Chapter Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Eight
Jaylen
JAYLEN:
LUCY:
JAYLEN:
Lucy:
Jaylen:
Lucy:
My knee bounces up and down at an aggressive pace as I inch even closer to the edge of the bench. I’m about to carve a divot in the rubber matting if I don’t stop digging the toe of my blade into the floor. I hang my head, and unsuccessfully try to hide behind the blade of my stick. Anything to shade myself from the glare of the arena’s spotlights. Anything to hide from this crowd.
A lot has changed since I’ve last been in this arena. The view is so different I hardly recognize it. The visitors’ bench gives me a whole new angle of the ice, and the time that’s passed since I last played here gives me a new perspective.
This is my first time back in New York since I left without a qualifying offer at the end of last season. Booed off the ice with more volatility than anything thrown at the visiting team. I was already the enemy before I ever played for another team.
My entire body is tense as I await the first TV timeout. Like an incoming fist, I brace myself for the punch. The lights dim. The emotional music is loud. A video begins to play, and my eyes are glued to the jumbotron knowing what’s to come. I hold my breath when the tribute video starts with a shot of me in the crowd at the NHL draft. Eighteen years old in an ill-fitting suit and a petrified baby face. Soft and green like lush grass until it is cut.
I take a sharp, shallow breath. And another. Until I find myself practically panting as I hear my name being called, and I watch the video of myself slipping into the Skyliners jersey for the first time. I’m expecting to be showered with boos at any moment from all the fans in attendance tonight. Or maybe they’ve all sneaked in with eggs tucked under their red sleeves and it will soon begin to rain yolk on me.
I stop my wandering mind and center myself with a deep breath. I am more than a draft pick. Deep breath. I am more than my stats. Deep breath. I am more than a hockey player . Deep breath.
I finish my mantra—a helpful trick I’ve learned in therapy—and summon the courage to take a peek at the crowd. To my surprise, the Skyliners fans are on their feet for the first time tonight. The video plays on, shockingly with enough highlights to fill two minutes of excitement and accomplishments. Most of which I had previously forgotten about or picked apart in game film until there was nothing left to celebrate.
I thought watching the highlight reel was going to trigger a massive panic attack, but it isn’t. Therapy must be working because as I watch the rest of the video of myself, I don’t think about all the times I messed up wearing that jersey. Instead, I’m proud of myself for surviving that difficult period in my life.
Clawing my way back to reach my full potential may have earned back the fans’ respect, but realizing that life is so much more than stats and achievements was the only way I could have done it.
* * *
It’s a quick bus ride back to our hotel after the game. Rather than jetting off in the private plane to the next city tonight, we’re sticking around while we play the local teams. We’ll face off against the New Jersey Stallions in a couple of days, completing our series of games in New York and New Jersey before finally flying home. I’ve had my go-to order from my favorite local bagel shop three times already on this road trip, and I plan on going back for fourths tomorrow morning.
Wells and I walk into the hotel together following Soko and Lamber. The two of them whisper back and forth, sharing devious looks and passing off laughs—no doubt plotting an epic night out after tonight’s win. I look the other way. My bed and a phone call with Lucy are calling my name.
A small group of players slowly gather in the lobby to decide their plan for the night or say good-night and head up to their hotel rooms. Soko and Lamber, on the other hand, suspiciously head for the elevators.
Wells jogs ahead to catch up to them. He drops his arm around Lamber’s shoulder. “Where are you boys off to tonight?”
“Soko’s going to shave my back,” Lamber shares casually.
Wells’s arm drops and so does his face. “Tell me that’s the name of a trendy club or at least some viral internet challenge?”
“It’s a challenge for the razor,” Soko says, laughing. “He’s hairy like big bear.” He pets the back of Lamber’s suit jacket like it’s the beloved family pet.
Lamber shrugs. “I can’t reach the middle of my back by myself.”
Wells sighs, drawing his lips into a thin line. “I gotta stop asking so many questions,” he says to himself, shaking his head.
Soko and Lamber squeeze into a full elevator, while Wells and I wait for the next one. “What about you? I’m grabbing a late dinner with some of the Skyliner guys.” Wells angles himself toward the hotel bar on the other side of the lobby. “Want to join, or do you have body-hair-removal plans too?”
New York City is still the only road trip stop he’ll hit up after a game. Wells still has a lot of friends in the city from his early years on the team here. I know—I used to be one of them.
“Maybe next time.” I press the up button once the elevator doors fully close. “I’m helping Lucy prep for an interview tonight.”
Wells smiles as he looks me over from head to toe. “It suits you.”
“Staying in?” It’s suited me for a while. I’m getting too old to be playing hungover, or guilty as we call it in the league.
“Being in love.” He teases me. You know it’s true love when those who know you best take notice. His observation makes me blush, and I dart into the open elevator doors to hide my embarrassment. “Just promise me I get to be the best man at your wedding,” he adds.
“I mean, you’re already the best wingman,” I shout to him before the doors close.
* * *
I’m already calling Lucy before I reach my room. She answers my FaceTime on the first ring, greeting me with an eager hello and welcoming smile. In an instant, no matter the distance or which hotel-branded linens wrap me up at night, I’m suddenly home, or at least right where I’m supposed to be. Being in love feels a lot like always being in the right place at the right time.
“You played well,” she blurts out with bubbling excitement. She’s at her desk surrounded by an art supply mess so chaotic there’s no need to ask her what she got up to tonight.
