Page 7 of Second Shot

Am I just lonely? Do I already miss Tam? Tam and I have been on and off for two years. We shared a small apartment back in Chicago. We didn’t officially break things off before I left, but it feels like that’s where we’re headed. We still love each other, but we know the distance will make things hard. We decided to shift into an open relationship for now, because we don’t know the future or if I’m ever coming back. But I still care about Tam and I wanted to at least try long distance instead of just throwing away two years. A part of me hopes we can make things work, even though I don’t know if that’s realistic.

He was pissed I didn’t ask him to move to California with me. He didn’t buy my excuse that I was thinking of him. Despite his skepticism, I truly was trying not to be selfish. Asking him to quit his job and move out here, especially when we’ve been broken up as often as we’ve been together the last year, wouldn’t have been fair.

Our relationship has never been stable. He knows that as well as I do. But we loved each other so we kept trying. But the truth is, we’d probably be better friends than boyfriends. We’re very different people. Sometimes you can loveeach other and both be good people, but just not work well together as a couple.

But right now, as alone as I feel, I kind of wished I’d let him come with me. At least he’d be a familiar person to talk to and a warm body to hold. However, logically, it’s good he’s not here. I need to focus a thousand percent on this new team. Tam would’ve been pouty and bored if I didn’t give him enough attention. I don’t need that extra stress right now.

I sink deeper into the white leather couch, grimacing. It might be fancy, but it’s uncomfortable as hell. I close my eyes and let my mind drift back to practice. First day went better than I expected, at least on paper. Coach Donnelly seems like a straight shooter, no-nonsense but fair. The guys were welcoming enough, especially that Foster kid who has more energy than a golden retriever on espresso. I’m annoyed when my mind once more drifts to Jacobs. The memory of his frigid blue stare sends a shiver through me.

I’m supposed to build chemistry with the guy if this trade is going to work out for anyone. But that might be easier said than done. He’s skilled as hell, that much was obvious from the first drill. His shot release is lightning fast, his positioning flawless, and he reads the ice like he’s got some kind of sixth sense about where the puck’s going to be. The problem is, he seemsabout as thrilled to be working with me as I’d be to get a root canal.

He wasn’t exactly hostile, but he was definitely distant. Professional to the point of being cold. When we connected on that beautiful give-and-go in the third drill, I expected at least a smile, maybe a quick “nice pass” or a tap of the stick. Instead, he completely ignored me like he was out there on the ice all by himself.

I’ve played with a lot of different guys over the years, and there’s usually some kind of connection between players when something goes right out on the ice. Respect. Excitement that something special might be building. With Jacobs, it felt like I was playing with a robot, a highly skilled, perfectly calibrated robot who’d rather be paired with literally anyone else.

Maybe he’s just reserved. Some guys are like that, especially the ones who’ve been with the same team for years. Maybe he doesn’t like change, doesn’t appreciate having his routine disrupted by some new guy from Chicago who’s supposed to come in and magically fix everything.

Or maybe he just doesn’t like me personally.

Once more the thought of that irks the shit out of me. I’m a very fucking likeable guy. Back in Chicago, everybody loved me. I knew where I stood. Three years with the same group of guys,inside jokes, shared history of wins and losses, the comfort that comes with familiarity. They all got me and liked me.

Here, I’m starting from scratch. Proving myself all over again to guys who already have their established roles and their way of doing things. It’s like being a little kid and transferring to a new school. I have to find a way to weasel into already established friend groups. I don’t function well as a loner. I’ll need the support of my team when things don’t always go our way. No team wins every game, and nobody wants to weather that shitstorm alone. I sure don’t.

And then there’s the pressure... Christ, the pressure to perform a miracle is something else. I’m not just the new guy. I’m the new guy who’s expected to turn everything around for the team. Thirty-four goals last season, and suddenly everyone expects me to be the missing piece that takes the Seadragons from playoff contenders to Cup favorites.

The expectations could crush a tank.

I open my eyes and listen to the silence. God, maybe I really should have brought Tam with me. He talks constantly and always plays his music too loud, but right now I’d be cool with his chaos. It’s too damn quiet here. The only noise is the hum of climate control and the distant whisper of traffic twenty-two floors below. In my old place back in Chicago, I could hear Mrs.Patterson’s TV through the walls, her grandson practicing violin every Tuesday night, the family upstairs arguing about whose turn it was to take out the trash. Normal sounds. Life sounds.

I could have afforded a better place back in Chicago, but I stayed in that apartment because it was familiar. Cheap. Living there let me save money and the neighbors watched out for each other. I always told myself one day I’d move to a place like the Bayfront Promenade. When I felt like I’d earned it, I promised myself I’d move. But I never had because I just never quite felt like I’d made it. I needed to do more and be better before I got that reward.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table. It’s a text from Danny Bond, my old linemate.

Danny:How’s life in paradise?

I stare at the message for a long moment. It’s telling that my ex-teammate texted me before my sort of boyfriend called me. Seeing Danny’s name on my phone makes me feel homesick. That emotion isn’t helpful. Missing my old life won’t help me move on with my new life. But I appreciate that he reached out to me. I appreciate he must know how lonely I feel, and that he cares. With a rough exhale, I type a response.

Me:Living the dream. Miss you ugly bastards already.

Danny: How was practice?

Me: Awesome. They love me.

Everyone but Judgy Jacobs.

Danny: How could they not? You’re amazing, dude and you’re going to crush it out there in California. The move will be the best thing for you.

If only it were that simple. Danny doesn’t know about the way Jacobs looked right through me today. He doesn’t know about this sterile monument to success I’m supposed to call home, or the weight of expectations that seems to grow heavier with every passing hour.

But, then again, Danny doesn’t need to know any of that. I don’t want any of my past teammates to feel sorry for me. I need to do what everyone does: fake it. So, shaking off my gloomy thoughts, I text a little longer with Danny, telling him how great everything is going. I pretend my condo is everything I want and I send him some photos. Once we’re done texting, a couple of the other guys from my old team also check in. I put on the same performance for them. A message arrives from my father too, but I ignore that one. Just seeing his name pop up makes my gut twist.

My father and I aren’t close. Not even a little. No matter what I achieve, it’s never enough for him. I know he’s the reason I crave praise like a drug. It’s because he never gave me any. No matter what I did, he withheld his approval. If I didonething wrong in a game, he’d knock mearound and make me run drills all night until I puked my guts out. If my high school hockey team lost a game, he’d drag me out of bed, screaming at me to stop being a failure. But when we won, he’d ignore me.

He was happy about this trade, though. He likes the Seadragons, even if he doesn’t like me. If me and my new team manage to win the Cup? He’ll be first in line for photo ops. He’ll probably even want one with me. Even if he thinks I’m a waste of space, he’ll still brag about me to his friends like he had something to do with my success. And maybe he did. Because of him nothing is ever good enough. I’m never good enough. I must always be better. So perhaps, in some twisted, sick way, he truly did make me into the man I am today.

Thanks Dad.

The sunset is in full swing now. The view from up here is breathtaking. The sky is smeared with yellow and orange, with just a hint of purple on the edges. Back home, right about now, I’d probably grab dinner with a couple of the guys after practice, or at least know which dive bar would have cheap beer and decent wings. Here, I don’t even know where the good restaurants are.

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