Page 12 of One-Time Shot
Malcolm hadn’t been following me with hearts in his eyes. He’d wanted something from me. I was used to that. Hockey was a big deal at Smithton, and not to brag, but my sport had made me a mini celebrity here.
Seriously. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d paid for every item on my tab at any establishment in town. The crew at Coffee Cave comped croissants or charged me half of what I owed for my daily cup of joe. The staff at Bear Depot always offered me the table at the window and brought a treat on the house—onion rings, fries, a sundae, a milkshake. Yogi’s Frozen Yogurt Shop wouldn’t take my money at all.
They were sweet perks, but they came with an expectation to win games. No problem. I wanted that too, and I’d always liked the attention—invitations to exclusive parties, free drinks, willing partners…sign me up.
But something had changed for me this year, and the weight of expectation felt heavier than ever.
This was it for me. The end of the line. My final season, my final shot at the future I’d dreamed of. I wished it were a foregone conclusion that I’d find a new home in the pros, but sadly, there was no guarantee.
My stats alone weren’t going to get me signed. I knew that, but part of me resented the pressure to put on a show for the scouts. My show was the game I played every damn time I took to the ice. If that wasn’t enough…I was kinda screwed.
Even Malcolm had admitted that my stats were what made me an interesting candidate for his experiment. But the fact that he didn’t seem to know much about hockey was oddly refreshing. He wanted a piece of my time for science.
That was weird. But in a cool way.
Maybe.
I couldn’t decide.
And why was I thinking about Malcolm again? I should have been thinking about?—
“Erickson? Are you there?”
“Uh, yeah, sorry. I’m ready,” I assured my agent. “We’ll play our asses off Saturday night. And win.”
“And your knee?” Randall asked.
“It’s fine.”
“Glad to hear that. Anything else going on?”
“Well…” I scratched my nape and shrugged, though the gesture was lost in the connection. “No. Why?”
Randall sighed. “Listen, kid. I believe in you. I keep in touch with your coach and I see highlights. Sometimes you look sharp as fuck, and sometimes you look like you’re wound so tight, you’re gonna explode. These two scouts aren’t heavy hitters, but there’ll be bigger names behind them. You gotta be ready.”
“I’m ready,” I repeated.
“Good. I’m not telling you to work harder. That’s your coach’s job. I’m suggesting that you work smarter. Don’t go balls to the wall and fuck up your knee again.”
“I take care of it,” I assured him, launching into a report of my icing routine that should have bored anyone with a pulse within ten seconds.
Randall lasted five. “Balance is important too, Jett. You gotta pay attention to your mental health. Do something to quiet your mind, you know? Something outside of your usual routine. Try yoga or meditation…”
Yoga? Meditation? The fuck?
“Uh…yeah. Sure.”
“Great chat. I’ll check in with you soon.”
I ended the call and stared into space for a moment, then called my dad.
He answered on the fifth ring. “I’ve got two minutes. What’s up?”
“Any idea why Randall’s telling me to try yoga?”
The line was silent for a beat. “No, but…I don’t have time to talk. He knows what he’s doing, Jett. Listen to him.”
I swiped a hand over my stubbled jaw. “Yoga isn’t the point. It felt more as if he’s preparing me for failure in the nicest way possible.”