Chapter Thirty-Five
Thirty-Five
Jaylen
Lamar greets me with a big embrace before we head inside the restaurant for a quick lunch. I have to get back home soon to nap and stick to the rest of my game-day routine. Initially, I tried to get out of this lunch. Lamar insisted, saying he’s got something important to talk to me about. I told him fine, but he’s paying.
He talks my ear off the entire way to our table and while we wait for the server, telling me about his flight into the city, and some kid from the WHL he watched play last night. I’m not the most engaging lunch date today, but luckily, Lamar likes to talk and carries the load of the conversation. I nod my head and add in an “oh yeah” every now and then.
After watching him chitchat with the server over the drink specials, I can’t take it any longer. Who cares if the beer is tap or bottled; pick something and let’s go. When someone says they have something to tell you, they should be obligated to do so immediately.
“What’s going on? Is something wrong? Is my contract getting terminated?” I say, interrupting Lamar and the server. They stop talking momentarily to look over at me.
“Bring me whatever you recommend, and a water for him,” he says to the server. She quickly disappears into the kitchen.
Lamar adjusts the collar on his sports coat. He’s overdressed for lunch, but as far as I know he doesn’t even own jeans.
He makes a face as he chuckles to himself. “Is your contract getting terminated? What’s got you on edge? There isn’t a team in the league who wouldn’t want you for that measly deal you’ve got. You’re so grossly underpaid right now, it makes me look like a bad agent.” Lamar’s bellowing voice carries throughout the tiny Creole restaurant—luckily it’s mostly empty because he only has one volume.
“You got me an opportunity when I had nothing.” No one thought I was going to have the year I did, myself included. Knowing that I still have my job, I try to relax a bit. Easier said than done, because I have no clue what he could possibly need to talk to me about so desperately that it warranted interrupting my game-day routine.
Lamar leans in. “And you turned that opportunity into a one-year deal. What a year it’s been, huh?”
The server returns with our drinks and Lamar chats her up again about the lunch specials. I chug my water, hoping it will help my dizziness subside. He must sense my tension; I grip the glass so tightly, I’m about to crush it. He tells the server to give us a minute.
“If everything is fine with my contract, then why are we here? No offense, but I’ve got a pregame nap to get to,” I ask as soon as she’s out of earshot again.
“Can’t two grown men enjoy a nice lunch together?” Lamar indulges in a long sip of his drink.
“Not until you tell me what’s up.”
He puts his glass down. “You can calm down. I called the restaurant ahead—they’re bringing out some pasta in a to-go bag for you. I won’t take up much more of your time, but I wanted to see your face when I told you in person.”
“Lamar.” My shoulders drop with a sigh. I’m about to stand up, walk around the table, and give him the Heimlich if he doesn’t spit it out already.
He smirks. “The Rainiers want to extend you to a multiyear deal. Eight years, sixty million dollars to be exact. With a no-trade clause too.” He leans back in his chair, taking another long drink of his beverage.
“Goddamn.” I’m too stunned to say much else. It’s not the hundred million I dreamed of years ago, but somehow, it’s even better because I fought so hard for it. It’s a lot of money, and it’s going to do a lot of good for Cam’s House.
“I was hoping you would say that. This is obviously being done in good faith, since you can’t officially sign anything until free agency. But you’re finally getting that big long-term deal you always dreamed about. Congratulations, JJ.” Lamar reaches across the table and grabs my hand. Enthusiastically shaking my arm up and down, he tugs me up out of my seat and we both embrace in the middle of the restaurant. After a few solid pats on each other’s back, we settle back down in our seats.
I wipe my hands down my face, discreetly drying my eyes. “Should I wait until free agency to see if there are other teams interested? What about LA?” This is the first time in my career I have any type of leverage; what if I don’t want to stay here?
“What about LA? Owner is cheap, team sucks, and they’ve had three different head coaches in the last five years. Listen, as your agent, do I think you can get more money somewhere else in free agency? Maybe. But as your friend, I think you should take this deal. I haven’t seen you like this since I first met you all those years ago in a cold rink up north. And I don’t just mean how you’re playing on the ice. You look happy.”
