6. Jack
6
JACK
H ere’s what people don’t tell you about professional athletes: most of us don’t rake in millions of dollars. A few players at the top make a shit ton of money while the rest of us fight for proverbial scraps. Most hockey players are middle class guys earning a living in a sport that has an expiration date.
We all go into the sport wanting to be one of those top players with the huge paychecks and endorsements. But for most of us, we play in their shadow. We keep our heads down, play the game. We collect a salary that most people would salivate over, but when you factor in taxes, agent fees, lawyer fees, and manager fees, and add the fact that the average career only lasts five years…that money doesn’t go as far as you think. Especially when you think the good times will last, when everyone around you is telling you you’re going to be a breakout star, so you spend like that. You can take a chance and invest in your teammate’s restaurant or a friend’s startup. You don’t need to squirrel away money for your post-hockey career because your post-career is light years away, and it will include lucrative jobs like TV commentator or head coach. For most of us, we don’t become stars. We’re just the other guys on the team supporting the star player.
When I was drafted into the league out of high school, I thought I’d made it. Everyone around me told me I’d made it. Yet in that first year, I rode the bench and got little playtime. The star players were supposed to retire, but they decided to stick around for another year. The heat around me dissipated over the season. I tell people I played for the Beavers to keep it simple, when actually I wound up getting traded to four teams in four years. I got the message: I was good enough for pro hockey, but not great.
Good enough to seduce guys into fucking me, but not great enough to make them want to stay. Once people saw the real me, a guy with no money, no career prospects, and no superstar athlete clout, they bolted. My friend with the startup and teammate with the restaurant, both of which went under? Never heard from them again, although judging by social media posts, they’re still living rich lives.
Being a hockey player with a big dick and a small bank account can only take a guy so far. Fortunately, I learned that lesson early on, so I didn’t waste my time searching for anything more than a good lay.
Although one guy in particular has really messed that up for me.
“You’re late,” Dad says when I get into Ferguson’s, a big box home improvement store where my soul goes to die on a daily basis. Even though he’s wearing a garishly purple apron, he still manages to look intimidating, his chest hulking out and threatening to break the apron straps. Forty-four and still hitting the weightroom regularly. He claims it’s to relieve stress, and yet he seems perpetually at a low-grade rage.
He gets in my face and studies my eyes. “And hungover.”
As much as I want them to, my eyes can’t lie. They get super bloodshot when I drink. No amount of Visine can clear it up. It was my tell when I snuck out to drink in high school, and Dad yelled at me then. He’d get furious. You don’t go pro by getting drunk!
Nowadays he doesn’t yell. He just looks more disappointed in me than usual.
“It’s only twenty minutes. Fuentes was late picking me up,” I lie. Fuentes said I could blame him. Wasn’t like he could ever be fired from his job. He turned out to be the smartest one of all of us.
“It’s not his responsibility to be here on time. It’s yours.”
“The store doesn’t open for another forty minutes.”
“Your shift started twenty minutes ago,” he says, and that’s that. Growing up, Dad was a foreman at a factory that manufactured industrial kitchen equipment. He holds tight to clocking in on time. When the jobs were shipped overseas, he had a hard time finding something new until eventually following former coworkers to the new Ferguson’s in town. Because he doesn’t have a college degree, it’s hindered his ability to move up the ladder. That, and he isn’t the best people person. He’s gotten better about snapping at customers, but it still happens from time to time.
“Why haven’t you gotten your car fixed yet?” he asks as he adjusts a sale tag on a display.
“I’m working on it.”
Dad shakes his head, a common reaction to anything I say nowadays. He turns on his heel and walks down the large, imposing lighting aisle where every freaking lamp is on. He shakes his head, talking to himself, then swivels back to me as if we’re already in mid-conversation. “And twenty minutes is a big deal. I’ve already stuck my neck out to get you this job. The least you could do is show an ounce of respect.”
“I’m grateful. I appreciate it.” Just like Griffin appreciated my almost blow job? Now is not the time to think about that catastrophe.
“Do you? You don’t act like it.”
I get the feeling Dad wants me to thank him every single day, and even then, it wouldn’t be enough.
“Maybe my flowers got lost in the mail.”
“Don’t get smart with me.”
“I…” But there’s no valid excuse. I got too drunk, I slept too late, and I can’t afford a decent car. I’m still haunted by watching my old Audi convertible get repossessed. “I’m getting it fixed.”
“How do you really not have enough money to get your brakes fixed?”
“It’s like two grand!”
“What are your expenses? Your friend’s cutting you a good deal.”
“I still have to pay rent.”
“What about an emergency fund?”
I shrug my shoulders, exhausted all over again. “I don’t have one, I guess. I spent it all on hookers and blow.”
“Jack,” he growls.
“Sorry. Sex workers and blow.”
“You think this is funny? You think life is one big joke?” He gets right in my face. “Well, I got a great one for you. A real humdinger. Okay, picture it: this hotshot rookie rides the bench most of the season because he can’t outshine a center who’s pushing forty. When he finally gets called up to play, his first chance to show his coaches and the fans what he’s made of…he accidentally passes the puck to his opponent, who then scores the winning goal.” Dad lets out a barking laugh tinged with acid. Despite the loud chortle, there’s no joy on his face. “What do you call a guy who sinks his career in under a minute and ten seconds? Fifteen years of hard work down the tubes.”
