14. Jon
CHAPTER 14
JON
I woke up in Drake’s apartment as soon as light crept in around the curtains. My shoulder ached if I breathed in the wrong direction, and my head felt like someone had shoved scratchy wool into it, all fuzzy and itchy at the same time. Tears threatened to sneak their way out of my eyes, because I was in bed with Drake, in his apartment, with Loki sleeping between us and Thor curled up on my feet.
He’d opened his place to me. More than that—he was making it my space, too. My cats, my clothes, my laptop—my books, for goodness sake. Even the food that would’ve spoiled had it been left in the fridge.
Drake had even offered Papa a place to stay.
He wanted to marry me.
Maybe it was my soft laugh that woke Drake. “Hey,” he said, then he propped himself up on an arm and peered at me, alarm taking over his face. “You okay? Do you need some painkillers?”
“No, no, I’m fine.”
“You’re crying. ”
I guess I was. I wiped the tears from my eyes. “Sorry. I think everything has fucked up my emotions and I lost my filter, not that I had much of one, but—I’m just so grateful right now, that’s all.” My voice wobbled, and I should’ve hated that. But I didn’t. “You brought me my cats ,” I whispered.
Loki stretched out a paw and heaved a very loud sigh.
That let me get my voice back in check. I huffed a laugh. “Oh, are we disturbing his majesty?”
Loki’s ear twitched and he flicked his tail.
Drake chuckled. “Of course I brought you your cats.”
“I know, but—” There was a lot in my head bumping up against the scratchiness from the anesthesia. Always took a couple days to get all of my brain back on-line. “You think beyond me. I mean, you think about my life.”
Drake reached over and cupped my cheek. “You taught me that, Jon. You’re the one who taught me to remember what’s important.”
That wasn’t it either, not entirely. “I can’t think of the right words. What I want to say. They’re just not there.” Fucking anesthesia.
“You don’t have to think. Not today.” He levered himself up. “We have post-op instructions, and a nurse will be here later. Your dad, sooner, I think. I need to go to morning skate, so he’ll stay with you.”
Morning— “Oh, shit. You have a game tonight.” I blinked a few times and the desire to be there flooded me. “I wonder if I could…”
“Babe, no,” he said firmly. “You absolutely should not go to a hockey game the day after shoulder surgery.” He got out of bed and opened the curtains to let in light.
Yeah. He was probably right .
“Your dad said you’d watch together. He hasn’t watched a game with you in ages.”
I vaguely recalled that from last night. A lot of it was hazy. A lot was still fuzzy at the edges.
“How’s the shoulder?”
“Ugh.” It ached. Better than right after I was injured, yes, but this was a dull throb I felt when I breathed too hard or moved suddenly. “Hurts. Guess the nerve block wore off.”
“Do you want one of the strong pills? Or just ibuprofen?”
I debated, but settled on the ibu, which Drake brought to me, along with a glass of water.
I groaned and got myself upright to take it, then got to my feet. “I’m not spending all day in bed. I need to move.” Prove to myself that I could function.
Thor got up, too, and headed over to the windows, hopped up on a table underneath, and peered out. Loki merely stretched out more. “Lazy bones.” I gave him a scritch behind the ears.
Drake had a pile of papers in his hands. “There’re some exercises you could do.”
“My first exercise will be lifting a coffee cup to my mouth.”
At that, Drake laughed. “Okay, okay, I’ll make you coffee.”
He did and I managed to get cleaned up and dressed mostly on my own. It took some doing, since it had been my dominant shoulder that I’d bungled. Using my left hand for a bunch of things was awkward, but doable.
By the time Papa arrived, I was dressed and caffeinated and working my way through some scrambled eggs and an English muffin with jam .
Drake gave me a quick kiss. “I’ll be back after practice.” Then he was gone, and it was Papa and me in Drake’s apartment. I felt like a kid again, and my brain immediately clicked over to Swedish. “He wants to marry me,” I blurted out.
Papa’s eyebrows rose. “Did he propose?”
