So far so good. I mean, I’ve been with the Portland Riptide for all of seven hours, and it’s been more than a bit of a blur, but I’m feeling pretty fucking good. I dodged a bullet. I survived the league’s guillotine.
When my phone buzzed on Mac’s nightstand in the middle of the night, and I saw Clark’s name, my heart seized in my chest. I swear it didn’t start beating again until I crept into the hallway outside the bedroom and he blurted out, “Portland Riptide picked you up. Official. It’s done.”
In a whisper, I asked him to repeat it twice because my phone was buzzing in the background with a slew of calls and text messages from my family at the same time. "This is great, Con. It's an expansion team, filled with cast-offs from other clubs and veterans with chips on their shoulders. They're eager. Bad News Bears vibes."
“I don’t know what Bad News Bears are, but if I’m still in the NHL I don’t care who I’m playing for, honestly,” I whispered.
Clark told me to get to Boston Logan by six in the morning because the Riptide had me booked on an eight o’clock out to Colorado to meet the team for their road trip. I snuck back into the bedroom and looked down at a sleeping Mac. My entire body vibrated with the need to tell her this news. To share it with her first even as my family was still blowing up my phone so intensely I had to leave it in the hall so it wouldn’t disturb her.
Mac was sleeping on her stomach, her curls splayed out behind her head which was twisted to the side of the bed I’d been sleeping on. Her tanned skin exposed from her mid-torso up. She had a small grouping of dark round freckles on her back between her shoulder blades. They looked like a little arc, like a rainbow. She was sleeping so peacefully that I couldn’t wake her. She wasn’t my girlfriend after all and she’d already dealt with so much of my drama.
She worked so hard that sleep was precious, so I made the split decision not to wake her. I gathered my stuff, wrote her a quick note, and texted my dad to come pick me up. He was awake, of course, and had texted me four times since I got the call from Clark. He must have been glued to the sports news all night, waiting for word on my career. Fuck, I love that man.
Dad picked me up while I scrolled through all the well wishes from family and some of the Barons guys I was close to. And then there was a small flood of interview requests from the really pushy media outlets that always somehow seemed to find and use player's personal email. I ignored those and texted the family in the group chat and some of my former teammates. Callie had packed my stuff and given it to Dad so we could drive straight to Boston.
Dad was upbeat the whole trip, and it was really nice to get that time with him. An hour and a half later while I was pulling my bag from the back seat, he pulled me into a hug on the curb beside the American Airlines gate. "I'm happy for you Con," he whispered, his words ruffling the hair by my ears. "But know that I don't give a shit what you do for a living. You're the best damn kid I could have ever hoped for and I will always be proud of you."
Shit, if that didn't make my vision blur. I squeezed him, hard, and stepped away, turning to wipe my eyes and hoping he didn't see. I haven't cried in front of him, or anyone, in a decade, and for some reason I really want to keep it that way. "Thanks, Dad."
Do I believe him? Maybe. I am just really glad I have the option of doubting his words because I’m still a professional hockey player. He isn’t saying this to the first Garrison to fail. I hug him again but keep it brief.
“And when you get back I’ll drive your car over to Portland,” he tells me as I clap him on the back. “And you can explain to me why I was picking you up at Alex Larue’s daughter’s apartment in the middle of the night with your shirt on inside out and backwards and your hair sticking up all over the place.”
Oh. My eyes fly down to my shirt and I see the tag, which is supposed to be tucked into the back of my Henley, sticking up by my chin. I run a hand through my hair and grab my duffle bag. "I'm gonna run to the bathroom before security. Bye, Dad."
I entered the airport, leaving the sound of his chuckles behind.
The flight was seamless and I was exhausted so I passed right out, praising my new team for booking me a business class seat that turned into a bed, and had to be woken by the flight attendant for landing.
I had meant to call Mac from the airport in Colorado, or on the way to the hotel where the team was staying, but one of the assistant coaches picked me up at the airport, and he talked non-stop about the team and what I needed to know about it. Then at the hotel Coach showed up as soon as I got to my room and introduced himself and made small talk. I could tell he was sizing me up. Kicking the tires on his purchase so I had to give him my full attention and try to impress him. He didn't seem impressed when he left. And then the captain showed up at my room to say hello and sat with me on the team bus to practice.
I sort of knew Abbott Barlowe, the Riptide Captain. He was older than me, but I played against him before and also saw him in the minors a lot when we were kids because he was also a Mainer. He's tough and has an incredible percentage of face-off wins. He was also openly gay. He came out after he won the Cup with his former team. He'd just been traded to Portland. They hadn't even started their first season yet and rumors around the league were that management, coaching, and media relations were all not happy. He was diverting attention from the newly formed team to his personal life. I, personally, rolled my eyes when I heard that. Abbott wasn’t diverting anything. He was living his life, just like any straight player on the team did, and the media was the one making it a big deal.
“So, are you happy about being on the home team?” Abbott asks me as we sit in the front seats of the luxury coach taking the Riptide to the arena. “That mattered to me, but I get it doesn’t always matter to others.”
