Chapter Eleven
Eleven
Jaylen
I took my time getting to the rink this afternoon. After the extra morning workout and with the one I’ll have to do tonight during the game, I’m dragging my feet. While my team is gearing up to play in the home opener, I’m a healthy scratch—again.
I still remember the first time it happened in my career. Coach called me into his office to tell me I wasn’t dressing for the game, and it felt like the walls were closing in on me. I can’t lie; it hasn’t gotten any easier over the years. It still hurts to watch my team play while I’m sitting in my suit up in the press box snacking on popcorn.
We’re back from a winless road trip, looking to collect our first two points at the home opener. I’ll be watching this one from the small TV in our gym at the rink, getting in another workout with the rest of the extra guys not playing tonight.
With an iced coffee in hand, I beeline down the hall to our locker room. I don’t want the social media admin getting any good photos of me to post tonight; I don’t need people online commenting that I’ve yet to clock any ice time as a Rainier.
As I round the corner, I come crashing into Lucy. I was not expecting her to be here this late in the afternoon or I would have rappelled down from a helicopter directly into the locker room, or at the very least, dug an elaborate tunnel from the parking lot in—anything to avoid this distraction. My iced coffee crushes into her chest and spills all down the front of her top.
“Oops,” I say as the rest of the coffee spills on the floor. At least it was iced and I don’t need to involve the team doctor this time.
“Again? You’ve got to be kidding me.” She brushes the pooling coffee off her top and examines the damage. It missed her shoes but soaked her shirt.
“I’m sorry. Give me a sec.” I dart into the locker room and come back with a clean Seattle Rainiers shirt. I hand it over to her, and she promptly begins using it to clean up the mess. She wipes herself off and then uses it like a rag to clean the coffee off the floor.
“Thanks.” She hands back the soiled T-shirt.
“Oh.” I’m too stunned to say much else. I figured she would have worn it, but maybe blue isn’t her color. My gaze lands on her healing wound. “Your face looks terrible.” The words spill out before I can filter my thoughts. The gash on her forehead is healing, but now a purple-and-blue bruise is spreading across the top of her head.
Lucy quickly adjusts her bangs to hide the injury. “Thanks, Jaylen. That’s what every girl wants to hear.” She turns away from me and continues sketching on the wall with a pencil. It looks like she’s working on Wells’s outline.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” It’s like I can never say the right thing around her. When I’m not causing an injury, I’m saying something stupid. Talking to her was a lot easier when I knew we would never see each other again. I’ve got to start avoiding her altogether.
“It’s fine. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a job to do.” She climbs her step stool and continues to work on the mural.
“I thought you quit. I haven’t seen you around in a couple of days,” I say, lingering despite my better judgment.
Lucy wasn’t at practice the day after the puck incident. Then we hit the road for a while. I’m relieved to see I didn’t scare her out of a job, and besides her gory forehead, she looks as good as ever.
“I did ask if I could quit. More like begged, but my boss wouldn’t let me. Because of the whole head-injury thing, they let me stay home for a bit while I sketched out the design.”
Lucy’s complete focus is on her work. Her mouth parts as she draws the outline of Wells’s crooked nose; after five breaks, it hooks to the right. I’m anxious to see what she does with me. She’ll probably make me look ugly on purpose as a mild form of payback for the whole puck thing.
“Good. It’s good to see you.” I try saying the right thing for a change. I start to head into the locker room when she calls out to me.
“Hey, Jaylen?”
“Yeah?” I say, far too eagerly.
“Hope you break both your legs out there.” A wide, threatening smile spreads across her face.
“Thanks. I think…” I say with grave concern. She isn’t listening to me. Lucy’s headphones are once again over her ears and her back is already turned to me.
I walk into the room with all eyes on me. For a moment I think I’ve been demoted to the minors and I’m the last to know. Wells tips his head toward the whiteboard at the back of the room where Coach Pete is putting the finishing touches on a last-minute lineup change. As he sets the marker down and steps out of the way, I see my name slotted on the third line. Without a word, Coach Pete disappears into the coaches’ room.
I play it cool, like it’s business as usual, but on the inside my stomach is doing somersaults. A cocktail of emotion swirls around inside me, leaving my body jittery. Excitement, nervousness, determination, and anxiety all battle it out for control.
When we leave the locker room for warm-ups, Lucy is gone. I’m not sure why I’m looking for her when I have the most important game of my career to think about. It’s for the best that she’s already left for the night. I probably would have accident-ally walked over her foot in my skates and cut off her toes or something horrific like that.