“No, I kind of did. But he wants that, too.”
Papa burst out laughing. “Kind of?”
I shrugged and told my father what I’d said.
He nodded. “So it goes. Your mother will be happy. Or rather she’s happy you’ve finally found someone. She told me after the first phone call that he’d be our son-in-law.”
“How did Mom know?”
Another shrug. “She’s smarter than I am, that’s for sure.” He eyed my English muffin. “Are there more of those?”
There were, and after consuming one, and talking me through my first set of PT exercises, Papa rubbed his hands together. “Sun’s shining. I think we have time for a walk before Drake returns, yes?”
Why not? I needed some fresh air, so we went, heading down to Point State Park. We took a stroll around the giant fountain. A cleaning crew was pressure-washing the basin free of the winter muck, but it was still a pleasant walk, with the rivers and the trees budding up.
That’s when it hit me. The year was moving on. We were already into spring. I had six to eight months of recovery ahead of me, which meant maybe playing again in October at the earliest, but more than likely, I was missing part of next season, too. Who knew if my shoulder would be the same when I got to the other side of rehab?
I halted and stared out at the confluence of the rivers and the West End bridge beyond. “I’m going to miss the playoffs.” I paused. “I might not play again.” I didn’t know how to feel about that thought.
I looked at Papa and found him gazing where I had been. “You’ll miss playoffs,” he agreed, solemnly. Then he turned to me, his smile mild. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves about your career, yes?”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I was nowhere near well enough to even think about stepping on the ice. This slow walk would probably tire me out for the rest of the day.
Papa clapped me on my good shoulder. “Come on.” We continued our walk and found our way to a bench on the Allegheny side of the river. My father sat, and I joined him.
“Jon,” he said. “You’ll be fine, no matter what happens.”
“I know, I know. I just—I’d hate that to be my last pro game.”
“A game-winning goal in overtime?” He arched an eyebrow.
Okay, when he said it like that, it sounded a lot better than ‘tripped over an opponent and broke my shoulder.’ I waved a hand in surrender. “That’s not so bad.” I was tired of being morose about myself, so I switched subjects. “Tell me about your latest charity thing.”
Oh, Papa knew what I was doing, but he regaled me with stories from all the charity event he’d been to as we walked back to Drake’s apartment. “You and Drake should come up sometime over the summer. Maybe when Sofia is visiting?”
That might be a lot of fun. “I’ll have to see what the rehab schedule is like.”
Papa waved my concerns away. “We have PT people and trainers in Vancouver. I’m sure your team will be okay with you actually having a summer vacation.”
I laughed at that .
When we got back to Drake’s, I was grateful to be sitting down again. The fresh air and the movement had been good, but as predicted, fatigue set in quickly. “Ugh, I hate surgery,” I muttered.
“Most people do,” Papa said cheerfully.
Drake returned and both he and I ended up taking pre-game naps while Papa went out and somehow managed to buy—in downtown Pittsburgh—what he needed to cook dinner for me and him. “We could’ve ordered something,” I said as he unpacked. I stopped and stared at the cloth bag he’d used, which was from Stanley Park. “Did you actually bring a shopping bag with you, all the way from Vancouver?” When I’d been a kid, he’d taken one with him everywhere because “you never know when you need a bag.”
My father, the debonair, intelligent man that he was, rolled his eyes at me, “Of course I did.”
Drake burst out laughing. “You two are so related,” he said. He’d changed into his suit and tie, only lacking the dress shoes.
Thing was, we hadn’t been speaking English. “How’d you know what we were saying?”
“I didn’t.” Drake stole one of the strawberries my dad had bought and ate it. “I know that tone—” he nodded at me “—and that expression,” he said, nodded at Papa. Then he glanced at his watch. “I need to head out.”
I drew him in for a kiss. “See you later tonight. Have fun. Score a goal for me?”
“Of course.”
“Good luck, son,” Papa said. “Play well.”
Drake’s eyes widened, but his smile seemed delighted. “I’ll try.”
