Hearts on the Fly

Chapter 1

Jabari

Two minutes left in the game, and we’re down by one. I race toward the goal, keeping my eyes out for my left and right wingers. Our rivals, the Pittsburgh Emperors, are leading our division halfway through this season. We’re right on their heels, hoping this game can put us on top.

The Emperors’ goalie has been on point all night. If I can sneak the puck past him, we’ll tie. Just as I set up to aim a shot, one of their defensemen slams me into the boards. Pushing back, I scan for the puck, but he slams me again, pinning my face against the plexiglass.

“Got it,” Pascal, our left winger, yells.

The Emperors’ defense players race after him.

Finally free, I follow them. I need to get in an open position in case Pascal needs to pass the puck back to me.

But one of their guys blocks Pascal’s shot and heads down the ice, back toward our goal.

Tae, our right defenseman, checks him, but another Emperors player takes possession and takes a slap shot right at our goal.

Raimo Karvonen, our goalie, catches the biscuit in his right glove, and the crowd roars with approval.

I glance at the clock. There’s a minute and thirty seconds left to play.

Raimo slides me the puck, and I pass to Sanchez, who takes it down the ice.

Our line keeps forward progression, eyes on the prize.

Pascal blocks an Emperor, and a prime position for the goal awaits me.

Sanchez sees the opening and passes the puck my way.

I pull my stick back. Swing. Connect.

It sails right over the goalie’s shoulder and into the net.

The crowd cheers as the goal horn blares.

I throw my hands into the air. Pascal and Sanchez quickly flank me, slapping me on the back.

Tae and Trevor, our two defensemen, skate behind me and pat my shoulders.

I grin as we break the huddle, then skate over to the bench and high-five the guys on the bench.

Our line sits as the next enters the ice.

Whew.

According to the scoreboard clock, I’ve been playing a total of fifteen minutes. The coaches keep each line on around two minutes, trading us out here and there to keep our legs fresh and our spirits high.

My attention turns to the game. All Raimo has to do is ensure the Emperors don’t score again before the clock runs out. If we end up in overtime, I know we can win.

Fifty-seven seconds left.

Coach calls for a switch, and Sanchez is back on the ice.

He’s clutch in the last second, which is why he gets called out more often than not.

One of our guys rams an Emperor forward up against the boards.

Sanchez shoves his stick along the sides to gain possession of the puck.

His skates cause a spray of ice as he sprints toward our rival’s goal.

“Come on, Sanchez, come on.”

“Make the goal,” Tae mumbles beside me.

I let a small grin cover my lips, but I don’t lose focus on the puck. My breath hitches as Sanchez attempts an impossible shot. The horn blares and I cheer. Game over, but we’ve made the goal just in time. It’s a win for us.

The whole team flocks to the center of the ice, sticks held in the air in celebration.

Our fans give us a standing ovation. There’s nothing like a win, and one against our chief rival is even sweeter.

The whole team lines up, waves to the fans, then circles around the rink before exiting into the player tunnel leading to the locker room.

I take off my helmet and pop my neck side to side.

I hate to admit it, but my body feels every jab, every hit, every single movement I make.

At thirty-three, I’m considered old by hockey standards.

At least I’m not as old as Jaromír Jágr was when he played for the Calgary Flames back in 2017.

Bro was in his mid-forties. Still, my knees are probably at least fifty years old.

Which is why I let the PT assistant wrap the joints as soon as my pads and uniform shorts come off. Someone plays Queen, and “We Are the Champions” fills the locker room. I throw a fist in the air and let out a loud cry of jubilation.

I can’t stop the grin from forming. Tonight was our night. Sanchez making that last goal was peak. Granted, the kid’s only twenty-four and has endless amounts of energy.

As the song ends, Coach motions for us to quiet down. I lean forward, wiping the sweat from my brow with the towel hanging from my neck.

“Y’all played one heck of a game.”

The locker room fills with cheers once more.

“All right, all right.” His hands splay out downward.

“I don’t want to keep you. I know y’all got families waiting for you.

” He looks at the sheet in his hand. “Sanchez, Karvonen, and Hall, I need y’all out with the reporters.

Sanchez, obviously they’ll want to talk about the game-winning goal.

Raimo, good job on that block.” He turns toward me.

“And, Crank, they’ll want to talk about the shot that tied us up and allowed Sanchez to get us that W. ”

“I’ll be out there, Coach.” Unlike Sanchez and Raimo, I don’t have anyone waiting for me in the family room. My dad is a nonentity, and my mom lives in Ohio.

Oh, and a wife? Yeah, not for me.

I grab my white Warriors hoodie and throw on some matching sweatpants. I’m not required to dress up for the interview, so I won’t. I still need a shower, but the reporters want us fresh from the rink, not necessarily smelling fresh.

Sanchez and Raimo meet me in the hall leading to the conference room where the reporters wait. We each represent the Warriors’ colors, with one of the guys wearing all blue sweats and the other all red. We’re repping our nation’s capital well.

Sanchez and I exchange a fist bump, then walk into the media room. Flashes go off as the three of us take our seats. Soon, the questions begin.

“My question is for Jabari Hall. Crank, you’re thirty-three years old. Do you feel like your days in the NHL are numbered, or do you think you still have a future with the Warriors?”