Warms-ups are a blur and before I know it, the MC is announcing my name at the start of the game. I rush out on the ice to face the fans; the crowd doesn’t know how to respond. They’re split, half optimistic and half expecting me to catch an edge and fall on my face as I take a quick lap around our end of the rink.
When Coach Pete gives me and my line the go-ahead to take the opening face-off, I almost yack up my pregame pasta all over myself. I remember what Lucy said to me: “break both your legs.” She must think I really suck at hockey—maybe she’s right—but I’m about to take the opening face-off in a game I never thought I would play again. All I have to do is win it back to my defense. One play at a time—that’s how I’m going to get my game back.
I lean in, hovering over center ice, watching the referee dangle the puck between me and my opponent like two lions about to face off for the last piece of meat. The puck drops and I win the draw.
* * *
I finish the game with two assists, five hits, and a plus-three rating. It’s not the best game of my career, but it is my best game in years. And more importantly, we win. I haven’t felt this good on the ice since my rookie season. I don’t know what came over me out there, but I don’t feel trapped in my mind. My heart doesn’t feel like it is going to explode out of my chest. I actually had fun out there and I haven’t had fun on the ice in years.
My performance was good enough to earn me the locker room hustler of the game, which explains the oversize novelty chain around my neck. That honor, paired with the encouraging remarks Coach Pete shares in the tunnel after the game, releases the pressure I put on myself enough to allow me to relax a bit.
I sit back in my locker cubby, half-undressed but still rocking the prized goofy chain with dangling compass pendant proudly, and take a moment to soak it in. I didn’t break any legs, but I might have broken my curse of bad puck luck. Since the team had such a great game, Coach Pete canceled our practice scheduled for tomorrow morning, which is basically his way of telling us to enjoy the night we’ve earned.
“You coming out tonight, JJ? We won’t take no for an answer,” Felix Lambert, one of the young defensemen on the Rainiers, shouts at me. He tosses a roll of black stick tape at my torso in an attempt to get my full attention. Lamber, as he’s better known, is a young guy from Quebec City. So young, in fact, that he still has a thick French accent and broken English, or Franglais as he calls it. He’s a good skater and plays with a lot of heart, but his most impressive talent is how fast he can run his mouth.
I catch the tape and sit up to chuck it back at him. “Sounds like I don’t have much of a choice.”
“Or else you pony up money for the fine fund, bro,” Kirill Sokolov, another young guy, pipes up. Soko is sure to talk loudly and slowly so everyone can understand him despite his Russian accent. His English is good, although as soon as the media comes around there is suddenly a huge language barrier, conveniently excusing him from doing press.
Over the years hockey players have created various loopholes for collecting money for team parties. There are fines for being late, for walking on the team’s logo in the middle of the dressing room, for not wearing the proper airplane attire. Tonight, I had to participate in something called “money on the board.” Players put up money on the team’s whiteboard for different reasons, like playing their first NHL game, playing a game in their hometown, or when they celebrate milestones like engagements, weddings, or the birth of a child. The money is always used for team outings, like the one these rookies are clearly trying to organize. Tonight, I put a band on the board for my first game as a Rainier and another for recording my first point with the team. By the sound of it these guys are already looking to spend it.
“I’m out of cash, boys—I put it all in the pool tonight. But I’ll tell you what, if you can get Wells out to the bar, I’ll buy the first round,” I say, shooting a menacing look across the locker room in my friend’s direction.
“Get that black card ready, JJ. Hannah already told me she’ll do school drop-off tomorrow morning with the girls.” Wells beams and rubs his hands together in anticipation.
“Boomer’s coming out on a school night?” Lamber pipes in to the delight of Soko.
“What’s with this nickname ‘Boomer’? Why do you two keep calling me that? Everyone has always called me Wells. What am I missing?” Wells throws his hands up, looking around the room for a clue.
Soko and Lamber giggle into the collars of their shirts. I, on the other hand, can’t hold back. I’m laughing at Wells’s expense so hard that I choke on my words. “They’re calling you a boomer because you’re so old,” I say.
Wells’s face drops and the rookies know they better run.
* * *
I hang several paces behind my teammates, dragging my feet on the walk to the club. When you travel for work as much as I do, you’re always lost—homesick for a place you haven’t called home since you were a preteen. Seattle is chilly and wet, and while I don’t know what street I’m on, nostalgia hits me like a breeze—I recognize the area. Before I have time to take out my phone and confirm my suspicion, I recognize a neon glow leaking out onto the sidewalk.
I pause outside of Trolls Bridge, long enough to laugh to myself at the idea of Lucy stealing troll coasters while the bartender and I weren’t looking. My teammates are almost out of eyesight as they cross the street and make their way to the front of a long line wrapped outside the club. I stand outside the dive bar, tempted to dip inside for a quick peek.
