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I’m an easy-going guy. I don’t need much. As long as I can be around my buddies on the ice, my guinea pigs are healthy and waiting for me at home, and I have access to a grocery store and the library, I won’t complain. I could do away with Internet and television. You won’t find me burning the midnight oil at a club or bar. Hell, I rarely leave my downtown apartment building. Why bother? We’ve got a gym, a small convenience store, and I’m one block from the arena where I play with my team, the Denver Wolves. Adding in my phenomenal balcony overlooking the Rocky Mountains to the northwest, and I’m one hell of a happy man.

So explain to me why I’m watching a beautiful woman, with tears in her eyes, run away from me, and I’m tempted to run after her.

I have no problem getting pussy. I’m a fucking NHL forward. Women flock to me. I’m not bragging, just stating a fact. On the rare occasion I’m out with more than one of my teammates, we’re surrounded within minutes. I’ve lost track of how many phone numbers, and hotel keys, have been snuck into my pockets. Yeah, I’ve taken advantage a time or two. But that shit gets old after a while. No one wants to get to know me . The real me. The me without hockey.

Who am I? I’m Jacob Mitchell, first line forward on the Wolves. I’m thirty four, and I’m no longer the young and hungry guy I was when I started in the league over a decade ago. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still in excellent shape. But I’m slowing down. I can feel it, and my team sure as fuck sees it. I wasn’t surprised to get called in to speak with the coach and GM today, the only reason I’m out of my apartment. It’s the off-season. Training camp will start soon, but for now I’m enjoying sleeping in and doing nothing all day.

A lot of the guys move home during the summer, but not me. I happen to love Denver. Growing up in Texas, I dealt with heat and humidity. Then when I played college hockey at the University of Michigan, I dealt with cold and humidity. Here in Denver, humidity is a figment of my imagination. It’s cold as balls in the winter, and we routinely get around one hundred degrees in the summer. But the dry climate is amazing, and I love being able to open my windows and sliding door overnight. I’m on the twenty-fifth floor, so it’s not like anyone is going to break in.

As I head into the arena, I find it odd that we’re meeting here. Our practice facility, located just outside of downtown, is much nicer, and each coach has better offices there. Here, we share the arena with the basketball team, and other times there are concerts and functions. It’s still a nice setup, but I much prefer the practice facility.

Knocking on Coach’s door, I hear him yelling for me to come in. I’m surprised to find he’s not alone. Our general manager, one assistant coach, and the owner are also in attendance. As Coach’s office is fairly small, it’s cramped and awkward as I greet everyone individually.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” Coach says. “I’ve got lunch plans with my wife, and I’m not making her wait again.”

Coach Davenport married his girl only a few months ago, with the entire team in attendance. It was quite the story when he finally got with her, as she was a physical therapist for the team, and he was an assistant coach. She’s also a decade younger than him. In any case, the grumpy coach calmed down quite a bit once she tamed him, and it’s nice to see him smile every once in a while.

“Jax, do you know why we called you in?” The GM asks.

“Uh, not really, but I assume it has to do with my play at the end of last year,” I answer sheepishly. We won the Cup a couple years ago, and then last year, it was like none of us knew how to skate. We barely made it into the playoffs, losing in the first round. My buddy Luca Santo retired when we won the Cup, and our other good friend Levi Quinn has nonchalantly said he’s thinking about retiring this year. While I have no plans in place, I wonder if I’ll be the resident old guy on the team, grasping at his youth and praying for survival, while the teenagers skate circles around me.

“Two things bring you here today,” Coach says, clearing his throat as he tosses something at me. I catch it easily, looking down to find the captain’s patch in my hand.

“What?” I breathe. Santzy was our captain two years ago, then Boone took it on last year before he asked for a trade to be closer to family, and it honestly never occurred to me that I’d be considered for captain in his absence.

“You’re surprised?” Coach asks, chuckling.

“Well, yeah. I thought you’d give it to Levi.” Levi is a powerful force on the ice, and I’d never want to be paired against him.

