Page 5 of Forecasting the Forward

“We think you’d be a great example for the team, and you will have no problem reining them in when needed. You’ve got a calm way of explaining things, whereas we think Levi would scare the shit out of a few guys.”

“That’s true,” I chuckle.

“You can absolutely decline, if you want.”

“Oh. Uh, no, I’d be honored to be your captain,” I say quietly. I’ve never been a team captain.

“Great. We’ll issue a statement for the media, and we’ll let the equipment team know to add the C to your stuff,” Coach says, gesturing for me to give him back the C in my hands. “No, you don’t get to keep it.”

“I’ve never been a captain before,” I tell him. “Just thought it would be cool to have on my desk at home.”

Coach sighs. “Fine.”

Elated, I shove the patch into my shorts pocket. “So what’s the other thing?”

The four men look at one another before the GM speaks up. “We’re thinking of moving some positions around. Playing with some dynamics on the lines.”

“Okay?”

“Well,” GM says, his eyes darting to Coach’s, “We’re going to move you to the second line. See how you do there.”

“You’re separating me and Levi?” I ask incredulously, focusing on that detail instead of the doubt churning in my gut about being demoted from first to second line.

“Like I said, we’re trying some things out. We want to pair you with Shears and Billings at the beginning of camp. We feel their tenacity will blend well with yours.”

“You should just call it like it is. I’m fucking being demoted,” I say bitterly. I’ve been on the first line for years. I shouldn’t be this pissed off, but I am. I knew this was coming. I’m not as fast as I was. I got beaten to the puck more often than not in the second half of last year.

“It’s not a demotion. You know each line is as important as the last. We can’t pack all of our talent on the first line. We’re damn lucky to have the defensemen we have, and you’d never hear us saying one is better than the other. It’s the same with the rest of you. Yeah, you might not start the games all the time, but you’re still an asset to the team. We just made you captain for fuck’s sake,” Coach says exasperatedly.

“I know,” I sigh. “I think I knew this was the reason why you wanted to see me, but it still didn’t prepare me for actually hearing the words. I can’t compete with these kids coming right from high school hockey. My legs are too old.”

“You aren’t going anywhere,” the owner pipes up. “You still have two years on your contract, and we have no desire to send you elsewhere. I want to see you retire as a Wolves captain. This is absolutely not a demotion, Jax. It has nothing to do with speed or ability. We want you to lead. As Captain, you’re responsible for teaching and leading the younger guys. You can’t do that with Levi.”

Hopefully I won’t be retiring anytime soon.

Heading backto my apartment building, I’m flagged by our concierge, motioning to a large box by his desk. I don’t remember ordering anything, and only when I see the familiar chicken scratch of my mother’s handwriting do I pick up the package. Oddly heavy, I shake the contents as the elevator climbs to my floor. God only knows what she sent.

I don’t have a close relationship with my mom. She was never much of the mothering type, and I found out only a few years ago that she got pregnant with me to trap my father into marriage. She lived the high life for five years, until he’d finally had enough, divorcing her and leaving her mostly penniless, courtesy of an iron-clad prenup she claimed she had no memory of signing. A judge split custody for them, but it didn’t matter. Dad died of a heart attack a few years later, and I was stuck with my mom. The only thing that saved me was a trust he’d left to me, specifically to continue with hockey.

Dad and I bonded over hockey. I was enamored with it from the first moment I saw a game. I’m sure it had something to do with it being on ice, as growing up in east Texas meant I rarely got to see anything wintry. Dad had a booming voice, and his presence took over every room. But when he’d get down on the floor with me, quietly pointing out everything happening on the television screen, it was like we were the same person. Our joy was palpable. Only one week before he passed away, he took me to my first NHL game. I vowed from the moment the puck dropped that I would end up in the NHL someday.

When Dad’s will was read, my mom was furious. She demanded the trust money, claiming she’d make sure I stayed in hockey. The attorneys refused, explaining the law, and introduced me to one of Dad’s business associates. I’d met the guy before, and I knew he was as big a hockey fan as Dad was. Drew O’Connor was the trustee in charge of paying for anything I needed for hockey. His secretary, Jackie, drove me to every practice and game until I graduated from high school. No matter where my mom moved us, Drew and Jackie found me. The longest I went without playing was a month.

Ice hockey in Texas is hard to come by, so I spent a lot of time in the car with Jackie, driving hours for practices and games.. She became the mom I’d wished I had, quizzing me on algebra, teaching me the difference between adjectives and adverbs, and giving me advice on girls. I spent more time at their house, and my neighbor’s farm next door, than I did at my own house. In fact, Jackie and Drew were at my senior night as my parents, not my own mother. I never told her about the event.

In the fifteen years since I graduated high school, I’ve only seen my mother four times. I was expected at each of her weddings, and it was demanded that I bring a gift to show my station. In other words, I better bring something nice and expensive. Mom knows that’s the only way to get any money out of me. The day after I signed my rookie contract, she came calling. I shut her down and told her never to contact me asking for money again.

Drew and Jackie, however, are a constant presence in my life. We speak weekly, and I have a great relationship with their kids as well.

As I unlock my apartment door and place the heavy package on my kitchen island, I wait to open it, instead choosing to slide open the curtains at my balcony. Seeing the mountains reminds me that I’m here. I’m no longer the lonely little boy from eastTexas, craving a connection with his mother. I’m a fucking big deal, and she has no power over me.

Once I open the package, I stare in shock.

Fifteen glass containers of olives? Seriously?

She knows I hate olives. I swear, she put them on everything out of spite throughout my childhood, then watched as I tearfully choked them down.

Seeing an envelope in between the jars, I snatch it up, hoping there will be a joke or something inside that explains this box. Instead, I find an awkwardly scrawled “happy birthday” without a signature. I guess that is the joke, considering my birthday was three months ago. I can’t stand this passive aggressive bullshit. This is her way of letting me know she’s mad at me for not giving her more money.

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