He did more than try. Ended up with two goals and two assists and helped the Lions to a 5-3 victory. It was very strange watching hockey with my father again, and I found that we were making similar observations. “Bad pinch,” Papa and I muttered as one of the younger Lions defenders cheated up the boards. And yes, that had led to a two-on-one going the other direction. Luckily, the Lions goalie didn’t react too quickly and was able to slide over to make the save. On one of Drake’s goals, we both saw the play develop in the defensive zone, and weren’t at all surprised when the puck ended up behind the opposing goalie.
“He’s rattled,” Papa said, regarding the goalie. “Not a good night for him. Too far into the net. Too reactive.” I nodded along.
As happy as I was for the win, by the time the game was over, I was yawning uncontrollably. I was practically asleep on the couch (with Loki sleeping on me) by the time Drake returned. He and Papa chatted about the game for a while. The sound was a happy one, and my heart was warm, even if my brain was checked out.
“I should get him to bed,” Drake said softly. “Thanks for staying with him today.”
“He’s my son,” Papa said. “There’s very little I wouldn’t do for him.”
“Same,” Drake said. “Same.”
I guess I didn’t have to worry too much about the future. Whatever happened with my injury, Drake would be there, and that was enough.
Papa flew back to Vancouver a week later, and a few days after that, I was left to my own devices when Drake headed to New York and Buffalo on a quick two-game road trip. I think he was more worried about me than I was. I couldn’t drive, but I’d watched the last two games of the homestand with Papa at the arena. We’d even made it up onto the arena screen—of course because he was Gunner Eriksson, the Hockey Hall of Fame player, not because of me.
What had surprised me (but shouldn’t have) was the offers of help from several of the Lions partners and spouses while Drake was away. Gavin, who also lived downtown, offered to run me up to the training center for my physical therapy appointment, and Brodie Boon offered to drive me to Greensburg if I needed to check on my house.
I took both up, after checking to make sure Brodie would be okay with a side-trip to the Hideaway to see how things were going there. Brodie laughed. “Oh hell, yeah. I’ve been wanting to go to that bar for ages. Oliver was always worried it wouldn’t be as trans friendly as people said it was.” He shrugged. “If we’d known you owned it…”
“No, I get it.”
As it was, Ella, Lorelei, and the rest of the crew were happy to see me, and the pool queens took Brodie under their wings and ended up in a pretty competitive game in the back of the bar.
The books looked fine, Ella was fine. The bar was absolutely fine , and I realized that I’d gotten the bar to a spot where it could run without me hovering over it like an overprotective parent.
That was both gratifying and saddening. I’d worked hard to get the bar to where it was, but knowing you weren’t needed was its own humbling experience. Felt like… well, it felt like my life right now. I was standing still and ev erything was moving all around me. Unsettling. Not bad, per se… but I didn’t know how I felt about it all.
That wasn’t quite true.
There was a weight lifted off my shoulders, like I could breathe a little easier. Part of me was relieved that the bar could thrive without me. I’d loved running this place, but now with my recovery and Drake being my priorities, the bar had become less of one.
Red Dog ambled over. “Guess you’re not getting on your bike any time soon,” he said. “You want me to take it out sometime?”
That wasn’t a bad idea. I’d be able to drive in another week or two, but I could imagine my orthopedist’s look if I asked about riding my motorcycle. “If you’d like, I’d appreciate that.” He already had a key to my garage.
Red Dog nodded. “Figured. Shoulders.” He rolled his own out. “They’re bitches.”
They were, and those words came back to me over the weeks afterward.
I spent most of my time at Drake’s, since it was closer to rehab and the training center. I’d bullied them into letting me skate—no gear, no stick, low speeds—to get my feet under me. The off-ice rehab picked up. My fucking shoulder really didn’t want to do what I wanted it to do—not easily and not fast. “These things take time.” That was the gist from my doctors and the PT folks. Even from my parents and Coach Macintosh.
Once I could drive again, I went to as many Otter games as I could manage—I was still the captain and owed it to the team to be there. Plus, it was good to be around the guys, even if they did give me shit about running off to be a hockey husband.