“JJ, what’s the holdup?” Wells shouts down the street.
“Coming!” I yell back, remembering I need to focus on my hockey career. I dart across the street to catch up with the rest of the group.
“Don’t bail on me already. I need someone to help keep these rookies in line. Last time we all went out Lamber went viral for his performance of Celine Dion’s ‘The Power of Love’ on the bar top,” Wells says, pulling me into the front of a long line next to him.
Normally I would have some quick-witted comeback about how Wells was never one to shy away from the karaoke mike back in New York, but I’m still looking back at Trolls Bridge. I know I need to stay away from Lucy and anything else that’s going to throw me off my game, but I keep staring, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.
“Right.” I nod, pretending to listen.
“You good, man?” Wells asks.
I finally snap out of it, pulling my stare away from the bar. “Yeah, of course.” I shake off some of the rain that’s collected atop my thick curly hair.
One of the guys at the front of the group is talking to the manager, trying to get a last-minute VIP table, which shouldn’t be an issue for the city’s winning team. Soko and Lamber round the corner and come strolling up to the group. The entire team greets them by giving them a hard time for their tardiness. They wave it off and join Wells and me in line.
“Soko, what the fuck are you wearing?” Wells wastes no time on pleasantries.
Soko—in head-to-toe designer garb—proudly models his outfit. He sports Gucci-branded shoes, a Gucci-branded tracksuit set, and a flashy Gucci hat. All of the G emblems are encrusted with multicolor Swarovski crystals, shining under the streetlight like a bedazzled hockey WAG’s playoff jacket. His signing bonus must have just hit his bank account.
“What? It’s Gucci,” Soko says, doing a spin. He sticks out among our team, the lot of which are decked out in our nicest Lululemon like we’re about to hit the golf course.
“No shit—it says Gucci a thousand times all over you.” I’m all for personal style, but Soko looks like he raided Gucci Mane’s closet.
“Is this a new sponsorship deal you signed?” Wells says sarcastically.
Soko’s face lights up naively—even more than his outfit. “You think Gucci would do a sponsorship with a hockey player?”
Ignoring Soko’s question, Wells turns to Lamber. “You let him leave the condo looking like this?” Wells motions at the outfit. Lamber shrugs.
Soko snarls. Turning up his nose, he says, “You Americans don’t know anything about fashion.”
While we bicker on the curb, a hostess arrives to take us in. Wells shoves the two rookies through the door and wraps a heavy arm around my shoulder as we step inside.
The club is loud, dark, and crowded. I’m already counting down the minutes until I can convince Wells it’s time for us old guys to head home. We follow a bartender toward the back of the club, where she escorts our group to a roped-off private VIP section. Everyone finds a seat while I place an order for bottles and hand the bartender my card. Wells and I settle into our seats while Soko and Lamber are at the edge of theirs scoping out the room for prospects.
“Pace yourself, boys. We just got here,” Wells says.
The two rookies are pointing to people in the crowd and whispering among themselves. “Speak for yourself, Boomer,” Lamber says. “Not all of us need to stretch before, during, and after a game. I’m surprised you didn’t bring your foam roller to the club with you.” Lamber discreetly slips Soko a high five.
He seems to have an infinite supply of old-man jokes, most of which don’t seem to rile Wells up too much. Most professional hockey players don’t make it past five NHL seasons. I almost didn’t. Wells has clocked ten NHL seasons and counting. Lamber and Soko will eventually find out the hard way that the dream doesn’t last forever. If they thought making it here was hard, just wait until they realize how hard it is to hold on to a roster spot.
“I can’t wait to watch you come up short, just like you did defending that two-on-one tonight. Always take the pass away and force a bad-angled shot, bud,” Wells chirps back.
Once the drinks arrive, Lamber pours himself one and darts off into the crowd with Soko close behind him. Soko’s outfit is so bright and tacky that he’s clearly visible even as they wiggle themselves deeper into the crowd of people.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong now, or do I have to wait until you’ve had a few of these?” Wells lifts his glass of Jack and Coke and shakes the ice cubes, clanging them against the glass melodically.
“I think I’m just tired. I’m not used to clocking that many minutes,” I say with a cocky smirk. I’m not lying either—I’m exhausted. Tonight’s game was emotionally and physically draining. I lean back on the couch, settling into my spot for the night.
“Come on, spill. Or else I’ll get Dumb and Dumber to come back here and I’ll tell them about the incident with the mechanical bull at Howey’s your rookie year. I’m sure they’ll have some cute new nickname for you too.” He leans in, making the threat more menacing.
