Chapter Thirty
Thirty
Jaylen
LUCY:
JAYLEN:
LUCY:
JAYLEN:
We kick off practice with some easy laps around the rink. The boys like to joke that it’s the Indianapolis 500 on ice, but I don’t feel much like joking today. I’ve got too much on my mind to banter and skate.
Once shooting drills get underway, I begin to find my flow. A lot of players hate practicing—not me. I find the repetition comforting. Not only am I getting the most out of practices lately, but my new off-ice routine is clearly working. Last week I was awarded the NHL’s first star after tallying six goals and four assists in four games. It took me years to understand that training doesn’t end when I leave the rink; for me, it includes my therapy and medication.
Unlike a structured NHL practice, the game of hockey is unpredictable. It’s wild, and erratic, which means I need to be as controlled and calm as possible. I need to be able to predict and intercept the game. My panic attacks and depression had previously hindered my ability to keep my head in the game. Since getting help, I’m better equipped to handle what’s thrown my way. However, there is one last thing weighing on my mind today, and after practice I’m getting it off my chest.
I skate hard into the corner, fearlessly fighting for the puck. I lose it to the defender, who saucers it up to their winger and into the neutral zone. The next group of guys step up and the drill restarts.
“Come on, JJ. You’re not going to let an old guy like me take you off the puck that easily, are you?” Wells chirps, nudging me with his elbow as we make our way back into the neutral zone.
“You might not be fast, but you’re strong as hell, dude.” I huff, catching my breath.
“Other than my unbeatable dad strength, is everything good? You seem a bit distracted this morning. Unless you let me take you off that puck in the corner on purpose, in which case, thank you. I need all the help I can get.”
We stop in front of the bench and each grab a squirt of water from the bottles lined up on top of the boards. I lean against them, taking some weight off my feet.
“I’ve got an interview after practice with the team reporter, Nichole.” I slide off my glove to wipe the sweat off my brow.
“Life of a superstar.” Wells shakes his head and laughs. “Do you think she would let me contribute a quote?” He takes another drink. The sweat from practice is dripping down his cheek and we’re only one drill deep.
“It’s not that kind of article. I’m launching a nonprofit foundation and the team is helping me announce it,” I say.
“That’s awesome, man. Let me know how I can help.” Wells squirts water all over his face and shakes it off like a wet dog.
“Thanks. I’ll tell ya about it tonight at the party.” I grab one last squirt of water before tossing the bottle on the bench, ready to rejoin the drills.
“Hey, Wells!” Coach Pete’s voice carries over from center ice. “You going to work any other muscle besides your tongue this practice?”
Wells throws his arms up in overexaggerated outrage. “What about JJ?” he shouts back.
“I’ll leave you alone when you’re the NHL’s first star of the week,” Coach Pete says before blowing his whistle for the next group to start the drill.
Wells covers his mouth with his glove and says discreetly, “Guess he’s never going to get off my back then.” He smacks the top of my helmet playfully and skates off.
As practice comes to a close, Coach Pete calls the team to center ice. “Good job today, boys. We got a couple of days off before the playoffs start, so let’s rest up and stay hungry. Let’s get the most out of these practices so we’re ready for game one. I’ll see you guys tonight at the team dinner.”
The team finished the season second in the Pacific Division, a long way from their last-place finish a few seasons ago and even better than last season, when they narrowly missed out on a wild-card playoff spot. We are currently riding a hot streak into the playoffs, which start later in the week, but until then, we are all headed to a team dinner tonight. The owner of the team has organized a low-key event for the players, coaching staff, and significant others to gather and celebrate our accomplishment. I’m picking Lucy up later tonight, but first, I have to sit down with Nichole.
Nichole is waiting for me outside the team’s locker room. I’m usually the first guy on the massage table after practice ends, but today I skipped postpractice treatment and showered in record time so I could get out and get this part of my day over with.
I don’t hate the media. I understand that they have a job to do, and that job helps promote the team and the sport, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy the spotlight. When you’ve had a famously polarizing career like mine, you know which reporters are only in it for the clicks and views, and which ones have enough integrity to get the story right.
Nichole is employed by the team and has agreed to write a story that does me justice. I trust she’ll make me sound good.
“Should we grab a seat in the media room?” Nichole says discreetly.
I don’t want to be rude to her, but I hate the media room. The lights, the backdrop, the chairs all facing the podium. Even if it’s only going to be her and I in the room today, I would rather chat anywhere else.
“Can we sit in the stands instead?” I ask.
I follow Nichole up the stairs, and we find seats near center ice. While she gets herself set up for the interview, I stare down at the clean, glossy ice. The overhead lights reflect off the freshly flooded and untouched sheet like a mirror.
Nichole presses the record button on her phone. “Ready when you are.” She rests the ball of her pen against a fresh piece of paper in her notepad.
I take a swig of my BodyArmor and brace myself.
