Chapter 3
three
Phil [reading from a notecard]: Favorite things to do on your downtime. Oh, this should be good.
Tom: What’s that supposed to mean?
Phil: Name one hobby you have that isn’t hockey-related.
Tom: I, um…I…watch the news sometimes?
Phil: [looks pointedly at the camera]
Tom: Okay, at least I don’t have old man hobbies.
Phil: Who are you calling old?
Tom: He goes fishing. For hours. Every couple days in the summer. It’s the most boring thing I have ever done on an off day, and I don’t even have hobbies.
Phil: Fishing is a sport! It’s a question of endurance and patience, and it clears your mind. You should try it some time. Maybe you’d find space in there for something besides hockey plays—
Kayleigh: Okay, maybe we should move on to the next question.
Top comments:
sealions4lyfe: bros being bros
stickstickpuck: does anyone else get old married vibes?
magpiesmolt16: This just in: Sea Lions continue to be the NHL team most devoid of charisma. Jax Grant must be going insane in their locker room.
(From “Get to Know the Sea Lions Leadership Team,” posted on Instagram on 11/03/2024)
On the last free day before a weeklong road trip to the East Coast, Tom found himself standing in Phil Easton’s kitchen chopping bell peppers.
“You want a barbecue, you make a barbecue,” Phil had said when he left Tom with the cutting board and the peppers. Shamefully, Tom had been banking on Phil’s wife to help him pick up the slack, but according to Phil, Camille was “in Paris or maybe New York, I don’t know.”
Tom did not understand their marriage.
This had been an extremely stupid idea.
As a general rule, Tom tried not to let his ego get in the way.
Hard to do when you made nine million dollars a year chasing a piece of rubber across ice with a big stick, but he did try.
In this concrete instance, he failed miserably.
Something about the way Jax had so easily slotted himself into the team, giving out nicknames and listening to personal problems, rubbed Tom the wrong way by highlighting all his own failings.
Tom wasn’t mad about Jax doing a good job as an alternate.
He wasn’t mad Jax had called him out on falling short of his responsibilities.
He was furious Jax had gotten such an accurate read on Tom after knowing him for so short a time, and, worse, that he could do nothing but accept it and try to do better. Which led him here, chopping peppers while Phil went out to buy lighter fluid.
Jax arrived before Phil returned, which was the poop icing on a shit cake.
Tom pasted on a smile. “Hi, you’re early. We’re just getting set up.”
“I know. I’m here to help.”
Tom had been afraid of that. After Tom issued the invitation on Wednesday, Jax had asked several times if he could do anything or bring anything, and it brought Tom a small sliver of pleasure to turn him down each time.
Jax picked up a massive plastic container from the stoop and pushed his way inside. “I brought brownies.”
“Brownies.” Why did proximity to Jax turn him into an idiot who repeated things? It’d been more than a week at this point, and the words “slutting it up” still rolled around Tom’s mind when his hip kept him up at night.
“Yeah, I bake. Promise they’re gluten-free and low sugar.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“Excuse you. I am good at what I do.”
“I know.”
Therein lay the crux of the problem. Jax insisted on being good at everything, and he was also— Well.
He had strange men coming out of his room in the middle of the night, and he thought Tom hated him because of it, not because of the stark reminder of his own inadequacy.
All of it was terrible, but the worst part was Jax legitimately being good at everything, from hockey to making friends to, apparently, baking.
As much as Tom wanted to hate him, he made it kind of impossible.
With no other alternatives, Tom turned tail and returned to the kitchen and his bell peppers.
Jax followed, set his brownies on the table, and leaned casually against the counter. “Really? Me being good at stuff?”
“Huh?”
“You don’t like me because I’m good at baking?”
“I never said I didn’t like you.”
“You didn’t have to. So, the baking?”
“No,” Tom lied through gritted teeth.
“Is it the Calder? You definitely should have won it too.”
“Ivan Abramov is the best goalie in the Atlantic Division. He deserved it.”
“You’re the best left wing in the Pacific and Central.”
Tom stopped mid-cut. “I am not.”
“Crow. You are. Don’t bullshit me.”
“It’s not bullshit. I didn’t win the Calder for a reason.
I haven’t won the Art Ross for a reason.
This team hasn’t won a Cup for a reason.
” Tom had never said as much out loud, but he found it a relief to put words to the disappointment of it all.
The disappointment he had turned out to be.
