

“I’m here.” I step out of the line, excusing myself as I weave around people and head for the exit.

“I got the call from the GM earlier this morning. I guess last night one of the players took a drunken joyride on an electric scooter and tore both his ACLs. He’s out for the season. They’re going to send over the paperwork so we can get it in before they submit their final twenty-three-man roster to the league. It’s crazy how a bit of luck can really change everything,” Lamar says giddily.

“The term luck feels a bit inappropriate.” I make my way down a flight of stairs, but the line for Ubers is longer than the coffee line I just left. There’s a rental car desk to my right with no line.

“Call it whatever you want, just don’t be late for practice today. Oh, and Jaylen,” Lamar says.

“What?”

“Welcome back to the goddamn National Hockey League.”