Page 3 of What If I Knew You

He nods, his expression growing more serious. “Yes. It’s true. You have stellar form, Kid but here’s the difference between us and you,” he says, gesturing between me and the rest of the team. “Weare a team.Wehave always been a team.Wewill always be a team. We run like a well-oiled machine. It’s a give and take. There isn’t one of us on this team who is better than the other. We all have different strengths and weaknesses and we know how to use them to our advantage in a game setting.”

“It’s true,” Ledger says as he walks by. He gestures to Griffin. “This guy is the king of assist. He’ll set you up for the killer shot almost every time and we know we can trust him to always be there.”

“Right.” Griffin nods and gestures to Ledger. “And this guy can skate rings around me. He’s fast as fuck so if I can get him a pass he can take the puck down the ice in seconds. Like I said, well-oiled machine. And you can either learn how the machine works and become a part of it, or you’re left standing on the outside looking in wondering where the power button is. You’ve got a lot of talent, Roche. A lot. But if you want to feel like a member of the team, you’ve got to act like a member of the team. Got it?”

I huff out my frustrations in a tight breath. “Yeah. I got it.”

He pats my back and gives me a smile. “Good. Now clean yourself up Pickle Pants, it’s time for lunch.”

I hop in the shower, mulling over what Griffin and Ledger had to say after practice, and remember what my father once said to me after a particularly frustrating high school hockey practice.

“It’s not right,” I whine, grabbing a can of cola from the fridge. “I work my ass off for him but it’s like Coach doesn’t even know I exist. He knows I can skate better than any one of them. They all know it. They all call me lightning for a reason.”

“Speed is nothing if you can’t sink a puck, Bodhi.”

“But I can sink the puck! If they would just pass it to me, but they never do!”

Dad lays his hands on my shoulder and gives me a patient smile. “Let me give you a piece of advice, son. You are a fantastic athlete. You’re strong. You’re hardworking. You’re smart and you are kind. But perhaps you’re not always coachable.”

I tip my head. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“As you go forward in all you do,surround yourself with people who will challenge you to be a better version of yourself,” he says. “Listen to what others have to say before making rash decisions. And never be afraid to look at yourself in the mirror to try to see what someone else sees. And if they’re not seeing what you want them to see, ask yourself why. Perception is reality, son. Even when you don’t mean it to be.”

“But maybe they’re just perceiving me all wrong.”

He nods. “That is absolutely true. And that’s what I mean when I say perception is reality. If someone perceives you to be a non-team player, then to them, that’s what you are. If someone perceives you to not be a kind person, then to them, you are unkind. See what I’m saying?”

I take in his words and repeat them to myself. “Yeah, Dad. I hear you.”

“Great things are going to happen for you, son. One day you will be a star.”

A star.

I smile to myself and wonder if Dad knew back then that I would one day be an Anaheim Star.

After I’m showered and dressed, I grab my cellphone and tap the screen for any missed messages. My brows furrow at the lone text waiting for me.

Unknown

Hey Dad. I left spaghetti in the fridge for you. Garlic bread is wrapped in foil. Good luck tonight.

“Dad?” I chuckle. “Afraid not, asshat. No dad here.” Giving my thumbs a quick workout, I text back a reply.

Me

Uh, last I checked I’m 24 and very sure I haven’t fathered any children just yet. I’m sorry to say you’ve texted the wrong number.

Shoving my phone into my back pocket, I make my way to the conference room where the team is having lunch before continuing with the rest of the day’s game-day routines. When I sit down, my phone buzzes in my pocket so I pull it out to check assuming it’s an apology from whoever just mis-texted me.

Unknown

Dangit! Who’s going to eat all this spaghetti then?

I huff out a laugh at the witty response appreciating their sense of humor and text them back.

Me

Well that all depends. Are we talking alfredo sauce or marinara?

---