“We thought about it, but Levi would hate being captain. The team vote was tied between you, so it came to us as a tiebreaker. A captain is someone the young guys can go to for advice, or when they need help. No shot in hell our new draftees would feel comfortable going to him,” Coach explains.

“That is true. Sometimes he even scares me,” I admit. I love the guy, and I know he’d do anything for me, but he’s so stoic — to the point of looking pissed off and gruff a lot of the time — and introverted that I really don’t know that much about his youth. I only know about his hockey nickname because he got drunk one night and confessed the whole sordid debacle.

I’m not even sure I’ve ever seen Levi with a woman. He’s a handful of years younger than me, but we meshed as soon as he joined the team.

“We think you’d be a great example for the team, and you will have no problem reining them in when needed. You’ve got a calm way of explaining things, whereas we think Levi would scare the shit out of a few guys.”

“That’s true,” I chuckle.

“You can absolutely decline, if you want.”

“Oh. Uh, no, I’d be honored to be your captain,” I say quietly. I’ve never been a team captain.

“Great. We’ll issue a statement for the media, and we’ll let the equipment team know to add the C to your stuff,” Coach says, gesturing for me to give him back the C in my hands. “No, you don’t get to keep it.”

“I’ve never been a captain before,” I tell him. “Just thought it would be cool to have on my desk at home.”

Coach sighs. “Fine.”

Elated, I shove the patch into my shorts pocket. “So what’s the other thing?”

The four men look at one another before the GM speaks up. “We’re thinking of moving some positions around. Playing with some dynamics on the lines.”

“Okay?”

“Well,” GM says, his eyes darting to Coach’s, “We’re going to move you to the second line. See how you do there.”

“You’re separating me and Levi?” I ask incredulously, focusing on that detail instead of the doubt churning in my gut about being demoted from first to second line.

“Like I said, we’re trying some things out. We want to pair you with Shears and Billings at the beginning of camp. We feel their tenacity will blend well with yours.”

“You should just call it like it is. I’m fucking being demoted,” I say bitterly. I’ve been on the first line for years. I shouldn’t be this pissed off, but I am. I knew this was coming. I’m not as fast as I was. I got beaten to the puck more often than not in the second half of last year.

“It’s not a demotion. You know each line is as important as the last. We can’t pack all of our talent on the first line. We’re damn lucky to have the defensemen we have, and you’d never hear us saying one is better than the other. It’s the same with the rest of you. Yeah, you might not start the games all the time, but you’re still an asset to the team. We just made you captain for fuck’s sake,” Coach says exasperatedly.

“I know,” I sigh. “I think I knew this was the reason why you wanted to see me, but it still didn’t prepare me for actually hearing the words. I can’t compete with these kids coming right from high school hockey. My legs are too old.”

“You aren’t going anywhere,” the owner pipes up. “You still have two years on your contract, and we have no desire to send you elsewhere. I want to see you retire as a Wolves captain. This is absolutely not a demotion, Jax. It has nothing to do with speed or ability. We want you to lead. As Captain, you’re responsible for teaching and leading the younger guys. You can’t do that with Levi.”

Hopefully I won’t be retiring anytime soon.

Heading back to my apartment building, I’m flagged by our concierge, motioning to a large box by his desk. I don’t remember ordering anything, and only when I see the familiar chicken scratch of my mother’s handwriting do I pick up the package. Oddly heavy, I shake the contents as the elevator climbs to my floor. God only knows what she sent.

I don’t have a close relationship with my mom. She was never much of the mothering type, and I found out only a few years ago that she got pregnant with me to trap my father into marriage. She lived the high life for five years, until he’d finally had enough, divorcing her and leaving her mostly penniless, courtesy of an iron-clad prenup she claimed she had no memory of signing. A judge split custody for them, but it didn’t matter. Dad died of a heart attack a few years later, and I was stuck with my mom. The only thing that saved me was a trust he’d left to me, specifically to continue with hockey.