I lean back in my seat but try not to get too relaxed. I’m exhausted and I don’t need to get even more drowsy and be sluggish for practice. “Honestly, I haven’t had a second to let that aspect sink in. I told my agent I was just happy to still be in the league, you know? But now that you ask… yeah. It matters a lot that I’m playing for Maine. It’s like a gift actually.”
It hits me hard. I’m playing for my home state. The first Garrison to do it, because they haven’t had a team before. And I’ll only be two hours from my hometown. From that gorgeous woman I left sleeping in the converted barn. This thing with Mac might have real potential now. I really like that idea.
“It’s a lot,” Abbott says, his blue eyes filled with sympathy. “The whole rollercoaster that goes with waivers and trades. But you dodged the minors bullet. I didn’t but I didn’t have your family name.”
I stiffen a little at that. Abbott catches it and looks immediately sheepish. He scratches the back of his blond head. "That was a dick thing to say. I didn't mean it to be. I think you're talented in your own right, Conner. I do and I'm pumped to work with you. You've been a bitch to play against all these years, and I mean that as a compliment. But I just… I mean people see the name… and it gives you credit even before they see you skate. I haven't had that. I bet it's a blessing and a curse."
"I'm a nepo-baby for sure," I tell him without hesitation and without malice because it's a truth that would be ridiculous to deny. "That's why I've worked extra hard my entire life to prove that I should be picked even without that name on the back of my jersey."
Abbott nods. I stare out the window, snowy buildings blur by before I focus back on Abbott. “I don’t know what went wrong in the last couple of years in Brooklyn but I’m determined to make sure it doesn’t continue here. I’ll earn my keep.”
“Dude, you don’t have to sell me.” Abbott smiles. “Also, I wanted to talk to you about living arrangements.”
"Team can put you up in a rental apartment," Abbott says. "But I always offer mid-season transfers a room at my place. I have a house on the beach, twenty minutes from the arena. The town is like something out of a Hallmark movie in all the best and worst ways, but I dig it. The locals love hockey players. My partner's family owns the best lobster shack in the state so there's always good food around the house. He brings home leftovers and his mother stuffs our fridge with stuff. Anyway, you decide what you want. No offense taken either way."
He gets up as the bus slows to a stop in front of the Colorado arena and we start to filter out.
Abbott, like me, had a few rough patches in his career before being traded to the Riptide. He actually did get dropped into the minors for a while and suffered through some injuries. He was also in the Player’s Assistance Program for alcohol. I wouldn’t need a place to squat for long. Maybe a month while I found my own apartment or house. Half that time I’d be on the road at away games anyway. Abbott’s history was similar enough to mine, career-wise, that maybe he’d be able to understand my struggles lately. Hell, maybe he could explain to me why I was having them. Or at least give me tips on how to get my shit back together here.
So after we’re suited up in practice gear and are waddling to the ice on our skates I grab his shoulder with my gloved hand. “I’d like to take you up on the offer.”
He blinks and smiles. “Really? Great! I’ll let Deck know.”
“That’s your partner’s name?” I ask.
He nods. Slowly. Like he thinks I’m just figuring out his partner is a man, and he’s waiting for me to what? Have an issue. I don’t. “Cool. Are you sure he won’t mind?”
His smile turns soft with relief. “Nah. Declan is from this giant family of really invasive, over-sharing siblings. You could literally eat food off his dinner plate or raid his closet and it wouldn’t be anything new.”
I laugh. “Sounds exactly like growing up a Garrison.”
Abbott laughs too. “My condolences then.”
My first practice with the team goes okay. I’m not a disaster but I am a wee bit sluggish with the jet lag and exhaustion. But I think I hold my own. After practice Coach pulls me aside. “You’ll probably float around, play a little tonight on every line, so don’t take it personal if you’re on fourth or third or whatever at some point. Gotta put you everywhere and see what works. I’m not giving you anything you don’t earn. And son, you’re really going to have to try harder than you think.”
Oh. Okay…
By the time we get back to the hotel and I’m in my room, I have to field a bunch of texts from my family. Every single damn one of them has sent me separate text messages asking how it’s going, telling me how happy they are for me, and asking me a million questions. I open up the dreaded family chat and send one message to all of them at once.
I feel a little like a shithead for that so I add another message.
I plug my phone in on the nightstand, peel out of my clothes, and crawl into bed. My phone is blowing up because of course none of them listened to the STFU part.
I actually smile at that and respond to Mayhem.
There's a moment of silence, which is a lot for this gaggle of unrelenting chatterboxes. I know there are other family chat groups I'm not a part of, like one for just the female cousins and one for all our parents. I wonder if they're all off on those now, gossiping about me and Mac. I decide to add another text even though I really just want to sleep.
Her snarky praise, along with three clapping hands emojis, is a bit much, even for her sarcastic ass. I send her a middle finger emoji, and then silence my phone and put it face down on the night table so I can finally grab some shut-eye.