Page 23 of Jaded

My desk. Jesus. I mean, it’s just a barren little strip of wood with a very uncomfortable-looking chair wedged behind it, but still. What the heckola made me think I could do this?

And when Coach starts talking, holy Hera. Captaining a professional sports team is more than a full-time job. Training schedules, meetings with the team, practices, speeches—the list goes on.

“I think Cap might have some notes on his techniques . . .” Coach says as he stoops over the desk to unearth several looseleaf sheaves of paper covered in chicken scrawl I wouldn’t even attempt to decipher on my most wildly optimistic of days.

Today? The doubt is a niggle in the pit of my gut, a cold finger poised at the base of my spine. Not quite there, but not ignorable either. Ready to rear its ugly head at a moment’s notice.

Do I really have what it takes to do this?

Sure, the Dingoes aren’t exactly top of their game right now, so I probably can’t make thingsworse. But it wouldn’t be good for my career. At all. There’s been talk about moving or even dissolving the team.

Which means, this ship goes down, as captain, I sink with it. Hand on the wheel. Ya know?

But on the flip side, if I somehow manage to eke out a couple of wins? That’d look darn good. High risk, high reward.

Heck, though. My passion is hockey, not spreadsheets.

“You’re sure I need all this?” I ask, trying to keep my eyes from crossing as Coach adds yet another schedule-looking thing to the pile stretched across his—nope, my—desk.

A desk. Me. Look at me now, Ma.

“There’s a lot to keep organized.” Coach shrugs, then turns towards the door. “C’mon. I’ll introduce you to the team.”

Which makes a wave of nerves roil through my belly.

Meeting a new team isn’t anything I’m a stranger to—when you’re as much of a mess as I am, you’re always on the move, running from the last failure, hoping the next opportunity will be, you know. The One. I meet a lot of new people, skate with new people, befriend new people—as much as someone like me ever really makes friends, anyhow.

But I gotta wonder who did their research. Do they pay attention to the speculation, the social media gossip? How many of them know why I bounce around from team to team, can’t hold down an active roster spot?

At least most of the guys on this team are transients too. Maybe they don’t care.

“Don’t look so nervous.” Coach slaps at my arm. Clearly, I’ve let my emotions splay out all over my face. “They’ll love you. Let’s go.”

Welp, I’m here now. I follow Coach out of the office and right up to the keypad-accessed door printed with a giant dingo head.

This is it.

Coach jabs at the buttons, and I follow him inside. It’s like any other locker room I’ve seen in my career—and as a college player,high schooler, kid. Wide space lined with sit-in cubbies, rubbery black flooring, open showers at the back, stalls for toilets and urinals to the left, couple of doors to the right that probably house equipment and the skate sharpener.

The team’s already arrayed around the benches, and every single man in the room looks up as I walk in. I recognize a couple of faces—I studied the roster before I accepted the trade, of course. Had to know what I was working with.

Most of them are strangers, their profile photos too far removed to be identified in person. Great.

However, the lanky white guy fresh out of Cali is a pretty obvious match to second-line center Andy Everton—hard not to ID the solo locs-sporting hippie in both the major and minor leagues. And I’ve skated with Paul Devereaux before—big, broad, kinda has a Rock-ish look about him.

Coach doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Guys, shut up and meet your new captain.”

I lift a hand in a halfhearted wave. Which in hindsight is lame, right, like I should be giving some kind of rousing captainship speech or something. “Olli. James.”

Fabulous intro, Ol. Really gonna woo these boys.

“Ah, Miami, right?” somebody asks; the shoulder-length blond locks mark Charlie Holland, I think.

I nod. “Yep. Formerly. Cause now I’m a Dingo. Hope you’re ready for hell—nah, I’m kidding. Mostly.”

Couple of the guys chuckle, and I relax a bit, let some of the tension unwind from my shoulders. Maybe I can—

One of the rear doors pops open and someone steps out.

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