He rubbed his hip absentmindedly; remembering all the things he had yet to achieve in his career worsened the ache.
Jax stared at him as if he was insane. “Tom, the reason isn’t you.”
Tom couldn’t help the disbelieving sound that scratched its way out of his throat.
“Seriously?” Jax shook his head. “You’re only one player. San Francisco hasn’t won a Cup because it took ten years for management to build a decent team.”
“This team has been around for thirteen years.” Tom would know.
He’d been there for every unlucky second, barring the four weeks in February 2016 when he’d sprained his wrist and the team hadn’t made the playoffs for the fourth year running.
He’d stuck it out through every other strain and tear, relying on anti-inflammatories and ice baths and his own lack of a life outside of work.
“Yeah, and your offensive coach is shit, your defensive coach is a maniac, and the special teams are a mess.”
“Our.”
“What?”
“It’s our offensive coach, our defensive coach, and our special teams. Aren’t you here to fix all of our problems and save the team?”
“You have got to work on your self-esteem. Move over; you’re really shit at this.
” Jax hip-checked Tom away from the cutting board, which didn’t help with the achy hip situation or the self-esteem, and proceeded to chop the remaining six peppers into slices faster than Tom had managed one. Of course he could cook too.
“So, you hate me because you couldn’t get a Cup without me?”
“I don’t hate you.”
“Strongly dislike me, then.”
Tom sighed. “You make me feel deeply inadequate, all right?” He didn’t have to admit his inadequacy stemmed not only from losing out on the Calder or the Art Ross or the Stanley Cup but, instead, also spanned the easy way Jax talked to people, the expertise with which he handled kitchen equipment, and the fact that he had no problem inviting men up to his hotel room.
Jax paused, glancing up from the zucchini he was decimating into precise circles. “Would it help if I let you cut the zucchini?”
“It would help if you would let it go. You’re right about me being a shit captain. I’m talking to the rookies. I’m doing the barbecue. What more do you want from me?”
“I’ll make you a deal. You give me an in with Easton and the other older guys, I’ll help you with the rookies.”
“And you’ll stop saying I hate you.”
“And I’ll stop saying you hate me.”
“Fine.”
They shook on it, and then Jax explained how to chop vegetables like a one-man food processor, a skill Tom had never aspired to possess.
Tom hated to admit it, but the evening wound up being fun.
The team trickled in one by one, and by five, Phil had a full house.
Phil would never say it out loud, but he had the kind of dad energy that thrived on hosting low-key events; he was showing people around and getting more beers from the basement and shoving people away from the grill because they’d been doing it wrong all evening.
Breezy brought his girlfriend, a tall, slim blonde called Vanessa. She worked in interior design, and Tom asked her for tips to liven up his apartment. He didn’t think he’d be investing in any of the designer furniture brands she mentioned, but an accent wall sounded tempting.
When she left to go to the bathroom, he told Breezy, “She’s nice.”
“You think so?” Breezy smiled brightly. He’d been on the team three years already, but he was still so eager to please. “Our parents know each other. My mom set us up.”
Tom could not imagine a world in which his parents would set him up. He could not imagine a world where he would actually go on that date. “So, she’s from Montreal as well?”
“Yeah, and her family’s from Sicily. Which, I mean, it’s not Calabria, but my mom still likes her.
” Breezy rolled the “r” in Calabria, a skill Tom found so momentarily distracting he didn’t quite parse the idea of blonde-haired, blue-eyed Vanessa having Sicilian origins until he spotted her walking back, her sparkly beige sweater-dress catching in the light.
Had he missed something about the dress code for a casual barbecue?
There were at least three other women sporting similar tones of tan and light brown.
The only woman wearing white was Hayesie’s fiancée.
“So, Breezy, uh, Chris tells me you’re Sicilian?” Tom asked.
Vanessa nodded eagerly. “Oh, yeah, my great-grandparents on my mom’s side came to Canada in the thirties.”
“Right.” There went that particular avenue of conversation.
Except then, Vanessa opened her mouth and kept going. “Yeah, I mean, my dad has Dutch roots, I think, even further back, but the family decided to be lenient when my mom married him. It’s a good thing I met Chris though. My sister’s marrying a guy from Sweden!”
Tom had been aware that Breezy had an Italian last name despite being French Canadian. The knowledge had not prepared him for anything he’d heard in the last ten minutes.
At least he wasn’t alone in being blindsided. Breezy had heard the word “marry” and gone as pale as a sheet.