11. Jack
11
JACK
I ’m jolted awake by Fuentes pounding at my door.
“Dude, we got practice!” he yells.
Shit. I look at my phone and realize I forgot to set my alarm. I roll out of bed and throw on sweatpants and a sweatshirt. I gargle with a cup of mouthwash and meet Fuentes in the hall.
I was never a morning person. Early practices and early flights while I was in the NHL made me perpetually tired. I subsisted on coffee and the adrenaline of play time, when I did get play time.
“Did you forget to set your alarm again?” Fuentes asks as we descend the stairs. I nod yes while swishing mouthwash.
Outside, it’s cold and dark. No surprise for early March. A light dusting of snow covers the cars in the parking lot. Maybe if it was Christmastime, it would be a pretty scene, but by this time of year, I’m so over snow.
I spit my mouthwash into the bushes.
“Hey!” Fuentes says.
“It’s not going to kill the bushes,” I say. The man is very touchy about his property.
We hop into his car where Miller waits in the backseat, eyes closed and exhaling a loud breath.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m getting focused for practice. I’m finding my center so I can play with intention.”
Somehow, the more Zen Miller gets, the more of an animal he is on the ice. We had our first game on Sunday. Miller got thrown into the sin bin twice for checking an opposing player. He let out a stream of F-bombs as the ref pulled him away that would make Samuel L. Jackson blush.
We drive down roads coated with gray slush, the gross comingling of snow and grease. The ugliest part of winter. It kind of reminds me of the goopy shit I covered Griffin’s car with the other day.
“What’s so funny?” Fuentes asks.
I giggle like a damn middle schooler. “Guys, remember when we TPed the Comebacks’ cars?”
They burst into laughter at the memory. It’s like we’re sixteen again, hanging out in our car during lunch period wondering if we should cut the rest of the day. Having a good laugh with your friends is good for the soul. It’s chicken soup for shitheads.
“I’m impressed we got it done so quickly. Teamwork makes the dream work,” Miller says. He pulls out his phone and plays the video we secretly took. The guy dropping to his knees over his Lexus was priceless. I know I want nothing to do with Griffin Harper, but the look of utter shock on his face is somehow adorable. There’s an innocence to it, like a peek at the boy inside the man.
Not that I should be finding anything about Griffin adorable.
“You really went to town on the pickup truck,” Fuentes says. “Wet toilet paper is a pain in the ass to get off.”
“He deserved it for trying to get me booted from the league.” Among his other sins. “His car is fine. His teammates helped him get it off. What’s a season of hockey without some pranks?”
“You think they’ll retaliate?” Miller asks.
“Nah. They’re too scared. They know they can’t top that.” I put my feet up on the glove compartment. Fuentes knocks them off at the stop light.
“How goes the job hunt?” Fuentes asks.
“It’s going.”
“Didn’t you have an interview yesterday?”
“It was more like an interrogation. Bernice, the grandmotherly manager, started asking me all these questions about plants and cacti.” I interviewed at My Flower of Need, a plant shop in Sourwood. I figured since I sometimes worked the garden center at Ferguson’s, I’d have it in the bag. I didn’t know I needed a fucking PhD in botany to work there.
“Plants need water to grow. Isn’t that the most important thing to know?” Miller asked.
“You’d think!” I shake my head. “She said it’s a specialty plant store, so they need someone with specialized knowledge. I’m a fast learner! I learned how to play Halo in like a day.”
“Bummer. Onto the next!” Fuentes makes a right, passing the local library, which has a fancy fountain installed in front.
Fuentes has been supportive of my job search, helping me format a resume. But under the best friend guise, I can sense the landlord wondering if he’ll be getting a rent check next month. I had enough in savings to cover March rent. April may be questionable, but he doesn’t need to know that yet.
“I’m thinking that retail isn’t for me. I want to work in an office,” I say, imagining a cushy desk chair, business cards, and free snacks.
“Um, okay. But I think most office jobs require a college degree. Maybe? I don’t know.” His face pinches as if bracing for impact. Fuentes never wants to be the bad guy.
“Not all of them. Some of them ask for equivalent experience,” Miller says, saving my ass. He’s done more research on these jobs than I have, apparently.
“Have you been thinking about what exactly you want to do in an office?” Fuentes looks over at me, and for the first time, I see concern in his joyous eyes.
“I don’t know. Something…with accounts?”
