Page 11 of Wake Me Up
“So … you didn’t want to become a professional hockey player?” I toss back. “You didn’t dedicate your entire life to this moment?”
Corey looks puzzled and then maybe a little embarrassed. “I did,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Sorry.”
“Don’t say sorry to me. I’m not your coach or your boss.” I look him over, seeing he’s still clearly nervous. “Get a drink of water and calm the fuck down.”
That’s the best pep talk I can give him. If he wants more, he should go over to Logan or maybe Ryder. Shit, even Walker on a good day. But me? I’m not cut out for that shit. In my eyes, he should be thankful he’s here. Rub a little salt on whatever wound he’s got, grow some fucking bigger balls, and call it a day.
He sighs, turning away from me, and heads to get a drink. He’s not doing bad; he just needs to settle, which takes time. He’s fresh from high school, but now, he’s here to play with the big dogs, and he’s coming up short.
He landed on our team a few weeks ago. He’s a goalie, like me. There’s been talk that he’s the next big thing, but the trouble with shit like thatbeing said is, a lot of times, it’s all hype. But since I’m going to be working one-on-one a lot with this kid, I really hope that’s not the truth in this case.
This may be my last season as a Shark. I’m not getting any younger. I’ve got fourteen years on this guy, and in NHL years, that practically makes me a dinosaur. I may only be thirty-three, but I feel more like sixty some days. I don’t bounce back from tough games nearly as fast as I did even a few years ago.
This dude is here to take my spot. And what’s crazy is, I’m going to train him, which is like me giving him my keys to the kingdom. I just can’t decide if that’s good or bad because, to be honest, some mornings, I wake up wanting ten more years of playing time, and others, I wake up and wish I could quit, move to the Bahamas, and just go fishing all day, every day instead.
Preferably alone.
The one thing that keeps me coming back—aside from a contract—is knowing that this … hockey, it’s all I have. Without it, I don’t know what I’ll even do. I don’t have a wife or kids because I’ve never really cared about all of that. A lot of retired players move on to be sports broadcasters, but I don’t even like to talk that much, so that’s a no for me. I keep hoping, one day, it’ll be clear—what I should do. Try to hang on for longer if they renew my contract or leave now while my body is still in halfway decent shape.
Walker James skates toward me, his shaggy hair poking out of the bottom of his helmet.
“How’s that situation going?” he asks, jerking his chin toward where Corey skates around, appearing deep in thought. “He seems to be on the struggle bus.”
“That’s an understatement,” I utter, drawing in a breath. “He’s a kid. He’s nineteen.”
“So, what, you’re thinking he’s overrated?” he asks, looking from Corey to me, seeming genuinely curious.
“No,” I say honestly because he isn’t. He just sucks today. “I think he was a little fish in a tiny-ass puddle, and now it’s time to swim with the sharks in the fucking Atlantic Ocean,” I say point-blank. “He’s used to using half of his talent and still coming out on top. It’s not going to be like that here.”
“Well, lucky for him, he’s got time to settle in and learn the ropes from the best.” He swats my arm. “Don’t be trying to train him too good though. Don’t need you thinking you can retire or anything.”
“Well, I am getting to be quite ancient, you know,” I say flatly before calling to Corey. “All right, break’s over. Get the fuck back to work.”
His eyes widen, and he quickly puts his water bottle down and starts toward me.
“You’re such an ass sometimes,” Walker says but smirks before skating away from me backward. “I love it.”
“Yeah, yeah. Fuck yourself,” I grumble.
I love hockey, and I love this group of men like brothers even though I’d never tell them that. But being in the arena just doesn’t feel like it used to. I feel like I’m going through the motions and nothing more. I used to eat, breathe, sleep hockey because I wanted to. Now, I do it because it’s all I have.
The older I get, the more I keep thinking about shit, like farms and horses because that’s what I grew up with. And before I moved to Maine, I was excited to get away from all of that, but now … I find myself missing it. Or maybe it’s just missing my family. I don’t really know.
I don’t know what the hell I’m going through, but I hope it stops soon.
I stand here, outside of the New England Bay Sharks arena, with three boxes stacked in my arms and all three kids by my side. Each of them holds a box, too, and I feel like I’m going to get in trouble because I know I shouldn’t be here. These are professional athletes who are rarely seen in Portland because they are so high profile. Lucky for me, Smith Sawyer comes in weekly and cleans us out of doughnuts. When he stopped in a few days ago, I told him that I really wanted to give Logan and Tripp some baked goods to thank them for changing my tire, and he pulled some strings to get us access to be back here when they got out of practice today. But I felt weird about only giving them treats, so we brought enough for the whole team.
“I can’t believe we get to be here!” Cane says, eyes widening. “What if Kolt Kolburne walks out here? What if he walks right by me, so close that I can touch him?”
“He probably doesn’t have to come to practice. He’s injured,remember?” Cash says matter-of-factly. “I mean, I’d still come to every practice, but he’s rich. Maybe he doesn’t have to.” Suddenly, he seems excited. “I hope I get to meet Walker James.” He pulls at his jersey. “I even wore this for him to sign.”
Until his dad died, Cane loved to play hockey. But then he stopped. It was something he and his dad did together. And up until the past year, he didn’t want to watch it either. But then something pretty amazing happened. Cash got more and more interested, and Cane came to all of his games, cheered him on, and started watching the Bay Sharks play on TV when Cash was watching them. It went from Cane and his dad’s thing to his and Cash’s thing.
Cane took his first skating lesson at age four, joined a team when he was five, and then lost his dad at age seven and hasn’t played since. Cash was the opposite. He took interest three years ago, and at first, his big brother kept trying to change his mind and push him toward other sports. Eventually, he supported Cash’s passion though. He just doesn’t want to play himself anymore.
When the door opens, Aviana whispers beside me, “Here they come!” She bounces up and down excitedly.
A bunch of players file out, most of whom I’m not familiar with. Luckily, Sawyer Smith is close behind them, and when he sees us, he flashes us a grin.