“You gonna dye your hair blond? Brodie asked .
I rolled my eyes and shoved him. “Not every hockey partner is blonde,” I said. “Oliver, for instance,” I said pointedly. “And the brunet mafia would have my head if I did, anyway.”
He cackled.
The Otters were heading to the PHL playoffs. The Lions were heading to the NAPH ones, and I was torn about this turn of events. I was happy for both teams, but I wanted to be in both places—watch both sets of games.
Of course, I chose the Otters. They’d ended up giving Alfie an A, which he admitted to me left him breathless at first, being a rookie and all, but he did well with it. He’d always been a good voice in the locker room.
The Otter games were exciting and intense, and it fucking hurt to watch them from the media box. I helped out where I could, adding my suggestions and observations to the coaches after each game.
But honestly, I didn’t need to. They were playing well. So well, that they made it into the semi-final round of the playoffs before finally losing a series.
Sucked, but man, what a run. Next year would be even better, I thought.
Because of my rehab, I couldn’t make any of the Otter road trip games, so I did end up watching a few of the Lions playoff games with the other partners and spouses. Unfortunately, the Lions had drawn New York for their first round and while they’d played hard and pushed the series to seven games, they’d fallen in the end. Still, that had been the Lions first trip to the Cup playoffs in a while and Drake’s first ever. A good learning experience, everyone said.
Drake wanted more. “Next year,” he said, eyes blazing with passion the night after that final loss. “I want to be in the final next year.”
Pretty sure he’d will the Lions there, given the fire in him. He’d been instrumental in getting the Lions into the playoffs in the first place. In the end, he’d scored seven playoff goals.
I was also damn sure the only time Drake would ever be in an Otters uniform again would be if—God forbid— he required a conditioning stint. He was well beyond his slump now.
Not sure if it was the Lions or Drake’s mother, but that jerkface of a bio dad of his didn’t show his electronic face for the rest of the season, not since the birthday message. When Drake had finally told his mom about that incident, she’d been fuming. But that seemed settled, now. I hoped.
Me? Well, I was in the thick of rehab now, working on strengthening my right arm and all those damn muscles in the shoulder. I was also working out the rest of my body, to try to keep it in somewhat decent condition so I wouldn’t be a complete disaster when I hit the ice in gear again.
I was skating, but not anything close to the intensity of hockey. That would come in late summer. Maybe. If the doctors deemed my shoulder good enough.
After both teams’ playoff hopes had been dashed, Drake and I did travel to Vancouver to spend some time with my parents and sister, and then flew to Philly to spend time with Drake’s mom, too.
In the Philly suburbs, after a round of working out with a trainer some of the local NAPHers used, I think Drake caught on that I wasn’t exactly my normal upbeat self when we returned to his mom’s house. He drew me into the guest room we were occupying. “You all right with being here with my mom?” He had that look of worry he got whenever he was thinking through the worst possible scenario.
I took both of his hands in mine. “I love being here with your mom. She’s a wonderful person, and I can see exactly where your strength comes from.”
“But...” he said.
“No buts,” I said. “None at all.”
Ah, there was the skepticism I knew well. “You’re not yourself.”
I heaved a sigh. “I know. I’m thinking too much. It happens.”
“About me?”
I shook my head. “I love you. I want to be with you, and nothing in the world is going to change that. It’s—” I gestured to my arm. “It still hurts, Drake. Deep inside. The doctors say it’s fine. I’m recovering as planned, but…”
“There’s the but ,” he said, and drew me into his arms. “Whatever happens, you’ll be fine.”
An echo of my father’s words. “I know,” I said. “I don’t like not knowing what ‘be fine’ is, though. It’s…” I opened up space, sat on the bed, and looked up at him. “You know in a game, you can see a couple plays ahead? Well, there’s too many plays, and I don’t know what route I should take, where I should be, who to pass to. It’s all hazy. I know in the end I’ll be all right, but don’t know what that means or how to get there.”