“More importantly, we won.” A PR answer slips out as I hold my phone up in one hand and use the other to loosen the tie around my neck.
“It’s me, Jay. You can brag a bit.” Lucy brings an oversize mug to her lips and blows on the steam.
I set my phone on the desk, but keep my eyes on her. “I played well. I felt even better, no panic attacks,” I say, quickly slipping out of the rest of my suit and into pajama pants.
“Good. I know you were worried about tonight.”
I climb into bed with my phone in hand, watching Lucy tuck her hair behind her ears as she stares at me through the screen. She’s looking at me like she wants to crawl into bed with me, and god I wish she could.
She presses her eyes shut and opens them with newfound determination and focus. “Can I show you my portfolio for the Hunter Gunn interview tomorrow?” she asks.
“I’d be honored.”
She jitters with passion as she gathers up a stack of work off her cluttered desk. “I’ve got all my best work in this binder. I may have included too much, but I’d rather be overprepared,” she says as she begins flipping through the pages. From simple script to intricate geometric. Gray realism to vibrant illustrative. Bold traditional to delicate fine line. It’s a collection of work that will no doubt land her the apprenticeship she so badly wants and obviously deserves.
I gawk at the screen as she flips through each page. “You’re so talented. You’ve got this interview on lock.”
Some of it I’ve seen lying on her desk or posted on her social media. I’ve had the privilege of being with her while she created a few pieces. Seeing it all together is like a time stamp on our relationship. I’ve known her since the original mural sketch, liked her since the destroyed raven, and loved her since the CB tattoo. It’s all there in her portfolio.
As she sets the binder back on her desk, her phone, which had been propped up in front of her, falls on its side. Suddenly, Lucy isn’t in view and instead, I see the easel in the corner of her room. Painted on the propped canvas is a hockey player, but not just any hockey player—it’s me.
“What was that?” I ask, bringing my phone closer to my face, squinting to get a better view.
Lucy is quick to turn her phone upright so I can’t see it anymore. “Nothing. It’s stupid. Just a doodle.”
“Was that me? Come on, show me.”
“It’s so bad. It’s embarrassing. I did it in like ten minutes while I was watching the game.” Lucy delays before sheepishly turning the camera’s view. She’s painted a close-up of my face as I line up to take a face-off. It’s as detailed as a photograph, and as vibrant as real life.
“That took you more than ten minutes.” She’s good, but as arguably her biggest fan and someone who previously monitored the rate at which she painted a mural, I would know she’s not that fast (luckily for me).
She flips the camera back around to her but averts her eyes from my face and any potential reaction I’m offering up. “Nine periods, six intermissions, and too many pre- and postgame interviews to count if you must know,” she admits, biting her thumbnail.
“You painted? For fun?” I tease.
“For love,” she coos. “I think I might be a hockey fan.” She smirks before baring her teeth in a snarl and pumping her fist by her side.
“You being a hockey fan is believable—it’s an incredibly violent sport. But a painter? I thought you weren’t a painter. Your words. Not mine.”
Her head tilts upright as if she accepts the position being bestowed upon her. “I’ve been feeling more like an artist lately,” she says.
“That suits you. You should bring your portfolio when we see your dad next week. I’m sure he’d love to see it.”
Her eyebrows pinch as her whole face grimaces. “Maybe.”
Shit. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I know I’m feeling nervous about meeting him, but by the look on her face, she might be more nervous than me.
Based on what I know about Lucy’s past, we both had very different home lives growing up. My parents have been happily married for thirty-five years. I can’t help but think of my dad bringing me to the local rink for public skating every weekend as a young kid. When I first took an interest in hockey, my dad was determined to help. He learned how to skate right alongside me. He wasn’t a natural at it like I was, and by the second session I was teaching him. Despite my dad’s Bambi legs and embarrassing falls, it was still nice to know he was willing to strap knives on his feet and get out on a hard, frozen surface to be supportive of me.
My mom was the one who made the hockey dream become a reality. She did every team fundraiser possible to help us afford the cost of registration. We were almost always the only Black family, and they protected me more than once from hurtful fans and nasty opposing players. My sisters even got into a few fistfights outside the rink in my honor. I won’t give them the satisfaction of admitting it, but they were the ones who taught me how to fight.
My dad, mom, and sisters were my first teammates. I couldn’t imagine my life without them. I feel sorry for Lucy that she has a strained relationship with her dad. I know not everyone grew up with a great home life like me, but I know Lucy’s heart. She’s the most confident person I’ve ever met, tough as nails, and loyal as hell too. I can’t imagine someone not wanting to be a part of her life as much as possible. I know I do. I think this lunch could really turn things around for them and then she could have the relationship she deserves.
I yawn, not due to boredom or because I find our conversation uninteresting, but because being around her puts me at such ease it’s easy to relax myself right to sleep—even after games. I prop the phone up on the pillow beside me and tuck my hands under my head.
“Sleepy?” she says, picking up a pencil and twirling it between her fingers.
It’s midnight here, which means it’s only 9:00 p.m. in Seattle. Lucy will still be up for a few hours, but I can hardly keep my eyes open. I settle deeper into my pillow, pulling the covers over my shoulders. “Will you stay on the phone with me until I fall asleep?” I say before another yawn cuts me off.
It’s my favorite postgame routine. We stay on the phone with each other until one of us zonks out and the other finally hangs up. Lucy nods and the last thing I see is a fresh piece of sketching paper move across the screen. The sound of her pencil striking against the sheet puts me to sleep.