Page 8 of Jaded

“I know.” Yeah, that was one downside to taking this job. No more bopping over to dinner at Mom’s after practice whenever I feel like it. “But I bet there’s good hiking here! Maybe snowshoeing. And skiing.”

I do love a solid downhill ski. And cross country. Not that I’ll havetimefor any of this—not when my whole life, the entire foundation of my existence, is based on hockey.

“Well, that’s good.” Mom’s voice blurs beneath the monotone of my GPS robot reeling off directions. “But you’re still too far away.”

I spin the wheel to turn down another wide commercial street. More buildings, more snow piled around. The narrow alleys between them glisten with ice.

I force my eyes back to the road. “It’s a great career opportunity.”

I wince. I sound like my damn agent.

“I know,” Mom’s voice goes soft and gushy. “My little baby, captain of a hockey team!”

“Right. Your boy’s a leader!” I don’t bother to mention that I’m following a long line of captains who, to be blunt, failed to fill the oversized shoes of the team’s ex-superstar—the legendary Jesse Taylor. Inarguably one of the greatest players to ever waltz through the minor leagues.

“I thought the Dingoes weren’t very good?” Mom asks, just like she did the first time we had this conversion.

I hold back my half-exasperated, half-fond sigh. This is why I don’t have serious conversations when she’s painting. Which, last time we talked, she was.

“They’re bringing me in because they think I can help make them win,” I say, softly, so she won’t notice the tremor in my voice.

At least she can’t see how my fingers whiten on the wheel as I turn the truck down a side street. No way for her to know how my stomach churns.

I’m a last-ditch effort to fix something broken. Something the former captain failed to fix. The team’s been on a downward slope since Jesse left—losing games, losing skaters, losing fans. “I’m bonkers, aren’t I?”

I haven’t even been good enough—consistentenough—to keep for more than a few seasons at a time. And yet, here I am, aiming to play leader, to playwinner, to a failing team.

“If anybody can do it, it’s you,” Mom says, and that almost makes me smile. Ihaveto believe her—because that’s how dreams get made: believing in yourself. It’s why I stay off social media; the haters’ll make you question everything.

If you want to live a dream, there's no room for doubt. You gotta believe in yourself, wholly and truly.

You have to beteverythingon yourself.

I blow out a long breath.

“Right.” I will not let the weight of my latest crazy decision fall too heavily on my shoulders.

The Dingoes have been a rotating door of hopeful talent—young guys, mostly, hoping to break into the league. They come in, skate a few months, maybe a season, move on to something better. Doesn’t make for great team synergy.

Not surprising they’ve barely won a game, let alone made the playoffs, in fifteen years.

“But it’s worth the risk, right?” Mom’s next words prove she listened to at least some of our previous conversation. “NHL scouts would be very impressed if you got this team winning.”

“Yeah.” I swallow down the lump in my throat. She’s right, of course. If I pull this off . . . it’d be such a big step towards my dream of playing major league. Something to make every late night, every early morning,every missed party or sacrificed hobby or postponed family visit or vacation worth it.

Dreams require so much sacrifice. Every single day, every hour, every minute, a choice.

Shoot pucks at the back of the garage or hike through a copper-crowned aspen forest? Practice stick handling while a frozen dinner microwaves, or make the hour drive to Mom’s to cook her a meal plucked fresh from the garden? Go to bed early to prepare for tomorrow’s skate, or head out with the team to drink the night away? Broccoli or cookies?

Chase the dream or live?

Every day, a choice. A sacrifice.

And now, I have another. Or, well, I will as soon as the robotic voice on my GPS guides me to my new house. Home. Right? That’s the word I should use. It’s not like I’ve got any other.

“I’m almost at the house, Ma.” I turn down a narrow street lined in towering pines and elegant aspen. “I gotta unpack and get some dinner.”

“All right, baby. I love you.”

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