I pause for a second, contemplating how much I should confess to my old friend. There’s a lot on my mind and heavy on my heart. I’m happy I played well tonight, but I already feel the debilitating pressure to perform even better in my next game.
I’m also thinking of Cam, because I feel guilty that good things are happening in my life again.
I wish I could talk to Wells about this stuff, but I can’t risk losing another friend. If all that wasn’t enough to worry about, I’m still thinking about Lucy. No matter how hard I try to force her out of my mind, I can’t.
“It’s the girl with the tattoos, isn’t it? The weird one that you hit with the puck.” Wells is as good at reading my mind as he is at reading plays on the ice.
“She’s not weird. At least not in a bad way. Wait, how did you know?” I ask, shocked to discover that my buddy still has killer instincts even though it’s been years since we were teammates.
“It’s always a girl, or guy. You know I’m not one to judge.” Wells takes a sip of his drink.
“Very Gen Z of you,” I say jokingly, still dodging the original question.
“I don’t need the whole Boomer nickname gaining traction. Now quit stalling. Talk.”
“There’s nothing to say. We hooked up one time when I thought I was on my way out of town, and now she’s outside our locker room painting a mural like this is the Renaissance. Why can’t they hang a picture up on the wall or something?” I’m on a stress-powered vent and I don’t know how to stop myself.
I don’t know how to articulate what is going on with Lucy. It was a one-time hookup, except now I have to see her all the time, and I think she hates me.
“Wow, you’ve got it bad,” Wells says matter-of-factly.
“I do not,” I snap. Just because I don’t understand what’s going on between us doesn’t mean I’ve got it bad for her. I have a bad case of wanting to make sure the girl I hit in the head with a puck doesn’t hate me enough to ruin my career. That’s a totally normal reaction after giving someone a head injury.
Plus, Wells doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He met his wife in high school and is one of the few professional hockey players who has always put his relationship before anything, including hockey. Wells and Hannah’s relationship is part of the reason why I’ve always kept things casual with women. If being in a successful, lasting relationship requires putting it before hockey, then I’m not capable of having one. I do not have it bad, for anyone, ever.
“Sure.” Wells giggles into his cup as he takes another sip.
“I can’t have any distractions this season. I need to get my game back.” I bounce my glass on my knee, causing the ice to shake. I can’t let anyone—no matter how hot or cool they are—distract me from what I’m here to achieve. With Lucy looming around our locker room for the foreseeable future, I need to have my head down, focused on what really matters—saving my career.
“Looks like you found it tonight. Did you do anything differently? I’m trying to stick around a few more seasons, and could use pointers,” Wells says.
“No, just spilled my coffee all over Lucy on my way in.” I hear the words as I say them out loud and it hits me. “I spilled my coffee on Lucy, and she told me to break a leg. Technically she told me to break both of them, but she doesn’t strike me as sporty.” I cup my chin.
“So you’re going to cut caffeine out of your diet?” Wells’s face scrunches up as he tries to follow along.
“Never. It’s an essential part of my pregame routine. What I’m trying to say is, what if I’ve been looking at this all wrong? I thought I needed to avoid her because she was distracting. What if she’s…lucky?” The possibility fills me with a jolt of energy, and I jump out of my seat.
I’m not really the type of guy to experience an epiphany; I think this might be my first. Things have really started looking up for me since I met her. Immediately after our one night together, I get a call saying there’s suddenly room for me on the roster. Then I bump into her again right before my game and I play well. This can’t be a coincidence.
“Please don’t do this whole superstitious thing, JJ. Next thing you know you need to eat the same meal every day, wear the same tie, and never wash your gitch. You’ll be talking to the goalposts and avoiding the red line by Thanksgiving.” Wells tries to pull me back down into my seat.
I slip loose from his grip. “Easy. I’m not that unhinged—I’m not a goalie.” I pace around the VIP section, rubbing my chin. “I don’t think I need to spill my coffee on her before every game, but I need to talk to her. I’m desperate to play consistently and get a long-term contract.”
“Then it sounds like it’s worth a shot. Next time you see her ask if she’ll yell at you before every game—you seem to really like when she does that.”
“Shut up. It’s not like that. I’m not looking for a relationship.” I finish my drink in a few big gulps.
“Then go join Thing One and Thing Two out there and let yourself have some fun. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding them. Soko’s outfit is flashing like a damn disco ball under the lights,” Wells says encouragingly.
I ditch my glass on the table and grab a couple of beers out of a bucket of ice before heading out into the crowd. Instead of sticking around longer, I hand the drinks to Soko and Lamber before saying bye to some of the other guys on the team.
I need to head home and figure out how I’m going to convince Lucy to be my good-luck charm.