Shit shit shit.
Dad doesn’t seem to notice how wide my eyes have gotten, how I’ve stopped fidgeting with the mug. He just keeps talking, saying, “After the Royals, you’ll probably never play on the same team again. Unless you get really lucky, you’ll be hundreds of miles away from each other.”
Okay. Yep. This is happening. I set my mug on the coffee table and put my face in my hands. Rub my eyes, push my fingers into my hair. Try not to freak out.
“You’ll have to think about it for anyone you end up with. You’ll be traveling a lot. If you get traded, it’s not just your life that’s disrupted. Then there’s—”
“Dad.” I cannot listen to this anymore. What is happening right now? I keep my elbows on my knees and my hands in my hair and stare at the floor. “It sounds like you’re trying to talk me out of it right now.”
“No, no, of course not,” he says quickly. “There’s a lot of great things about going pro, too. I wouldn’t trade my experience in the NHL for anything. But. Mickey, your heart’s never been in this. I thought if I kept pushing you, you’d eventually learn to like it more, but instead it’s done the opposite, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Mickey. I just want you to be happy.”
“But that’s the thing,” I say. My voice shakes. “Nothing makes me happy. Not really. It’s not even that I don’t like hockey, it’s just … I don’t like anything. Not enough to matter. All I ever wanted with hockey was a choice. I wanted to come with you when you moved. I didn’t care about the best opportunities. I was ten. I wanted my family. You could’ve retired in Buffalo, but you chose to come here and keep playing. You chose to leave me. And when you did finally retire, instead of coming back, you stayed here.”
Dad looks down at his hands, his eyes red-rimmed. “I’m sorry,” he says.
The words are soft and genuine and goddammit. I choke on a sob and drop my face back into my hands. My whole body shakes. I can’t breathe. Dad puts a hand on my shoulder and pulls me in until my head is against his chest.
“Whatever you need to do,” he says, his chin on top of my head and a hand rubbing my back. The couch dips on my other side. I smell Mom’s perfume a second before another set of arms wraps around me. “We’ll support it.”
“But I don’t know what I want,” I say. I hear glass clinking in the kitchen. The sizzling sound of something cooking. If I can hear that, my sisters can hear this. I don’t have the energy to be embarrassed.
“You have time,” Mom says. “You can stay in school. Get a degree. Or play in the NHL and take online classes. Or do none of those things and come live here until you figure it out. There’s no rush, topolino.”
“But what if I take too long and miss the cut? What if I never figure it out?”
“You will,” Dad insists. “The most important thing is taking care of yourself.”
“We’ll get you through this,” Mom adds. She kisses me on the shoulder and presses her face against my back, both of them holding me together as I fall apart.
It doesn’t erase the years of absence. But in this moment, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
TWENTY-SIX
JANUARY
Campus is quiet.
Classes don’t start for another three weeks, and with the snow muffling everything, it feels like I’m the only one here.
It’s cold, but I miss the dock. Bundled up in enough layers to make moving inconvenient, I sit on the edge with my legs pulled up and my phone in my lap.
My search history is a mess.
+nhl prospect rankings
+jaysen caulfield
+lgbt pro athletes
+ryan getzlaf playoff slur
+homophobia in nhl
+hartland university marine science
+nhl players with depression
+nhl prospect rankings
+marine science jobs
+marine science degree
+mickey james iii +mickey james
+jaysen caulfield
+gay hockey players
+online marine science degree
+hartland university online degree
+nhl players with college degrees
+degree or nhl
+nhl draft prospects
Mom and Dad said I have time, but really all I have is till the Draft Combine in June. Six months to figure out the rest of my life.
No pressure.
And then there’s Cauler.
I’m surprised Dad didn’t make a bigger deal about it. I didn’t outright confirm it, but I didn’t deny it, either. Sure, he’s supported my sisters from the start, but I thought it’d be different for me, being under heavier scrutiny or whatever.
Most rankings still have me at number one, but they’re all sure to point out it’s a close call and the only thing putting me over Cauler is my availability next season. The ones that put me second, or even lower sometimes, can’t get past my size.
None of it’s helpful.
I close out of my history and call Nova. She’s busy and has her life together and probably isn’t gonna answer, but— “Hey!” Nova sounds so bright and cheery, for a second I forget why I was even calling her.
“Hey, Nova.” My voice is rough from all the crying I’ve been doing lately. My eyes eternally swollen. “Can you do something for me?” We snap often enough that I don’t feel bad about skipping the pleasantries.
“Need me to kick someone’s ass?”
I roll my eyes. “No, jackass.”
She chuckles a little. I hear cars passing in the background. People talking. She breathes heavy like she’s walking fast. “What’s up? What do you need?”
“I’m about to have this serious talk with Cauler and I need, like, cute penguin pictures on standby if it goes bad. Need to change my coping habits.”
“Alright,” she says hesitantly. “I’m taking a solo lunch right now, so I’ll work on that. You’re gonna give me the details later, right?”
“Of course, Nova. Love you.”
“Love you, too, babe. Good luck.”
I sit in the quiet for another few minutes, head tilted back, breathing in the fresh, cold air. Clearing my head. Letting it wake me up.
We have practice in a few hours. Two games this week. Another four before classes start again.
Six months to let go of everyone’s expectations and figure out who I’m going to be. How the third on the end of my name has me measure up to the ones before me.
I take one last deep breath, so cold it hurts the inside of my nose, and let it out in a slow sigh before standing up.
Cauler’s heading down the dock toward me. I stop after a stutter-step, hands clenching into fists in my pockets. I texted him that we should talk, but I didn’t expect him to come searching for me.
He slows when we make eye contact, taking a couple half- steps before stopping a few feet away. We stare at each other, his breath coming out in fast visible puffs like he ran here.
“Hey,” he says breathlessly.
“Hey.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I just…” I stop myself. I’m not about to lie right now. I asked him to talk for a reason. “Um…” I sigh, shifting uncomfortably. Get it over with. Rip the Band-Aid off. “Look, Cauler. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m…” I laugh bitterly. “I am deeply depressed. Now I’m on medication and I’m still trying to get used to feeling things, and honestly a lot of the time, I really hate myself.”
I keep my voice surprisingly steady. I am not about to cry here. This is the strongest I have ever felt, being honest with my own mental health.
Cauler just looks at me for a long moment before he says, “What can I do?”
Oh. That’s … not what I was expecting. I don’t even know how to answer that. There’s nothing he can do. It’s my illness to deal with.
I lift my shoulders and look out over the lake. “Nothing. But…”
A cloud of his breath is carried away by the breeze. “Mickey.”