I’ve known Lamar since I was sixteen, and he’s always been real with me. Like the time I tried incorporating hats into my game-day fits; he said I was a pair of gators and a cane away from owning a chocolate factory.
“You’re right. This season has been amazing,” I say as the server returns with a to-go bag for me and drops it off on her way to bring a plate of food to another table.
“Good. Now get out of here. Think about what we talked about, but don’t think about it too much because you’ve got a big game tonight. You can let me know your decision tomorrow.”
I’ll do my best to listen to Lamar’s game-day advice, but I’ve just been handed everything I’ve ever wanted only to be left feeling empty. I want to call Lucy and tell her she’s making a big mistake leaving Seattle, but I can’t stand between her and her big dream. So instead of celebrating this contract with the person I love most in the world, I’m going home to spend my whole nap tossing and turning across the giant void she’s left in my king-size bed.
* * *
The game isn’t going our way tonight. Tired and bruised, we’re down by three at the top of the third period. The defending Stanley Cup Champions, the Nashville Ice Tigers, are merciless in their quest to eliminate us from the playoffs. The series currently sits at three games to one, in favor of the Ice Tigers.
Soko went down last game after a nasty slash from one of the Ice Tigers’ grinders, and while the team is telling the media that it’s an upper-body injury, the guys all know it’s a broken hand. Even though Soko can still shoot better than half the league with a broken hand, there’s no way he’s ruining his career to play through it. He’ll be healed up enough for the Stanley Cup final—if we survive this period.
Minutes into play, Lamber goes down after a blocked shot. He limps his way off the ice, right past the team’s bench, and down the hallway to seek medical attention. Time is running out on our season and our two best rookies are both battered and broken.
As we break out of the defensive zone, Groot has already begun inching toward the bench as he waits for the official signal from the coaching staff. They motion him over with five minutes left on the clock and a three-goal deficit on the scoreboard. It’s a bold move to pull your goalie for this long, but we’re desperate for a lifeline.
My leg dangles over the edge of the board waiting for him to cross the threshold off the ice. With perfect timing, I simultaneously launch into play. I hurtle down the ice to catch up with the action. My teammates cycle the puck around the Ice Tigers’ defensemen, waiting for a play to open up.
We catch them out of position and I slide into the slot. Before the Ice Tigers have a chance to box us out, I get a shot off, but their goalie juts his leg out just in time to stop my attempt. He’s unable to control the rebound, and the puck lies loose in the crease. I crash the net, hammering the loose puck under the goalie’s leg and into the back of the net.
There’s hardly a celebration afterward—there’s nothing to celebrate about a 3–1 score in a do-or-die game. Still, over twenty thousand faithful fans are on their feet, anxious to see what fate awaits their favorite team.
Groot skates back into his net as the ref drops the puck at center ice. I win the draw, and Groot heads off the ice in exchange for an extra attacker again. The puck is turned over in the neutral zone and the Ice Tigers are on the offense. A faithful wrist shot sends the puck into the back of our empty net. Now the score is 4–1.
It’s the shot that ends our dream of lifting the Stanley Cup. The season is over, and we all know it. The time left on the clock is a formality—torture at this point.
My body feels too numb to be sad. Most of my sadness was tapped out that night when Lucy left. In comparison, losing the series doesn’t feel like much. I was hoping we would keep winning games, and I could remain distracted by the intense, demanding playoff hockey schedule. Now I have to face reality. I’m going back to Chicago for the offseason alone.
I know I have to accept the eight-year deal with the Rainiers, like Lucy had to take the job in LA. I used to think something special brought us together, like fate or the universe or hockey gods. I thought we were destined for each other—and we were, but only for that moment in time.
I thought getting this long-term contract would make me happy. That it would finally prove that I was never a draft bust. Now that I have it, I realize the contract was never that important. I was never a failure to her; I was always just Jaylen.