“You’re asking a lot of questions,” I tell Fuentes. “I’ll find something. I’ve been at it a week. Chill.” I pat him on the back to calm him down.
“Have you made a vision board? You should make a vision board,” Miller says.
I point my thumb back at him while looking at Fuentes. “That’s a solid idea. I’m going to make a vision board.”
Whenever I sit down to think about what I want to do with my life, I get intimidated by the question. Other kids got to dabble in different interests. They got to sign up for clubs, activities, and camps. They got to take various classes in college. All I’ve ever known is playing hockey. Dad set my life up for that purpose. Thinking about the future only makes me feel more like a failure. I can’t shake the idea that this is not how my life should be going.
Fuentes exhales through his nostrils, preferring to stare ahead at the road.
“What?” I ask, anger mounting at his reaction.
“I wish you took things more seriously. Jobs, hockey…” Fuentes trails off, biting his lip to stop from saying more.
“Whoa. What’s wrong with my hockey playing? We won our first game.” I turn to Miller for backup, but to my shock, Mr. Chakra averts his eyes.
My lovely ride with my buds has turned into an ambush.
“What the fuck is going on?” I ask, seconds from jumping out a moving vehicle.
“You were…rusty on the ice,” Fuentes says, and I can tell it’s twisting him up being the bearer of this bad news. “I mean, you played fine . Good, even. You were extremely competent.”
“Funny. None of those sound like positives,” I shoot back.
“I didn’t see your soul out there.” Miller claps me on the shoulder.
I dig my fist into my thigh. I wanted to give him a knuckle sandwich chock full of soul.
“What Miller is saying is that something was missing,” Fuentes says quickly to keep the peace. “We’ve played with you for years. We’ve watched your games. You’re an awesome player, Jack. When you’re locked in, you are on fire. But it kind of felt like you were going through the motions on Sunday. There wasn’t any fire.”
I stare out the window at the rolling hills of houses as I replay Sunday’s game in my head. I landed good passes, scored a goal. But as I reflect, I can’t think of any WOW moments I had, the kinds of moves where I felt in tune with the game, every part of me harmonizing.
“You were on fire when you went one-on-one against that Comebacks player with the eye patch,” Miller says. “It was like you hadn’t missed a step since the NHL. I was mesmerized. No wonder he tried to get you eliminated from the league.”
My heart does a quick flip as I remember the challenge. Was I flipping over the excitement of the game or the opponent? It had better not be the latter.
When Fuentes turns off his car, the cold seeps in fast. I don’t like waking up early and practicing in the cold, but at least I can do it alongside my best friends.
Fuentes pops the trunk and hands me my gear. “You’re a great player, Jack. I’m guessing you’re just a little rusty and you’ll get back into the groove for the next game.”
* * *
I really try to focus during practice. I even do some calming breaths when the guys aren’t looking. Perhaps Miller is right, and I need to center myself in order to find the fire. I had it for all those years. Fires don’t just disappear.
Practice goes well for the most part, but I can’t shake the lingering rustiness. I can’t get out of my head. I keep flashing back to the passing debacle from my NHL days, to my coaches’ expressions as they watched me. When I was getting drafted, everyone pretended they loved me. But as soon as I wasn’t useful, I was kicked to the curb.
After practice, we hit the showers. I turn my shower to extra hot, and finally, I find some semblance of calm.
“I’m still laughing at that video,” Fuentes says beside me. “When that guy wiped the TP off his truck? Classic.”
I laugh, too. Griffin had the best reaction. He is a perfect straight man for pranks. Well, not that straight. And that cute smile of his when he probably realized it was me.
Sigh.
No. I will not think about Griffin anymore. Especially while I’m soaping myself down.
“Did he ever say why he cockblocked you?” Fuentes asks.
“I don’t care.” Griffin did a poor job trying to explain, acting like it was no big deal. He was just another person who pretended to like me and then bolted. I shudder with embarrassment as I remember his hand pushing me away. “I can’t wait to kick their ass.”
“It won’t be that hard,” says Fuentes. “They all look exhausted.”
“I almost feel bad about playing them. I don’t want them to throw their backs on the ice,” Miller says.
“They’ll all win gold at the Dad-Bod Olympics.” I laugh to myself, even though Griffin sure gave me a good run on the ice.
I’m the first to leave the shower. I wrap a towel around my waist.
When I strut into the locker room, something feels off in a way I can’t explain. The hairs stand up on the back of my neck without explanation.
