Page 47 of The Alternate Captain
It’s full to the brim of hockey content, bar a small space toward the back reserved for university work. Flipping pages cautiously, I find the bullet points I scribbled in anticipation of today.
“Okay, well, that’s good. Do you care to share?” His eyes twinkle with expectation and I shift in my seat.
My master’s is in leadership and management, but I’m not sure it was the right pick for me anymore.
The list I’ve made is garbage. It seems like such a simple task—pick a topic, research, and write about it, job done. But right now, it seems like I’m up against the top team in the league on my own.
I take a breath and begin to read the top line of writing. “So, my first idea is around leadership skills for professional hockey”—I stop once I see the look on his face—“or understanding team dynamics that feed into a formal management plan.” I list off a few more, but Dr Wells furrows his brow.
“Anything not hockey-related? I understand that’s your vocation, and you’re already acting in a leadership role there, but I think it’d be useful for you to expand your view on things.”
“So, what you’re saying is—no hockey?”
“I think it’d be a good idea. It’ll be a great demonstration of your skills. Highlighting how you can lead in a variety of situations.”
“But...” I don’t even know what to say. Hockey is the focus of my day-to-day life and I have no idea what a suitable suggestion could be.
“Since I’m feeling generous, come back and see me a week today. Same time. Talk me through what you’ve come up with and we’ll go from there. But, Johnathan, I suggest you visit the library and consider the theses readily available to you.”
“The library?” I blink at him.
The majority of my course has been a week in the classroom, then using internet resources through university provision. Most of my course books are available online. I’ve never needed to step foot in the library.
Dr Wells scribbles something on his notebook then tears the page, passing me a sheet of paper.
“Here. I need you to research a few topics. Review theses covering similar subjects and write down six further studies or alternative ideas relating to the topic.”
The whole thing is giving me anxiety and all I can think about is going home and taking a nap, hoping to wake up in a world where my thesis isn’t a problem. But I nod in agreement and gather my things.
I head downstairs to the main atrium and join the queue for coffee. A few people ask me for autographs as I wait to order. Flashing my most charming grin, I accept random bits of paper and Sharpies thrust at me, giving a quick whizz of my surname and number before handing the items back. When it’s my turn to order, the barista flashes me her widest grin as she bats her eyelashes at me.
“Oh, I know who you are,” she says, tapping my order in on the touchscreen monitor in front of her. “Are you looking forward to the new season?”
“Sure.” I smile.
And it’s all I can manage. I still haven’t mastered the art of conversing with women face-to-face. Lucky for me, the barista doesn’t seem to notice because she chats to me as if we’re old friends.
When she eventually slides my order to me with a wink, I spot the marker jotted along the side of the cup.
It’s not the first time I’ve got a number written on the side of my coffee cup, and I’ve never paid it much attention, but a thought crosses my mind—maybe I should text her. Except, it’s notherthat I want to be texting. I haven’t heard from Kelly since I saw her back at her parents’ house at the start of August. And I doubt she’d want to hear from me anyway, after how I acted.
“Cap?” I turn around to spot Ffordey waving from across the atrium. I stride over to meet him. “How was your session?” he asks. “Mine was fucking awful. Nothing hockey-related—would youbelieve it?”
“Same, bud. Same. And I’ve got homework already.”
I give him a rundown of my task and he blows out a breath.
“Are these professors in cahoots, because I’ve got to do the same thing. And we’ve got a full schedule this weekend.”
He’s not wrong. There’s the season opener on Saturday, and then we’re on the road Sunday, returning late. This year is going to suck. I don’t know how I’m going to get through it.
We grab some food then decide to find the library, because neither of us has ever stepped foot in the place.
“Any ideas yet, Cap?”
“I’d be lying if I said I had,” I say, moving through the ranks of the Dewey Decimal System, looking for anything I can latch on to. I’ve already reviewed the theses Dr. Wells told me about and come up with no ideas.
“I’m really fucking jealous of Ryan right now. And Liam. I mean, once they retire, that’s it, isn’t it? They’ve got a buttload of money,” Ffordey says. “And there’s us regular folk, having to rely on a Plan B.”