I ball my fists and do everything I can to hold in a reaction. I won’t give him that satisfaction.
“I don’t know about you, but I call him son.”
“What do you call a player who thinks he’s destined for greatness but can’t even make it out of high school hockey?”
“You watch your damned mouth, boy.” Dad gets right in my face, jaw just as tight.
Imagine working with someone you can’t stand. Now imagine that person is your father. Is it any wonder that I’m regularly hungover? I can’t be around Dad without frustration bubbling under both of our surfaces.
“You’ve never taken a hit like I took back then. It was a sucker hit from a real asshole, some hot shit trying to prove himself. Messed my shoulder up real good.” Dad rubs his shoulder for effect. I’ve known lots of hockey players with shoulder problems, so I know he’s not faking it. But it was over twenty fucking years ago.
“I could’ve been drafted. And if I was, I wouldn’t have let myself fade into oblivion,” he spits out. Family really knows how to jab you to inflict the most pain with the least number of words.
Toby, the assistant manager, marches up to us. He doesn’t have to wear the apron. He gets to dress business casual, his shirt and pants perfectly pressed. He has a smarmy smile and well-coifed hair that lets everyone know he’s counting down the days until he gets promoted into a corporate role and can leave this shitty store in this shitty town.
“Gross Senior and Gross Junior. Good morning!” Toby’s utter fakeness is so yucky it makes me second-guess if I’m actually attracted to men. “There was a spill in the garden center. One of the trees fell over, knocked into a display of pots. In the future, we need to be more careful about how closely we stock items.”
He watches Dad until he utters an apology.
“Yeah, I was just following the display plan sent by corporate,” Dad said, never one to admit fault. Ever.
“Can you guys go clean it up?”
“Sure thing,” Dad says.
“Excellent.” Toby looks me up and down, notes my coat in my hands. “Did you just get here, Jack?”
“He’s been here. He was cold. Needed his jacket from the back room,” Dad says. I nod along.
“It’s a cold one. Hopefully spring gets here soon.” Toby gives us a wave and keeps moving, typing away on his phone.
Dad and I head to the garden center not uttering a word. Hundreds of pieces of broken pots litter the floor. He curses to himself and shoves the dustpan into my hands.
I squat down while Dad sweeps. His broom stops right before a pile of broken pieces hits the pan.
“What’s that?” He points to my side where Fuentes’s flyer has fallen out of my pocket.
“Nothing. Just some hockey thing.” I toss it atop the dustpan pile.
“What hockey thing?” He leans down and picks it up. He immediately starts skimming it, his broom hanging slack against his chest.
“It’s nothing.” I collect the pot pieces with my hands. “Fuentes and Miller are putting together a team for this amateur adult hockey league. They asked me to join, but I don’t think I have the time to commit.”
Dad snorts, something close to a genuine laugh from him. The sound and reaction is so unexpected I have to do a double take.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“Nothing. Just you playing hockey again.”
The words sear into my skin. “I said I’m not doing it.”
I dump the dustpan into the trash.
“It’s for the best.” He sweeps another round of broken pots into my pan. “Your hockey days are over.”
He lets out another snort. It makes me want to gag.
“Says who?”
“Says the league and anyone who watched you play. By your last year on the ice, you were…you were definitely not at your peak. That’s for damn sure. I still tuned into your games, and they were all painful to watch.”
“I’d been traded to four different teams in four years.” It’s hard rebuilding trust with a new coach, constantly being the new guy, finding my groove with teammates who never expected me to last. After my fourth cross-country move, the exhaustion hugged me like a weighted vest. My body was tired from playing. My mind was tired from thinking about how I fucked up my career. My heart was tired from caring.
“You lost it, whatever you had.” Dad keeps sweeping, as if he’s talking about car keys and not the thing I revolved my life around. “No sense making another fool of yourself here. Can you imagine? A professional hockey player getting his ass whipped by a bunch of amateurs.”
He lets out another snort. I’ve barely known Dad to laugh at anything, and now he’s acting like he’s watching the funniest stand-up in his life.
Anger gushes through me. I am a damn good hockey player. I made one really bad pass in one very important game, but that doesn’t get to wipe away the years of effort and energy I put in. He can hate me for being late. He can hate me for not being a wealthy athlete that can rescue him from this life. But he doesn’t get to say I’m a shitty player.
Dad crumples up the flyer and tosses it into the trash. I immediately fish it out.
“Actually, I’ve changed my mind. I feel like getting back on the ice.”
I haven’t lost anything. It’s merely been in hibernation.
“What are you doing?” he asks as I untie the purple apron of doom.
“And another thing: I quit.”
“The hell you do.”
Dad’s snort laugh is the straw that breaks this camel’s back. I can’t spend another shift under his disapproving eye.
I whip off the apron and throw it on the ground where it lays with the shattered pots. “Next time, don’t set up these displays so close together.”
I turn and stroll out, like one of those cool guys in movies that doesn’t look back at explosions.
“Come back here!” he yells.
I ignore him and keep walking.