Drake took this in, then sat next to me on the bed. “We’re in this together, okay? Whatever you decide, whatever you need, I’ll support it.” He paused. “You told me that it would all work out as it should if I trusted myself and remembered who I was. I know you’ll find the right path—you’ve done that your entire life. I believe in you.”
I didn’t say anything, not because there weren’t words, but because there were too many and I couldn’t squeeze them out. So I pulled Drake into my arms and held him and let my fear of not knowing go .
Three words did work their way out of my tangled head eventually. Ones that were true, ones that wouldn’t change. “I love you.”
“Know that,” he murmured. “Love you, too.”
The trip to the Lions training center had become exceedingly routine once I started on ice workouts. There was the off-ice portion, the talk with the team medical staff, and then skating with the skills coach. I appreciated the fact that the Lions were giving me the best care they could, since the Otters were owned by the NAPH team. They weren’t leaving me high and dry. They were doing everything they could to get me game-ready.
It was mid-September, and I’d come a hell of a long way over the summer. My shoulder felt better—almost normal. It ached at odd moments or when I moved in unexpected ways. The only issue was that I was a thirty-year-old PHL players with the skills of a PHL player. There wasn’t much that could be done to improve that. The Lions skills coach tried, as did their skating coach, and I worked as hard as I ever did.
I can’t say I didn’t get better—I did—but there was an upper limit. Still, it felt good, putting my body through the paces.
I’d gotten back on my bike, and even taken some rides with Red Dog and his crew. On highways, too. That had been fun. We’d gone to Hideaway after. Everyone at the bar was happy to see me. Felt strange, though. Like I was more of a guest than an owner. I looked over the books, but honestly, I was relieved that everything was in order and I didn’t have to do any work .
I wasn’t managing the bar, and that felt—fine. Better than my shoulder, in many ways.
I think I found the most solace in the motions of hockey, even if my body wasn’t a hundred percent.
As the Lions trickled back to Pittsburgh, a few joined us during those morning sessions, but once more players showed up, they moved on to Capitan’s skates, and the training sessions were relegated to the folks like me—rehabbing injuries.
After signing a two-year bridge deal with the Lions, Drake spent part of the summer playing in a local league with other pro players. I wasn’t cleared for contact, so I watched him play. Gave some pointers. Then his team pulled me behind the bench to play coach. It was for fun, but it didn’t stop anyone from being competitive. Our team ended up winning the cup, which was a monstrosity of a trophy crafted from a thrift-store-bought bowl badly painted with hockey cliches, and held up by a plastic elephant and some GI Joes, all on a small cardboard box spray-painted gold.
Ella, being ever so helpful, printed out the photo from social media of us on the ice with that thing and hung it up—in a frame—in Hideaway. “Jonny, you and Drake are legends now,” she’d said.
I shook my head at the memory as I stripped my gear off. Today’s rehab and skills session at the rink had been early and an official one, since training camp for the Lions had started. There were several Otters players who’d come up for camp, including Alfie and Smitty. Some of the Lions prospects, who might start down on the Otters, were also there.
It was nice to see everyone, but after the quiet of the early rehab session, the raucous locker room was a bit much, especially since I wouldn’t be training with the guys. So I caught Drake’s eye, as mimicked walking, and he nodded.
I’d come back and watch the sessions, but for now, I needed to find some quiet in my head.
The training center wasn’t empty—it never was. There were fans and hockey media here to watch camp, and kids here to play or train with their teams, plus all the parents. People ignored me. I was another guy in Lions branded pants and a T-shirt. I looked like any coach, and I was on very few people’s autograph list. The most I usually got was “You’re Gunner Eriksson’s kid!” or more recently, “Oh! You’re Drake Williams’s boyfriend!”
The former I was used to, and the latter? I liked the latter a lot. I was Drake’s boyfriend. The other partners and spouses had even bought me a leather jacket with his number patched onto it like a riding club’s jacket.
The guys at the bar gave me no end of shit about that, but I loved it. Even wore it out with Red Dog’s club.