Dad and I bonded over hockey. I was enamored with it from the first moment I saw a game. I’m sure it had something to do with it being on ice, as growing up in east Texas meant I rarely got to see anything wintry. Dad had a booming voice, and his presence took over every room. But when he’d get down on the floor with me, quietly pointing out everything happening on the television screen, it was like we were the same person. Our joy was palpable. Only one week before he passed away, he took me to my first NHL game. I vowed from the moment the puck dropped that I would end up in the NHL someday.

When Dad’s will was read, my mom was furious. She demanded the trust money, claiming she’d make sure I stayed in hockey. The attorneys refused, explaining the law, and introduced me to one of Dad’s business associates. I’d met the guy before, and I knew he was as big a hockey fan as Dad was. Drew O’Connor was the trustee in charge of paying for anything I needed for hockey. His secretary, Jackie, drove me to every practice and game until I graduated from high school. No matter where my mom moved us, Drew and Jackie found me. The longest I went without playing was a month.

Ice hockey in Texas is hard to come by, so I spent a lot of time in the car with Jackie, driving hours for practices and games.. She became the mom I’d wished I had, quizzing me on algebra, teaching me the difference between adjectives and adverbs, and giving me advice on girls. I spent more time at their house, and my neighbor’s farm next door, than I did at my own house. In fact, Jackie and Drew were at my senior night as my parents, not my own mother. I never told her about the event.

In the fifteen years since I graduated high school, I’ve only seen my mother four times. I was expected at each of her weddings, and it was demanded that I bring a gift to show my station. In other words, I better bring something nice and expensive. Mom knows that’s the only way to get any money out of me. The day after I signed my rookie contract, she came calling. I shut her down and told her never to contact me asking for money again.

Drew and Jackie, however, are a constant presence in my life. We speak weekly, and I have a great relationship with their kids as well.

As I unlock my apartment door and place the heavy package on my kitchen island, I wait to open it, instead choosing to slide open the curtains at my balcony. Seeing the mountains reminds me that I’m here. I’m no longer the lonely little boy from east Texas, craving a connection with his mother. I’m a fucking big deal, and she has no power over me.

Once I open the package, I stare in shock.

Fifteen glass containers of olives? Seriously?

She knows I hate olives. I swear, she put them on everything out of spite throughout my childhood, then watched as I tearfully choked them down.

Seeing an envelope in between the jars, I snatch it up, hoping there will be a joke or something inside that explains this box. Instead, I find an awkwardly scrawled “happy birthday” without a signature. I guess that is the joke, considering my birthday was three months ago. I can’t stand this passive aggressive bullshit. This is her way of letting me know she’s mad at me for not giving her more money.

With a loud sigh, I sit down on my well-loved dark brown leather sofa. I want to talk to someone, but I don’t know who. My teammates all have their own shit going on. I could call my buddy Jamie, the current quarterback for the Colorado Coyotes NFL team here, and ask him to meet for dinner. He’s already in the preseason for the NFL, but he might be able to swing a quick meal. I know he won’t drink at all during the season, so I can’t ask him to meet at a bar. Jameson Wahlberg is football royalty, and having only two Lombardi trophies under his belt is bad in his family. His younger brother has three, and their dad has four. At thirty six years old, Jamie is pushing to get another before he retires.

Instead, I pull out my phone and message my online friend. NerdGirl insisted early on that we don’t give out many personal details, if any, and I wholeheartedly agreed. I get used by people all the time. It’s nice to talk to someone who has no idea that I make millions a year swatting at a little piece of rubber while balancing on razor blades.

NerdGirl always makes me feel better. Calling olives fake grapes? I cackled. But when she insinuated that she empathized with my relationship with my mom because of her dad, I didn’t know how to respond. We said nothing personal. Should I have asked if she wanted to elaborate? Could I have provided any insight into her experiences?

I chuckle when my phone rings, and I see it’s Jamie calling.

“I was just about to call you,” I tell him upon answering.

“Oh yeah? Wanted to see if you had plans for dinner,” he responds.

“No. Meet at our usual spot?” Jamie found this ridiculous hole-in-the-wall taco place that makes the best carne asada tacos I’ve ever had. Rarely does anyone recognize us there, and with terrible overhead lighting, I’m sure we could make up a story anyway. I’m already salivating thinking about the tacos.