Why does someone always comment about my age after games?

Don’t they tire of the same ol’ questions?

If they see any flaws in my performance, my age is always brought up.

If I do something right, it’s a credit to me because obviously I’m an old man who keeps his body at peak performance. Their standards are impossible.

I quirk my lips into my trademark smile and speak into the mic. “You saw the game. Do you think I play like I’m ready to retire?”

The reporters laugh, including Julie Adams, the one who asked the question in the first place. Julie likes to flirt with me, but I refuse to date a reporter. She probably sees me as a meal ticket instead of a potential bae.

“You were on fire tonight, but surely this level of play won’t last?”

I shrug. “There have been plenty of people who have played into their forties. I’m not a phenomenon.”

Sanchez answers questions about his last-minute shot, then Raimo talks about his one-glove catch.

Finally, we’re dismissed as Coach takes over.

I get up from my seat and stroll to the door like I don’t have a care in the world.

Truly, I don’t, but the high is easing, and fatigue is beginning to set in.

“Man, this night’s been crazy,” Sanchez says.

I slap him on the back. “Maybe so, but you did good out there, kid.”

“So did you, ol’ man.”

I bark out a laugh.

“Are you two going to the celebration tonight?” Raimo asks, his accented English a nod to his Finnish ancestry.

“Nah. Yas has been asking for a night out, so I already made a reservation at J?nt,” Sanchez replies.

My brows raise. “Taking her to a Michelin restaurant? Is tonight special?”

Sanchez clears his throat. “I bought a ring.”

“A ring?” Surprise fills Raimo’s voice.

We all stop in front of the locker room.

“Bro, you’re only twenty-four.” I scratch my chin, but my mind can’t come up with anything else to say.

At his age, I dated every single woman who thought hockey players were hot. Now I avoid jersey chasers when possible. I’m not interested in settling down. In my experience, women aren’t honest about what they want, and I’m not making promises to someone who isn’t genuine.

“Yas has been my ride or die since high school. She’s always been the one. I’m just worried this life’s not for her.”

Truth. But is that my cynicism speaking?

I’ve never seen his girl flirt with any of the other guys like I’ve seen some of the other players’ wives do. Those players are now divorced and working on their next marriage, but that’s beside the point. On paper, Yas looks perfect, and Sanchez seems hopeful.

“Good luck, man.”

“Yeah, good luck,” Raimo echoes.

“Thanks, Crank. Thanks, Raimo.”

I nod. Most of the guys call me by my nickname, which I earned in my first two years playing with the Warriors because I crank out the goals. Even the coaching staff use my nickname more than my given one. Coach Turner is the only one who seems to remember my first name is Jabari.

I make quick work of a shower and change back into my game-day suit.

After grabbing my duffel bag, I walk out to the players’ parking garage, where my SUV waits.

Unlike the other guys, my ride isn’t a truck or a high-powered sports car.

There’s too much traffic in the DC area for me to want to pay tons in gas—not that I can’t afford it.

But I pair my practicality with the desire to show off, so I went with Lamborghini’s latest dip into the SUV world.

The SUV is more of a crossover and came in a blue that perfectly matches the Warriors’ primary color.

Add on an NHL license plate and my fandom is perfectly displayed.

I drive down Constitution Avenue toward I-66 and soon find myself on the toll road to McLean, Virginia, where I lay my head.

A lot of the guys have homes in the area, and I almost went the route of the huge mansion, but that seemed impractical since I live alone.

So I purchased a penthouse in a high-rise building.

The three bedrooms are enough for someone to stay over if one of the guys needs a place to crash or my mom comes to visit.

My keys clang into the bowl sitting on the foyer cabinet.

I toe my shoes off and step into the slippers waiting by the door, then drop my duffel next to the foyer table.

My stomach rumbles, reminding me I need a postgame meal to replace the two thousand calories I just burned in the two-and-a-half-hour game.

I open the fridge and choose one of the meals my personal chef left behind, a chicken-and-sweet-potato dish.

After heating it up, I wolf down the food in no time.

Though I have a dining table and a kitchen table, I usually eat at the kitchen island.

The barstools hold me just fine. There’s no reason to sit at a table all by myself.

Am I a little lonely?

“Jabari, you are not lonely.” Crap, did my words just echo in here?

I look around as if visual evidence of an echo can be found, but all I see is the furniture my interior designer used to decorate the space.

The monochrome colors aren’t very personable—it almost looks staged.

There are no family pictures displayed on my living room walls.

The only thing that has my true mark is my office.

Pictures of big wins from high school through my professional career decorate the walls.

It’s probably why I’m in that room the most, even though I don’t really have any work to do in there.

Usually I spend time posting on my social media sites, reporting anything the Warriors pass to us, and answering fan mail that’s been forwarded to me by my assistant.

My days are pretty straightforward. Workout.

Practice. Play in the games. Come home. Rest and repeat.

I haven’t been on a date in maybe a year and have no plans to go on one anytime soon.

Why would I? All women want to know is when can I see myself settling down and how much money I pull in per season.

It doesn’t help that the world loves to report on NHL players’ salary.

The gold diggers know how much I’ll bring home after taxes before I do.

Because of that, I’m giving dating a break, which means the only people I hang around are the Warriors.

Crap. Maybe I actually am lonely.