Page 1 of His Jersey

1

JACK

When you’rea ten but are hiding in a supply closet, are you really?

I lived a charmed life until last Tuesday. Now, I’m rethinking things. I rub my hand down my face. No, I’d rather not give it another thought. At least, not right now.

A female voice calls, “Where did he go?”

“Maybe he’s teasing us, playing hide and seek,” the other puck bunny trills.

The first replies, “I promise that he’ll find a prize at the end of the yellow brick road.”

I bite my tongue and resist the urge to shake my head so I don’t accidentally give away my location. At the very least, the comment deserves a solid eye roll. Not that I have any idea what it means.

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” the second one singsongs.

“We have cookies with your face on them.”

Once, an overzealous female fan made me a carrot cake with an icing design that was supposed to look like the two ofus kissing. I left it in the locker room. Having forgotten my gear bag, I went back. Some of the guys on the team were waiting and shoved it in my face. Yeah, I probably deserved that.

A crunching sound follows, and one of the puck bunnies purrs, “So yummy and scrummy, Jackie. Come have a bite.”

I nearly growl. The only person allowed to call me that was my mother. That’s the way I’d like it to stay, but I hold back to not give away my location.

After the game, I got the alert that the puck bunnies were on the prowl. When a large group left the locker room, I tried to blend in but only made it as far as this closet. I sniff the air. Odd. It smells like pickles. They still think I’m showering. Never mind. I don’t want them to imagine that.

Yes, I’m a grown man taking refuge amidst mops, the floor buffer, and an assortment of chemical cleaners, but I’ll admit I’ve done this to myself.

Unfortunately, this is business as usual. It’s my fault I have female fans constantly on my tail. In the not-so-distant past, I welcomed the attention. Lately, it’s lost its luster. Then, last Tuesday, I had a close call, prompting me to reevaluate things.

If I kept a journal, it would read something like this: After the LA Lions crushed our team in a four-zero blowout, I sat in traffic for thirty minutes, stewing about how our netminder allowed in two short-handers. At one point, I’d tried to slot the puck back to our D for a zone entry, but Duffton was napping in his skates. The Lions’ forwards got a gimme as they tic-tac-toed it into the goal.

It was brutal.

Sitting there in traffic, I mentally replayed the game for an hour, which lapsed into nearly two. The driver couldn’t monster truck his way over the other vehicles. I could’ve walked to the private airstrip instead of beating myself up about the game.

With the clock ticking like a fuse on my freedom, I plugged the airport address into my phone, got out of the sleek black SUV right there on the one-ten freeway, and started walking.

With my cap pulled low and my bag slung over my shoulder, I hoped no one recognized me.

Having successfully avoided being mobbed by fans, when I exited the offramp on foot, a car came out of nowhere, nearly careening into me. I dove out of the way as it smashed headlong into the cement overpass column.

Turns out that I accidentally walked onto a movie set, which explained why the offramp was closed, clogging up traffic.

Still, it shook me up, especially since it was the anniversary of my mother’s passing.

After getting a cameo shot in the film and spending the rest of the day recounting the experience, since I missed my plane, I opted to fly out to Jewel Island Resort the next day.

Then, I had a Wednesday that made me wonder how many of those remained in my life.

The private plane made a rough landing at our destination in South Carolina because a gear shaft was faulty, so said the mechanic. Turns out one of the ground crew guys left his metal water bottle next to the extension actuator while lubricating it. Suffice it to say he didn’t get to use the lifetime warranty.

Then came Thursday, which I wanted to avoid and not because I feared for my life, though they do say things happen in threes.

My father was hosting the New Year Celebration of Rising Stars in the Trust Coalition. It would’ve been as obnoxious as it sounds. Guaranteed.

There’s nothing worse than rich people who think they’re doing good deeds by throwing money at causes they’re told are virtuous. Call me jaded, but half the time, they’re gettingripped off. Though, I suppose, it’s their cash. They can set it on fire for all I care.

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