Page 3 of Blocked Shot
Training camp for the Hartford Whalers starts today, where Jesse will begin his career as a professional hockey player. His dreams are coming true. The Whalers—a farm team tied to the Brooklyn Mavericks in the National Hockey League—will be his stepping stone, his proving ground. It’s where the younger guys go to sharpen their skills, to chase the dream. But it’s also where players get sent when they’re slipping, when the shine wears off and they need to claw their way back. A place for rising stars and second chances.
Jesse had orientation last week with the rest of the rookies in New York City. Three days of being firehosed with information about what it actually means to be a pro athlete. Stuff like financial literacy, how not to humiliate yourself in interviews, sensitivity training, mental health resources. As if the league could turn a bunch of pimply-faced teenage boys into responsible adults overnight.
Jesse likely won’t be playing in the NHL this year—he needs to pack on some muscle before he can hang with the bigger bodies—but his coaches and agent are optimistic. They say if Jesse keeps his head down and puts in the work, he has a real shot.
As his guardian, Natalie attended some sessions on family support and the perks available to her. She hid in the back of the hotel conference room, the youngest by a few decades.
The gap between her and the other hockey parents has always been obvious, but over the years, she’s learned that the long hours in freezing rinks, the 5 a.m. practices, and the endless miles logged on highways to out-of-town tournaments stitch her and other parents together in a way money and age can’t undo.
The parents from Jesse’s junior team in Port Perry, their little town outside Toronto, had still saved her a seat, still cheered for him as loudly as their own kid, and sometimes, when she was struggling to cover tournament fees, an anonymous ‘scholarship’ would appear. No one ever admitted who had pitched in.
“I’m out,” Jesse shouts from the apartment door.
“Okay, good luck. You got this,” Natalie says, coming to the door, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Remember to take notes if you need to.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jesse gives a mock salute before leaving.
Natalie returns to the kitchen, grabbing a head of broccoli and Jesse’s new chef’s knife. The rhythmic thud of the blade against a cutting board fills the quiet apartment. As the little green florets tumble into a bowl, her mind is already making a list of what’s next.
Tomorrow, she’ll start the long drive back to Port Perry, back to her childhood home, back to her job and a house that will feel far too quiet. For the first time in her life, she’ll be living alone.
A part of her wants to stay in Hartford a little longer, to make sure Jesse has everything he needs. But deep down, she knows he needs space as much as she needs to fill it.
As she stacks containers in neat lines, Natalie tries to ignore the little tug of melancholy. Once everything is sealed and tucked neatly into the fridge and freezer, she sinks onto a kitchen stool, exhaustion lapping at her heels.
Her phone buzzes, and she's already smiling before she looks. She knows exactly who it is.
“Please tell me you’re not still playing house for your grown-ass brother.”
Natalie laughs. “I’m making sure he has food that isn’t frozen pizza. You know how he is.”
“You mean helpless?” Mila teases. “I love that boy as much as you do, but you baby him too much.”
“He needs me,” Natalie replies defensively.
“He needs a swift kick in the derriere,” Mila retorts. “But enough about baby Mitchy. How are you going to spend your eveningin the big city?”
“Hartford’s really not that big, Mil.”
“Okay, the medium city.”
“I’m going to stay in and read. I’m wiped,” Natalie says.
Her best friend emits an outraged squawk. “Absolutely not! You’re in a new city, Nat. Go out and explore.”
“I—”
“Nope,” Mila cuts her off. “I already know every excuse you’re about to make, and I don’t care. You’re going out tonight.”
Natalie frowns, scraping a splatter of dried tomato sauce off the counter with a fingernail. “Go out where? I don’t know anyone here besides Jesse.”
“Exactly! That’s the point! Go to a bar, have a drink, and for the love of all things good in this world, find someone hot and have a little fun.”
Natalie groans. “Mila?—”
“No, don’t ‘Mila’ me,” she says. “You’re twenty-five, single, and wasting away in that apartment like a woman three times your age. When was the last time you had a proper date? Or, better yet, a no-strings-attached night of irresponsibility?”
Heat creeps up Natalie’s neck as she grabs a dishcloth and starts aggressively wiping the countertop. “I don’t need a date. I need dinner and eight hours of sleep.”
