Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Forrest
By Friday afternoon, Puck has decided the only thing standing between him and happiness is a squirrel with a death wish.
The squirrel sits on the brick wall outside my building, tail twitching, tiny paws held against its chest like it’s presenting a closing argument.
Puck stares at it through the rain-specked glass of the front door with the full-body concentration of a professional athlete, a bounty hunter, and a man watching someone take the last parking spot in Boston.
“No,” I tell him.
Puck’s ears lift.
The squirrel blinks.
I swear the thing smirks.
“No,” I repeat, because apparently I’ve reached the part of my life where I negotiate with a dog and a rodent before four in the afternoon.
Puck looks at me.
Then the squirrel.
Then me again.
That look says, I have considered your leadership and found it lacking.
“You’re not chasing it.”
His tail thumps once.
“You’re also not eating whatever you find under that wall.”
Another thump.
“That includes leaves.”
He turns away from the door with a sigh so dramatic it feels rehearsed.
I swear he has to stop hanging out with Daisy Thorn.
She’s teaching him to be all drama and emotional punctuation.
Big eyes. Loud sighs. Deep personal disappointment over reasonable boundaries.
At this rate, he’ll be carrying a tote bag, recommending comfort reads, and pretending he’s fine by Tuesday. All with a big attitude.
This is outside my comfort zone. I’ve had teammates with less attitude.
I tug my jacket off the hook by the door, grab his leash, and check my phone for the third time in two minutes.
Nothing.
Which is good, unless silence is back to being bad news.
Back in hockey, silence in the locker room meant someone was injured, someone was pissed, or someone had done something stupid enough that the rest of us were waiting to see who would confess first.
Now that I’m off the ice, silence means, ‘I’m free from emails.’
Emails mean people using words like “opportunity” when they want to hand you a problem wearing a napkin as a hat.
My phone buzzes.
Puck looks at it, then at me, like he’s been expecting this too.
Unknown Number.
I stare at the screen until it stops ringing.
Then it immediately starts again.
“Wolfcraft,” I answer.
“Forrest?” A woman’s voice comes through, clear and carefully pleasant. “This is Principal Mary Whitcomb from Winterberry Cove High.”
My grip shifts on the leash.
Puck’s head tilts.
Even the squirrel seems interested, the nosy little bastard.
“Yes, this is Forrest Wolfcraft,” I respond. “How can I help you?”
Puck sits.
I take it as a win. We are not chasing the squirrel. He understands we’re also not walking until this call ends, which means one of us is about to suffer. Given his expression, he assumes it will be him. Na?ve.
“I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time,” Principal Whitcomb says.
When people say that, I want to answer, ‘Don’t you think I wouldn’t have picked up?’
I don’t.
My mother raised me better than that, and my PR company sanded the worst of me down with scripts, media training, and a polite smile that makes a man feel like he’s being murdered by stationery.
“No,” I say. “Not at all.”
“Wonderful. I wanted to follow up about the coaching position, and also personally invite you to the sports dinner this November.”
Sports dinner?
I should have known the initial interview wouldn’t follow just another interview. My agent mentioned the first conversation was preliminary, which I interpreted as don’t be an ass for twenty minutes, and maybe they’ll let you near teenagers with skates.
Apparently, Winterberry Cove has a more rigorous selection process.
Good for them.
Terrible for me.
This feels less like applying for a coaching job and more like purgatory with name tags.
No, not purgatory.
That sounds too brief.
This is whatever comes before the nine circles of hell when someone makes you fill out community engagement forms in triplicate.
Fuck.
Puck leans against my leg.
I’m not sure if he wants me to hurry up or if he knows the muscles in my body have gone tight enough to snap. He’s a ridiculous animal, but he notices things. That makes two of us.
“I’m listening,” I say.
“We’re still very interested in moving forward. Your experience is impressive, of course. The athletic director is enthusiastic. Several boosters are too.”
I stare at the squirrel through the glass.
She stares back.
I don’t know what to say to that except what else do you want from me, which would be honest, rude, and probably not a sentence that leads to employment.
“That’s good to hear,” I say.
Look at me.
Professional, no grunting.
Barely recognizable.
“However,” she says.
I swallow the grunt that threatens to leave my mouth. I look down at Puck. He looks up like he, too, expected the blade.
“We do need to be mindful of community concerns.”
“About?”
I know about what.
She knows I know.
We both do the polite dance anyway because adults enjoy wasting oxygen when shame is in the room.
“There are parents who have questions about your time in the league,” she says. “Your playing style. Your history. You’ll be dealing with young, impressionable athletes, and we don’t want them to believe that violence—”
“Violence isn’t the answer,” I say.
Too fast.
I hear it the second it leaves my mouth.
I force my jaw to relax. Puck sniffs my hand.
“I’m aware,” I add. “I also hope the parents understand that sometimes reporters use whatever clip gets attention.”
“Yes, of course,” she says. “But the incident.”
My hand tightens around the leash.
The incident.
People love a clean little phrase. It lets them put the ugly thing in a box and label it without touching the contents.
The incident.
Not the tunnel after the game.
Not the shove before the camera started rolling.
Not my teammate bleeding from the mouth.
Not me losing my temper after seventeen years of being told restraint was discipline until the one time I failed became the only proof anyone needed.
The incident.
“I understand,” I say, because apparently anger management did teach me something.
Mostly how to swallow words before they cost money.
“I want to be clear,” Principal Whitcomb continues. “We’re not making assumptions.”
Sure.
“We simply need parents to feel confident that whoever leads this program will model discipline, accountability, and emotional regulation.”
Emotional regulation.
Great.
I’ve become a pamphlet.
A very large, unemployed pamphlet with a rescue dog and a squirrel problem.
“Right,” I say.
Puck presses harder against my leg. I look down at him and unclench my hand.
He has no idea what this call means.
Or maybe he does. He was a shelter dog. He understands people deciding who you are based on the worst day they know about.
“That’s why we’d like you to attend the community dinner at Winterberry Cove during the first week of November,” she says. “There will be donors, school board members, parents, and a few students from the athletic leadership committee.”
Of course there will be a dinner full of people trying to decide if I’m safe enough to hire and respectable enough to put on a brochure.
Former professional athlete joins our community to inspire local youth.
Small print: Please ignore the grainy tunnel video, and the fact that several mothers will be watching him like he might check someone into the dessert table.
“We’d also like you to run a short on-ice session that week, if you’re comfortable,” she says.
Comfortable.
Interesting word choice.
I have played through fractured ribs, two concussions I lied about, and a playoff game where my shoulder felt like it was being held together with tape and spite. Comfort has never been the point.
“I can do that,” I say.
“Wonderful. We think it would be helpful for the community to see you in a coaching environment. Structure. Patience. Leadership.”
“I understand.”
“And,” she adds, “we were hoping your significant other would come with you.”
My brain stops.
Not slows.
Stops.
Puck sneezes.
The squirrel darts along the wall.
“My—” I stop.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
There are normal questions a man can prepare for.
Why do you want to coach?
How do you handle conflict?
What would you say to parents who are concerned about your reputation?
Can you model accountability for young athletes?
Do you have a significant other you can bring to a community dinner so everyone can see you are socially stable and unlikely to throw a chair?
Apparently I missed that one.
Fuck.