I zero in on my cubby, where the white paint of the wall behind it is visible. I push aside my coat to where my clothes are hanging. Or should be hanging.
“What’s up?” Miller walks past me.
“Check your cubby.” I frantically search my cubby, pushing the coat aside again, looking on the shelf above, checking in the space where my shoes sit. My clothes are gone.
“What the fuck!” Miller’s reaction catches up to mine. He throws his coat on the floor, revealing a cubby just as empty as mine.
A piece of paper flutters to the floor. I find the same one on my bench. It’s blank except for a logo at the top.
The Comebacks logo.
Other guys pull similar pieces of paper from their half-empty cubbies.
“Looking for these?” Griffin asks from the locker room entrance, holding up my clothes.
Hank, their goalie, steps out from behind him. His arms are full of jeans and shirts and sweaters. “Guess we’re not that old, huh?”
“What the—” I instinctively cover my junk.
Griffin flashes a wicked smile that makes him look seventeen. “You may be younger, but we’re smarter. Have fun air drying.”
My teammates are shocked in place, searching for some article of clothing to cover themselves with. But I’m ready to fight. A smirk jumps on my face. I love the competition.
“Guys…get ‘em!” I yell.
We charge for the Comebacks.
“You’ll have to catch us first!” Griffin says.
The guys race out the locker room door, our clothes bundled in their arms. We surge after them like runners angling for the finish line. My heart is pumping, and I find myself laughing like a little kid. The cold air hits my half-naked body, my junk sloshing from side to side under my towel. I won’t let a little chill stop me from saving my team’s clothes. My teammates follow behind me, my band of toweled brethren.
Griffin tosses someone’s boxer shorts onto the ice as he runs around the rink. We weave through the benches and concession stand. Someone’s shirt goes across the cash register. A pair of pants are tossed over the popcorn machine.
I hurdle over the benches and around the rink, gaining on them. As close as I get, Griffin manages to elude my grasp. These Comebacks fuckers are faster than I expected for a bunch of old guys.
Griffin turns around and runs backward. He throws a pair of boxer shorts that aren’t mine in my face, making me stumble.
Fuentes yanks them from my nose and puts them on. “Thanks, man.”
My body repulses.
“Give us our clothes back!” Miller yells. “It was Jack’s idea with the toilet paper!”
“Traitors!” I yell back to him.
The Comebacks bolt through the rink’s double doors into the lobby. One of them with a mane of blond hair and supposedly sweet smile chucks a bundle of sweaters into the skate rental station.
“I know I shouldn’t apologize, but I’m sorry about this! Please don’t catch a cold!” he yells as kindly as possible as he follows his teammates out the door.
I zoom to catch up with him, finding that the lack of clothes makes me go faster.
“They’re heading for the front door,” Fuentes yells, desperate. He snaps the waistband of his boxers. “Shit, I don’t think these are mine!”
A fresh round of cold air hits my body as I burst through the double doors. The cold can’t stop me. Nothing can knock me down. Just as I’m about to grab Hank’s shirt to hold him, my damn towel gets caught on the door hinge, pulling me back. I try to rip the towel to break free, but it’s surprisingly strong.
“Fuck.”
“Ha! Maybe next time, loser! This is what you get for fucking with mature adults,” Hank yells back at me as he runs outside.
I pull my towel loose and zoom out the front door. This time, the cold air of outside hits my bones and sinks into the strands of my wet hair. I run through the parking lot and find them hopping into the bed of Griffin’s pickup, driven by a teammate with a dark, growly beard, who looks worried like he’s committing a crime.
I run right up to the truck, but it pulls away before I can get a good grip. The cold metal slides through my fingers as they drive through the parking lot.
Griffin stands up in the bed and throws the final armful of clothes onto the pavement. He crosses his arms, triumphant. Even though he took all our clothes, I can’t help but notice how fucking good he looks. Chest puffed out, impish glint in his eye.
Damn him for still being fuckable.
I shrug my shoulders and give him a nod. Touché.
I flip him the bird to let him know I don’t approve of it, but I do respect it.
Griffin nods back. Our eyes lock for a moment, unable to pull away from each other.
“Fuck it,” I mutter to myself.
I let my towel drop.
I catch Griffin staring down at my crotch before he meets my eye again and gives me a smirk of approval.
You could have had all of this, Griffin . So enjoy the view because you’ll never see it again.