Page 63 of Jaded

We need a win. We need team synergy. Family vibes. A captain with enough bubbly, positive energy to pull it all together and lead us to that win.

And I’m gonna be that captain, whatever it takes.

Whatever the cost.

So I cling to that desperate, false bubbliness of an external crush that may or may not pulverize me into oblivion later. I chase the high.

I follow the others out of the locker room for a run around the rink—pull crisp, warm California air into my lungs. The high follows me into off-ice warm-ups. Back into the locker room to drag on my gear.

I barely sit still through Coach’s classic speech. Don’t hear a damn word.

As one, we race out onto the ice, my skates beating against rubber. Skate. Warm-up.

National anthem.

My eyes dance down the line of starters, all of us aligned like little padded soldiers, chewing our mouthguards, shifting from skate to skate, the pulse of adrenaline rendering us unable to hold still, even for the few minutes the anthem bellows through the speakers.

And then it’s over and we’re back at the bench, and I throw out a few random words of encouragement that might be considered a captain’s speech, and our gloves pile together into the middle.

“Dingoes!” we shout as one. The first line breaks away, and the game begins.

As I head for the center face-off dot, I close my eyes. Breathe in the sharp bite of the ice, drink in the roar of the crowd.

You’ve got this, Captain.And yeah, you know what? I do got this. This is my home, my purpose, my place, my reason for living. My dream.

I’ve got this.

I crouch for the face-off. Eyes on the ref’s hand. Too aware of the forward across from me, aware he’ll take the body, because I know how to read crappy players like that.

The ref’s fingers twitch open.

Puck drops.

“Walk with me, James.”

I don’t reckon any good conversation between a coach and a player ever started that way, but what else can I do but fall into stride beside Coach Ethan?

I mean, on the positive side—and I’m all about positives—we are outside on a beautiful SoCal October evening, and the weather is perfect. Cool, dry air, a smattering of stars poking through the faded lights of the city glow.

The sidewalk behind the rink winds through an empty field, so it’s just me and Coach and a slight buzz to the air, like the excitement of our tie—not a win, but the first not-loss in a year—has followed us out here.

The silence stretches between us, becoming uncomfortable, and it’s not just my ADHD and social anxiety telling me so. Coach is getting ready to say something biggish, and I can feel it coming.

Don’t like that one bit.

Finally he stops, digs into his pocket, and pulls out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, and I get to stand there while he fishes one out. “Smoke?”

“I’m a professional hockey player.”

“Right.” He pops one against his lip and lights. “Good call.”

And then I get to stand more and wait more while he puffs a few times, clearly thinking. Until, without warning—

“We’ve had another transfer request.”

My insides go cold, like someone just poured ice water down my throat. “What?”

“We’re losing Jas Bryant.” Second line left wing. Gone. Just like that. “I thought you should know before anyone else.”

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