“Yeah. You cool if I bring a friend?”

“Uh, like a friend friend, or a friend?”

He laughs. “My new coach. He’s had difficulty getting settled here, and the press hounds him nonstop. He mentioned wanting tacos, and that got me thinking that I haven’t seen your miserable face in a while.”

“Nice. Yeah, that’s fine. The press are fucking vultures. Almost as bad as the paparazzi.”

“Yep. Meet you around six.”

“Sounds good.”

A few hours later, I’m seated at a tiny table across from two massive men who dwarf the space. I’m six-three, Jamie is just a tad taller than me, and Coach Silas Youngstown is at least six-five. Hunched over our plates like rabid and semi-feral dogs, we’re silent as we inhale the street tacos.

“Jesus, these things are good,” Silas mutters through a mouthful. “No good taco places in Seattle.”

“Oh?” I ask. It might sound conceited, but I spend a good chunk of my time focused on hockey, and I don’t have time to pay attention to other sports. I follow Jamie’s career, and I can rattle off if the Coyotes won or lost that week, but I’m not a follower of coaching or trade news. I vaguely remember hearing something about a new coach, but I didn’t pay any more attention to who was hired. Not a chance I could remember where the new coach had been last.

“Had family in south Texas,” he explains. “My ma dragged us there every summer. I learned what a good street taco looks like.”

“Oh yeah? I’m from Texas, and street tacos are a pretty integral part of my off-season diet,” I muse, stifling a loud groan as I stuff almost an entire taco into my mouth.

“What part of Texas are you from?” Silas asks as he dumps salsa over his remaining tacos.

“Nowhere you’d know. Small town in east Texas.”

“Shouldn’t you be back there right now? Your training shouldn’t start for a few more weeks,” Silas says.

“I don’t go home,” I state clearly.

“Why?” Silas asks.

“I just … don’t.” I’m not about to delve into my complicated parental relationship with an NFL coach I just met. I have been known to lose my filter from time to time, but even I’m smart enough to recognize this isn’t the time or place. “How’re the Coyotes looking this year? Playoff potential?”

Jamie chuckles. “Nice redirection there, Jax. But since it involves talking about myself, I’ll allow it. I think we’re looking good. Playoffs? Maybe. Depends on how the lines grow. Whether they become a cohesive bunch or not. I’m liking the group we have right now, and it’s the most optimistic I’ve been since I got here.”

I look at Silas with my eyebrows raised, waiting for his input. He shrugs before saying, “I never make any preseason predictions. Jamie will tell you, I’m all about a week-by-week outlook. Worry about what’s right in front of you. I can’t think about January when I need to get these guys through four grueling months first.”

“And he’s scared as fuck about the fans here,” Jamie pipes up.

“Dude, I had barely moved in before a neighbor threatened to remove my intestines through my asshole,” Silas says in exasperation..

“I mean, I’d be a little concerned too. But the fans here are hardcore. They can be completely brutal, but their passion is contagious. I even find myself rooting for the dogs every now and again,” I tease.

Jamie rolls his eyes. “We’ve talked about this, dick. Coyotes are no more dogs than wolves.”

I shrug, knowing it pisses Jamie off. “Eh. Wolves are cooler.”

“Whatever. Oh, I have to go drop off some donations at the adoption center. Can you take Coach home? He’s renting in your building.” As if Jamie wasn’t already a huge football star with tons of adoring fans, he has to up the ante a little by being an all-around good human. When his schedule allows, he volunteers at an animal adoption center, regularly drops off donations and supplies at the humane society, and anonymously helps out a couple of animal related charities in Denver. He’s never gone into detail about why he does these things, but I also haven’t asked. I assumed it was personal.

He’s one of only a few people who know about my own animal haven.

“You should show Coach your shrine for your fucking guinea pigs.”

“The fuck? You got some pigs, Jax?” Coach asks with a grin.

Well, shit. That select few who know about my guineas has now grown by one.