“I’m officially launching Cam’s House, a nonprofit organization helping to provide shelter, food, and therapy for youth experiencing homelessness in Seattle. This week we’re handing out personal hygiene items to Tent City camps.” The words come out exactly as I’ve rehearsed them.
One answer down. I release the grip on my drink and dry my sweaty palms on the tops of my thighs. As much as I’ve always hated postgame press conferences and intermission reports, at least I could spew the same regurgitated lines over and over. This is different. I’m not talking about getting pucks deep or giving it a hundred and ten percent—I’m talking about Cam.
“What inspired you to launch Cam’s House?” Nichole continues to jot down notes on her pad of paper while never breaking our eye contact.
“Teen homelessness, drug abuse, and mental health crises are serious issues facing the community here.” I give the rest of my prepped PR answer. I deliver it with the same cadence I would when reciting a response to a beat reporter at a postgame presser. Like when Bob from the Times asks in a roundabout way who was responsible for the team’s loss, and I have to dance around the answer. Over the years I’ve gotten good at the dance, so good that I’m subconsciously shutting Nichole out right now.
Nichole drops her pen and sets her notebook to the side. I continue to shift around in my seat, tearing at the label on my drink.
“Everything you’ve said so far about the initiative is really powerful, but if you’re comfortable talking about it, I would love to know about Cam.”
I knew the question would come up—I just hope I say the right thing. “Cam was my best friend growing up. We played youth hockey together as kids. One time when we were ten, this asshole on the other team yelled at me to go back to Africa. Cam beat the wheels off that kid and almost got himself kicked out of the league. He was always the first one to be there for his friends, like he was on standby, waiting for you to need him. We ended up drifting apart as we got older, and he got wrapped up in being there for friends who didn’t have his best interests. He could have used a charity like this. Actually, he would have been the first one volunteering to help hand stuff out to those in need. He died of an overdose in 2020.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Jaylen.” Nichole gives me a second to gather my composure.
I relax into my seat, staring down at center ice like it’s a hypnosis spiral. Voices carry down the hall and suddenly people are filling the rink.
“Shoot, that was today,” Nichole says under her breath. “The team is holding their monthly public skate this afternoon. We can move over to the media room for more privacy.” She tosses her belongings into her tote bag.
I continue watching the public skaters. The ice is no longer unmarked. It’s littered with couples gliding in pairs, adults holding up small children learning to balance on blades, and kids racing as they weave in and out of other skaters.
I try to hold myself back from saying too much about Cam; I don’t want to jeopardize my opportunity to sign a long-term deal this offseason, but at the same time I want to honor Cam with the truth. And I want to honor myself.
“I missed his funeral. I had a game, and I missed his funeral for it. I can’t tell you a single play from that night. I can’t even tell you the score, but I still live with the regret. I haven’t been playing with a nagging injury all these years—I’ve been playing through regret,” I say, still looking down at the ice.
Nichole doesn’t say anything; she only listens.
As I watch the public skaters, I notice two young boys ripping around the rink, laughing uncontrollably as they spray ice up on each other. Then I see a father and his son clinging to the boards as they step out on the ice for what is clearly both their first times.
“Do you remember the first time you ever skated?” Ni-chole asks.
The question catches me off guard, but still, I don’t need much time to recall the memory. It’s one of my favorites. “Yeah. I kept telling my dad that I was going to fall if I let go of the boards. Finally he said, ‘You’ll never skate if you don’t.’”
“That’s pretty solid advice.”
“What’s crazy is that no matter how good you get at skating, sometimes you still fall.”
“But you keep getting up.”
In remembering my father’s advice, I realize I have a platform; what good is a voice if I don’t speak? I’m having an undeniably successful season, and the more I’ve lived my truth, the more I’ve reached out to others, the better I’ve gotten. If this team doesn’t want me for who I really am, then another one will. And even if they don’t, I’m done hiding. It was never luck that pushed me out of my funk—it was healing.
I tell Nichole everything. I tell her about the pressure to never miss a game, and the guilt over my choice to give in to that demand. I tell her that the pressure to live up to my draft status caused crippling panic attacks until I sought help for anxiety and depression. Then I tell her in great detail about my new charity initiative and how I hope I can honor my friend and be there for kids in the way I couldn’t be there for Cam.
I spill it all and don’t stop to worry about what others might think of me, including my peers. I don’t have the security of a long-term contract yet, but I don’t care if the Rainiers don’t want me after I tell my truth. This is who I am—on and off the ice. When I sat down for this interview, I had no intention of talking about my own mental health and the challenges I am learning to face, but I feel better having done it.
By the end, Nichole shakes my hand and assures me she’ll deliver a story that does me justice. She thanks me for my honesty and commends my bravery. I accept her praise, even though I still feel unworthy of it.
When I finally get into my car, I let out a deep breath of relief from the fact that the interview is finally over. Then I turn on some Phoebe Bridgers for the drive home.