The training center wasn’t that big, and I found myself wandering up one hall, into the main lobby, past a gaggle of small children and their parents, and down another hallway. As I passed an office, something on one of the doors caught my attention. It looked like one of those Wanted posters you saw in Wild West movies, but this was a job posting for coaching jobs. Three of them, in fact. An opening for the center’s Learn to Skate program, another for coaching the boys 14U team, and one for the 16U girls team. I glanced over the job requirements, then crossed my arms.
I’d enjoyed “coaching” Drake’s summer league team, but real coaching? Could I do something like that?
“You thinking of a career change?” a voice beside me asked .
I jumped a little, but recognized the voice’s owner immediately. MaryAnne Charleston had won Olympic gold with Team Canada and lifted the Cup a few times in the women’s league. She was older now, with graying auburn hair, and I’d seen her around the rink as the Director of Youth Hockey.
She held up her hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just curious.”
“No, it’s just—I was lost in thought.” I gestured at the poster. “I’m not sure I have the qualifications.”
She arched her eyebrows. “You’re Jon Eriksson. You have the qualifications. You’ve played in the NAPH and you’ve spent five years as the captain of the Otters. You helped them behind the bench when they went on their cup run.”
Right. That was unusual. Someone knowing me for me. I rubbed the back of my neck. “I suppose?”
“Sorry—” She stuck out her hand. “I’m MaryAnne Charleston.”
I shook her hand. “I’m Jon—oh of course you know that. And I watched you play in the Olympics.”
She laughed. “Mutual fans, I guess. But yes, you’re qualified, and if you ever want to switch careers from a seasoned hockey pro to coaching kids, stop on over. We’d love to have you.”
“Oh!” I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”
From down the hall, a man in a helmet, trainer’s pants and a jacket yelled, “Hey Charlie!”
“Ah shit. Gotta go work,” she said. “No rest for the wicked.” Then she was gone.
I blinked after her and exhaled. Then looked at the poster again. Coaching kids? Huh .
That was still in my mind when I headed back to the Lions practice rink to watch a camp session, and it was still in my mind when the GM of the Lions stepped up to the glass next to me.
When I looked over, I did a double-take, because this man hardly ever came down to ice level to watch the team. He had a perch on a balcony above our heads.
“Jonny,” he said.
“Mr. Roth,” I answered, as a prickling itched up from my feet. This was important. This day, this moment. I finally felt the game moving at speed, the puck was on the ice, and the plays unfolded before me.
“Wanted to talk to you. You mind coming upstairs?”
In my pocket, my phone vibrated, and I knew without checking—knew with my soul—that it was my agent texting me. “Sure,” I said.
When we reached Roth’s office, I sat in his guest chair, and he took a seat across from me. “Jonny,” he said, “you’ve been a great asset to the Otters. Your leadership, your mentorship, the way you hold that team together. Coach Macintosh speaks highly of you.”
I nodded, because I knew what was coming. Like my Papa had said, like Drake had said, everything would be fine. “Thank you, sir.”
“I know you still have a couple months of rehab ahead of you, but I wanted to talk to you about this coming season.” He fiddled with a pen he had on his desk. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it. We’re not re-signing you to the Otters. You’ll finish your rehab, and then you’ll be a free agent.”
I nodded again, then smiled. “I understand.”
His brows furrowed, as if he was confused by reaction. I suppose he expected anger or disappointment, not—calmness.
“It makes sense,” I said. “From your perspective. I’m old, and I count toward the veteran limit. Less players you have to bench, more room for younger guys.”
He made a pained noise. “Thirty isn’t old .”
That was true from his perspective, especially since he was in his later fifties. “It’s closer to the end of a hockey career than twenty-five.”
“Point is, you’ll have plenty of options once you’re recovered from your injury.”
I gave a shrug. “I don’t plan to leave the area, but you’re correct.”
At that, he nodded. “Williams has quite the future here.”
“Good.” I paused as my phone vibrated with another text. “If that’s everything? I think my agent is trying to contact me.”
