Kovy’s going on about a shifty forward in our next opponent’s arsenal when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, keeping my focus on Kovy until I can check the notification.
There’s a tagged tweet from the NHL Network.
I swipe the notification away without reading it and relock my phone just as one of the guys says, “Hey, look at our superstars!” He motions to the muted TV behind the captains. There’s an action shot of me in my USA gear opposite one of Cauler when he played for the Gamblers. Below us is a graphic comparing our USHL stats. When it fades, it’s replaced by two NHL Network analysts, Hugh and Alyssa, standing in front of blown-up green-screen photos of me and Cauler.
Kill me.
Someone unmutes the TV in the middle of Hugh saying, “—unique situation with the top two prospects sharing a college team. I’m curious to know how you think that will impact their draft stock, if at all, Alyssa.”
The thing about Alyssa? She’s never been swayed by the whole Mickey James legacy. That’s why she’s my favorite analyst in hockey. She was on a segment about the future of USA Hockey once, talking about the most exciting talent lined up for the next winter games, and she’s the only one who gave Delilah the hype she deserves while everyone else focused on the men’s team.
So I know she’s going to tear me apart. I just wish it didn’t have to be in front of the Royals.
“Honestly, Hugh?” she says. I brace myself. “I think we’ll see Jaysen’s value overtake Mickey’s in the end.”
“Really now?” Hugh raises his eyebrows, pretending to be surprised. Like this wasn’t all planned in advance. “Why do you say that?”
“It’s no secret that Mickey has been … distant from his teams in the past.”
My heart drops right into my stomach and instantly starts dissolving. So that’s where she’s going with this.
“Everyone has always given him the benefit of the doubt,” she continues, “blamed it on team dynamics. Now that he’s sharing a team with Caulfield, same players, same dynamic, there’s no excuses to be made. It’ll be clear that it’s an issue of personality.”
I feel my chest caving in, sucked into the black hole opening where my heart was just a few seconds ago.
“Harsh,” Dorian says. I would expect a lot of chirping from the guys after a comment like that, but they’re quiet, focused on the TV.
“That’s a very good point,” Hugh says as the screen transitions to game footage. “They have very similar stats. Mickey does have a slight edge, but he doesn’t seem like much of a team player.”
“Players with his skill are usually looked to as team leaders, but not Mickey,” Alyssa says. Right on cue, a clip plays where my linemate scores a goal, and while the rest of the players on the ice gather for the celly, I skate past them to the bench without cracking the barest hint of a smile.
I remember that game. It was the middle of a three-week stretch where I spent every moment of free time lying in bed, staring at the wall. I ate nothing but canned soup and bread and butter, failed two major tests because I didn’t even show up, almost got put in the hospital by my billet family, and felt absolutely nothing the whole time.
In that moment, it barely even registered that a goal was scored.
They just had to pick this out, didn’t they? Every time I think about those three weeks, I can feel that emptiness opening up inside me again.
On the TV, it switches over to Cauler grouped up with his team celebrating a win, his teammates looking to him for guidance during a stoppage in play. The captain’s C on his Gamblers jersey at only seventeen years old. All while Alyssa and Hugh talk about his leadership abilities and his overall passion for the game and how that makes him so much more valuable than me in the long run. I watch the whole thing unblinking, until my eyes go blurry and I have to close them.
The guys start up now, and even though I know there’s shouting and laughter and everyone talking over one another, it’s all muffled by the sound of my own breathing, harsh and unsteady.
I lower my head and press my fingers into my temples.
It’s so obvious. I’m so obvious. Why can’t anyone see what’s really going on? I love hockey. I do. I swear. My brain just doesn’t let me show it or feel it or … or …
“You okay, dude?” Dorian’s hushed voice cuts through my haze, making me flinch. He’s turned toward me, leaning in close. The TV’s muted again, and Zero and Kovy have regathered everyone’s attention, but I notice the sideways glances the boys keep shooting my way.
“I’m fine?” My tongue feels sluggish. Like it takes a whole minute to say two words.
“I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t. Not easy to listen to a couple grown-ass adults tear apart your personality.”
I blink at him. He starts fidgeting when I don’t say anything, just staring at him blankly. “Not like they’re wrong,” I say, trying to make it less awkward for him. Judging by the way his jaw slackens, it didn’t work.
My phone vibrates again. Dorian looks down before I do, eyes going wide and a smile cracking through that sad look he’d been giving me. “Your dad’s calling,” he says, all giddy and starstruck.
My brain feels fuzzy.
The phone buzzes two more times before I slowly stand and answer the call on my way out of the tape room. No one tries to stop me.
“Hello.” My voice is miles away. I step out into the hallway where all the Royals alum who ever did anything in the NHL or Olympics are honored. Including oversize murals of Dad and Grampa as teenagers.
“Hey, Mick!” Dad says. “How are things going? How’s the team?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Yeah.”
A long pause.
“Give me some details, bud,” he says. “Tell me about practices. You excited for your home opener this weekend?”
“Sure.”
Another pause. “How are you adapting to the wing?” His voice is strained like he’s desperately trying to hang on to the conversation.
“Okay.”
“Coach Campbell knows the game. He wouldn’t put you in a role he didn’t think you could excel in.”
“I know.”
“Your mom and I are planning on coming out to a game next month.”
“Oh,” I say, a little more life coming into my voice. I slap a hand to my forehead and drag it down my face. Mom and Dad usually make it out to at least one game a season. You’d think being retired athletes they’d have the free time to make it to more than that. But they’ve taken up youth coaching. I try not to let it bother me, but it was Dad who taught me how to skate. How to put on my gear. How to hold a stick. And now he’s too busy to be there to see what came of the work. After Dad, I had youth coaches of my own, and by the time I was ten, he didn’t even live in the same state as me anymore.
He’s spending more time with those kids now than he ever did with me.
Still, the prospect of them coming out to see me play makes me feel like a kid again, eager to impress my parents, desperate for them to see me succeed.
“Okay,” I say.
“Anything you wanna talk about?” he asks.
I think about Hugh and Alyssa analyzing my attitude the way they’d analyze a play. How Cauler said I’m taking up space and money and exposure I don’t need. How the goddamn Hockey News treated my sisters like setbacks with me as the destination.
“No,” I say.
“Okay, bud, well, call me if you need to, alright? Good luck this weekend. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
My legs take me outside, carry me to the dock, sit me at the edge, hang my feet over the water. I drop my face in my hands and breathe.
The sun is setting by the time I come out of it. It’s like my vision snaps back into focus. Like I’ve broken through some kind of barrier inside my own head.
I start shaking.
Goddammit. I was doing so good lately, too.
My legs are heavy when I push myself to my feet. I rub my thighs to get some life back into them and warm up my hands. I swipe the back of my hand under my nose before heading to the dorm.
* * *
SO HERE’S A thing that happens when my depression gets especially bad.