Page 6 of Forecasting the Forward

With a loud sigh, I sit down on my well-loved dark brown leather sofa. I want to talk to someone, but I don’t know who. My teammates all have their own shit going on. I could call my buddy Jamie, the current quarterback for the Colorado Coyotes NFL team here, and ask him to meet for dinner. He’s already in the preseason for the NFL, but he might be able to swing a quick meal. I know he won’t drink at all during the season, so I can’t ask him to meet at a bar. Jameson Wahlberg is football royalty, and having only two Lombardi trophies under his belt is bad in his family. His younger brother has three, and their dad has four. At thirty six years old, Jamie is pushing to get another before he retires.

Instead, I pull out my phone and message my online friend. NerdGirl insisted early on that we don’t give out many personal details, if any, and I wholeheartedly agreed. I get used by people all the time. It’s nice to talk to someone who has no idea that I make millions a year swatting at a little piece of rubber while balancing on razor blades.

NerdGirl always makes me feel better. Calling olives fake grapes? I cackled. But when she insinuated that she empathized with my relationship with my mom because of her dad, I didn’t know how to respond. We said nothing personal. Should I have asked if she wanted to elaborate? Could I have provided any insight into her experiences?

I chuckle when my phone rings, and I see it’s Jamie calling.

“I was just about to call you,” I tell him upon answering.

“Oh yeah? Wanted to see if you had plans for dinner,” he responds.

“No. Meet at our usual spot?” Jamie found this ridiculous hole-in-the-wall taco place that makes the best carne asada tacos I’ve ever had. Rarely does anyone recognize us there, and with terrible overhead lighting, I’m sure we could make up a story anyway. I’m already salivating thinking about the tacos.

“Yeah. You cool if I bring a friend?”

“Uh, like afriendfriend, or a friend?”

He laughs. “My new coach. He’s had difficulty getting settled here, and the press hounds him nonstop. He mentioned wanting tacos, and that got me thinking that I haven’t seen your miserable face in a while.”

“Nice. Yeah, that’s fine. The press are fucking vultures. Almost as bad as the paparazzi.”

“Yep. Meet you around six.”

“Sounds good.”

A few hours later, I’m seated at a tiny table across from two massive men who dwarf the space. I’m six-three, Jamie is just a tad taller than me, and Coach Silas Youngstown is at least six-five. Hunched over our plates like rabid and semi-feral dogs, we’re silent as we inhale the street tacos.

“Jesus, these things are good,” Silas mutters through a mouthful. “No good taco places in Seattle.”

“Oh?” I ask. It might sound conceited, but I spend a good chunk of my time focused on hockey, and I don’t have time to pay attention to other sports. I follow Jamie’s career, and I can rattle off if the Coyotes won or lost that week, but I’m not a follower of coaching or trade news. I vaguely remember hearing something about a new coach, but I didn’t pay any more attention to who was hired. Not a chance I could remember where the new coach had been last.

“Had family in south Texas,” he explains. “My ma dragged us there every summer. I learned what a good street taco looks like.”

“Oh yeah? I’m from Texas, and street tacos are a pretty integral part of my off-season diet,” I muse, stifling a loud groan as I stuff almost an entire taco into my mouth.

“What part of Texas are you from?” Silas asks as he dumps salsa over his remaining tacos.

“Nowhere you’d know. Small town in east Texas.”

“Shouldn’t you be back there right now? Your training shouldn’t start for a few more weeks,” Silas says.

“I don’t go home,” I state clearly.

“Why?” Silas asks.

“I just … don’t.” I’m not about to delve into my complicated parental relationship with an NFL coach I just met. I have been known to lose my filter from time to time, but even I’m smart enough to recognize this isn’t the time or place. “How’re the Coyotes looking this year? Playoff potential?”

Jamie chuckles. “Nice redirection there, Jax. But since it involves talking about myself, I’ll allow it. I think we’re looking good. Playoffs? Maybe. Depends on how the lines grow. Whether they become a cohesive bunch or not. I’m liking the group we have right now, and it’s the most optimistic I’ve been since I got here.”

I look at Silas with my eyebrows raised, waiting for his input. He shrugs before saying, “I never make any preseason predictions. Jamie will tell you, I’m all about a week-by-week outlook. Worry about what’s right in front of you. I can’t think about January when I need to get these guys through four grueling months first.”

“And he’s scared as fuck about the fans here,” Jamie pipes up.

“Dude, I had barely moved in before a neighbor threatened to remove my intestines through my asshole,” Silas says in exasperation..

“I mean, I’d be a little concerned too. But the fans here are hardcore. They can be completely brutal, but their passion is contagious. I even find myself rooting for the dogs every now and again,” I tease.

Jamie rolls his eyes. “We’ve talked about this, dick. Coyotes are no more dogs than wolves.”

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