Mr. Roth gave me a nod, rose, and held out his hand. When we shook, he said, “You’re a smart man, Jon. You’ll land on your feet.”
“Thanks. Oh, can I suggest Bruno Doran as Otters Captain? The room respects him, and he’s got a good head on his shoulders.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
On my way down to the rink, I checked my phone, and yup, there was my agent with several texts and a voice mail, all of which said, more or less, Call me.
So I found a conference room that looked out onto the player’s parking lot, and called him back. “Hey Jack.”
“Jonny, look, I don’t want this to blindside you during your recovery, but?—”
“The Otters aren’t re-signing me? ”
“Ah, shit. Roth called you first?”
“I’m at the training center. I had ice-time and rehab this morning, then stuck around to watch Lions camp. Roth found me. Took me to his office to tell me the news.”
“You don’t sound upset.” He sounded upset, though.
“That’s because I’m not.” I ticked off all the reasons they wouldn’t re-sign me. “Plus who knows how I’m going to play once I finish all this?”
“Well,” he said slowly, “I kind of thought by now you might. You know your body better than anyone.”
Yeah, that’s what worried me. My shoulder didn’t feel quite right. It was better—fine, I suppose. But sometimes it didn’t move in ways it could before, not without pain, anyway. “The doctors say it’s healing fine. They don’t see why I shouldn’t recover fully.”
There was a snort on the line. “Don’t PR me, Jonny. What’s actually going on?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right. I’ve told them, and they’re not concerned, since I can do the exercises and move and all that. Imaging says I should be fine.”
He grunted. “Let’s keep that to ourselves for now. You could improve in the next few months. I’ll start looking?—”
I cut him off. “Jack, I’m retiring.”
Dead silence, then “What?”
“I’m retiring,” I repeated. “Don’t waste your time.”
“You’re thirty , Jon. You have at least another five years of a pro career. Probably more. The shoulder is just a minor setback” He sounded incredulous. “You can’t retire!”
“I can and I am. If I want to keep playing, I’ll have to leave western Pennsylvania, and I’m not leaving.” My life was here. Drake was here. My bar, my friends. Everything. “It’s fine, Jack.”
He sputtered on the other end. “Is this your boyfriend’s doing?”
I laughed, loudly enough that someone came down the hall and looked into the room—one of the trainers—I waved him off. “ No .” I paused, then went on. “Oh my God, Jack. You’ve known me since I was fourteen . When has anyone ever made me do any thing? Even my father doesn’t try. Drake doesn’t even know I’m retiring yet.” I gestured to the ice, even though Jack couldn’t see. “He’s still out there training. I haven’t talked to him.”
Silence on the other end. “Well, you should. It’s a big life decision, and if you’re serious about him?—”
“I am.”
He made an annoyed little grunt. “If you’re serious about him, you shouldn’t make a life-altering decision without him knowing. I’ll leave the door open for you. Text me in a week.”
I sighed. “All right. But I’ll still be retiring in a week.”
“Jonny, trust me on this. I do actually have your best interests at heart.”
I was sure of that, and appreciated Jack telling me to slow down and not be foolish about this. I also knew Drake and myself, and I’d already pivoted, just like on the ice. The difference was in this, I had the skills to execute this move beautifully. “I know you’re looking out for me. I’ll talk to you in a week.”
We hung up, and I went back to watching the Lions run through drills, seeing each player’s strengths and weaknesses. Noting what they needed to work on—all the stuff I used to do in our practices between drills.
I wasn’t a hockey player anymore. Sure, Jack would pester me to not retire, but it was official in my head. I always expected when this day came, I’d feel sad, or melancholy, or some negative emotion. Instead, I was excited. Elated. Happy for the future.
Coaching young hockey players? Yes. Bring it on.
Of course, I had to get hired first, but given what MaryAnne had said, that would happen if I applied. Coaching kids seemed like a useful outlet for a hockey boyfriend. Would keep me out of trouble when Drake was on the road.
I huffed a laugh at myself. Yeah. I really did need to talk to Drake.