Page 2 of Jaded

Like the ice under our feet and piercing our lungs, hockey will always be.

“Good of you to join us, Mr. Taylor.” Coach Ethan Douglas marches into the room behind me. He’s even bigger now than he was during hisillustrious defensive career; he’s packed on a few dozen pounds in the decades since he played.

His assistant coach shoves a cluster of hangers into my hands. Another unofficial aspect of my job, along with sharpening skates.

Coach’s pre-game speech blurs in my ears as I circle the locker room, handing out jerseys. Part of the ritual—and in hockey, the ritual is important. Must be respected, adhered to, down to the last detail. Who you sit next to, the order the gear goes on, which water bottle you drink from or meal you eat before or stuffed animal you bring to place on the bench beside you.

Everything must be exact.

Me distributing shirts must happen—in the proper order.

When they’re all delivered, I shadow to the corner of the locker room, out of sight and mind, and my gaze lifts to the two jerseys hung over the doorway. My eyes trace the dogs-head logo of Day River pressed against the white background, the navy and powder-blue stripes over the elbow, the navy number outlined in powder, the name printed above it.

R. Taylor, 14

J. Taylor, 15

My father’s jersey, and my brother’s. They both played, both captained this team, before they stepped up to stardom, and the whole city knows the Dingoes haven’t been the same since Jesse left. Since he walked away with barely a backward glance.

Now, the town’s slowly giving up on it, turning to the Ice Out for entertainment instead.

Around the locker room, players tug jerseys over their heads, straighten them over bulky shoulder pads. That’s my cue to leave, to return to the civilian world where I’m not lingering on the edges of this family like the little match girl peering through the glass, silently begging to be invited in for dinner.

Once, I had this.

I lost it.

So I’ll stand outside the window, looking in, lighting matches to keep my fingers warm, to pretend I can taste it and smell it, feel it, like the boys inside. Sometimes that’s more painful than moving on.

The buzz of my phone draws me back to reality. Glad of the excuse to leave, I slip the device from my pocket and head for the door. Probably JB with a new job—but no.

It’s from the rink manager:Come to my office.

I groan. No good conversation’s ever started that way; there’s nothing I can do to combat the sudden sick churn of my gut

Still, I pace to the front of the arena, rap my knuckles against the frame of his partially opened door.

My boss’s gruff voice filters through the crack. “Taylor?”

“Yeah.”

“C’mon in. Close the door.”

My stomach plunges towards my feet. But I slide into his narrow, paper-strewn office. The man himself sits behind his cluttered desk, half-hidden by a wall of coffee mugs and file folders.

“Sit.” Jerry doesn’t look up from the screen of his ancient desktop. From the faded reflection in his glasses, I’d guess he’s working on scheduling. “No easy way to say this, kid.”

My suddenly sweaty palms flatten against the thighs of my jeans. “You’re firing me?”

“Nah, not yet,” he says, but I know better than to be relieved. “The Dingoes are moving money around trying to get people to stay or bring in good players or whatever.”

“Right.” My voice escapes in a croak. I can guess his next words.

“Long story short, they’re cutting their funding for the rink—so we’re reducing hours.”

“You’re cuttingmyhours,” I clarify, my heart sinking down towards my shoes.

Jerry winces. “Yeah, kid. Which is technically gonna take you out of full-time status.”

---