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The team flies back home to Chicago, with Callan Jones thankfully traveling with us. Even though our next game isn't in a few days, it's good to have him with the team – so guys can start to get to know him.
Jones “meets” everybody on the bus. And by meets, I mean ... he walks down the aisle, trying to greet whoever is kind enough to actually look him in the eye and say hi. It's a pretty miserable job by the team, and I'm really disappointed in the boys for being so stand-offish.
I sit next to him on the plane. I wanna keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn't go causing any more trouble for himself. I can tell he's uneasy about this 'travel mix-up' story, but I'm not sure why. It's just a cover-up, after all, and it's not exactly all that far from the truth.
The boys don't need to know that he had some kind of bizarre break-down and skipped out on them. I know he wants their trust, but in this case, a little white lie is probably better for that.
Then again, not everyone buys the excuse.
Emerson, sitting in the row ahead of us on the plane, turns around and looks over the head-rest at Jones. “So, a travel mix-up, huh?”
Jones catches my eye before he answers. “... Yeah.”
Emerson chuckles. “How the hell does that happen, Jonesy? Third year in the league, right? Don't you know how travel works by now?”
Jones sighs. “I guess not.”
“Yeah. Right.” Emerson chuckles and returns to his seat. We hear him chatting with Donovan next to him.
“Travel mix up. Har har.”
Jones gives me a look. There's a wounded sensitivity behind those eyes.
See? his eyes seem to plead with me.
Damn it, I think to myself.
I wish Doug would've spoken with me before he gave the 'travel mix-up' line to the media. I would've told him that Jones wasn't on board with the idea. Should've just let the kid tell the truth and take his lumps – both with the team and the media. But it's too late for that now. Now we just have to go forward.
We land back in Chicago in the early afternoon, tired after our Florida road trip and a really draining week. Thankfully, we've got the rest of the day off.
I give Jones a list of hotels he could stay at until he finds a place. For the rest of the day, he's out of my hair – and that's just fine with me. I need the break, and I'm sure he could use the alone time to adjust to a new city.
I spend the rest of the day by myself, desperately needing to forget about all the drama surrounding the team as of late.
Tomorrow morning, we're right back at it with a morning practice.
***
AFTER A MORNING SHOWER, I leave my hotel room and wait for the elevator in the lobby. Despite the drama, I'm a little excited for practice. I know the coach wants to try Jones on my line – he'll be the big, pesky presence on my line. Or that's the idea, at least – that Jones will draw defenders towards him with his reckless physical style, which will help open up space for me and Nelson.
If the team wants to claw our way back into the playoff race, we need our line to click.
I hop on the elevator and the doors close behind me.
“Wait!” a voice yells. I mash the “open doors” button, and the elevator opens. I hear a shuffle as a man sprints towards the elevator.
It's Callan Jones. I chuckle, shaking my head in disbelief. I guess, out of the list of hotels I gave him, he happened to pick the one I live in.
He looks at me, confused, his face scrunching up. “Wait a minute ... what are you doing here? Are you checking up on me?”
“I live here.” I shrug.
“You live here? Why?” he laughs. “I mean, it's a nice enough hotel, don't get me wrong. But with the paycheck you bring home? Oh man ... the places I'd live.”
I chuckle as the elevator races to the ground floor. As soon as they sign their first big contracts, the young guys always wanna blow their money on a sports car and some big, swanky apartment downtown.
“What's the point?” I ask. “I wouldn't know what to do with all the space. I'm not much of a decorator.”
“No wife to make the place look nice, huh?” he asks with his boyish grin. And I'm so used to seeing that grin a split second before he drops an insult, I almost don't realize his question is sincere.
“Oh, no,” I stammer. “No wife. I'm single.”
“No girlfriend either? Really?”
“I almost got married once.” I shrug. “But after that I've just stayed single. Too much hassle.”
“Ahh. Gotcha.”
The doors open and we take off.
“You feelin' better today, Jones?” I ask.
“A little, yeah. Feeling a little more optimistic I guess.”
“Good.”
We walk the few city blocks to the arena. Outside, a group of young fans wait to greet us. They're extra excited to see Jones, too – the kids are too young to understand the rumors, the gossip surrounding Jones' departure. For them, he's just another star, not a young guy with a troubled career.
Jones signs a few autographs before we head in. He's really nice to all the kids. That's a good sign, too.
***
PRACTICES ARE NORMALLY something of a gentleman's affair. Sure, we push ourselves, but we won't overdo it – there's no use in killing ourselves out there. Nobody wants to hurt a teammate in practice, so besides some pushing and jostling, physical play is kept at a minimum.
But this practice is different, I guess. It is, after all, Jones' first practice with the team. And it'd be silly to forget about the bitter history between him and several of our players. Things like that don't just evaporate into thin air.
Those issues have to be worked out. Sometimes with fists.
So I'm not surprised that some of the guys are gunning for Jones out there. They're head-hunting him in open ice – Donovan and Emerson especially – trying to catch him with a shoulder to the head. It's a dangerous play, and one that usually provokes a fight.
But what does surprise me is that this time? Jones isn't fighting back.
The cocky, confident Jones that we're used to playing against has all but disappeared. In his place is a nervous guy, a guy who cowers as he skates around the ice and seems like he's afraid to get hit. He doesn't look nearly as fast or strong and he lets up when he sees a body coming at him.
Which is always.
On one hand I can't blame him, since his new team is trying to murder him during his first practice with the team. But on the other hand, the Jones I remember playing against only gets tougher when you hit him.
What the hell? I wonder. I'm hoping like hell that Jones is being extra careful. That he wants to take his licks, and earn the trust of his teammates the hard way. Maybe he thinks that fighting back would only make them more pissed.
Because the alternative theory – that Jones has gone weak and lost his edge – means that the team traded Fresno for a dud. And we can kiss our playoff hopes goodbye.
As scrimmage continues, the chippy play gets worse. Jones is getting tagged all over the ice, and our line can't find any rhythm because of it. It's getting ridiculous. Practice doesn't feel like anything but an exercise in trying to kill the new guy.
Jones finally takes a hard hit in open ice – Donovan gets his elbow up high, and rocks Jones in the jaw with it. It's a nasty hit, one that would've earned Donovan a penalty, maybe even a suspension, if this were a real game. Jones falls, his body hitting the ice with a lifeless thud, and is slow to get up. Donovan stands over him, gloating.
“Need a sec to catch your breath, eh kid?” he laughs. “Well, just in case you get lost or have some kind of travel mix-up ... the bench is that way.” He kneels down on the ice and makes a big show about pointing across the ice at the player's bench. Donovan cackles as he skates off.
Jones lumbers up to his skates and coasts, hunched over and sucking air.
The coach blows his whistle. “Alright, boys, that's enough.” Coach gives a disgusted head shake. He knows this team is a mess and has a long way to go before things come together. If we come together. “Hit the showers.”
I skate up alongside Jones before we leave the ice. “The hell was that about?” I ask.
“They gotta get it out of their system somehow,” he groans.
“Yeah, but you let them walk all over you, Jonesy! Why aren't you pushing back? That's no way to earn their respect ...”
He grabs the side of my jersey and growls at me. “Listen. I'm not gonna sit here and take all these damned travel mix-up jokes any longer, Vance. I never asked anyone to lie for me.”
I blink as he skates off the ice and heads to the dressing room.
Fuck, I think. Please don't make it worse, Jones.
I hurry after him. There's a tension in the air, the kind before a big fist-fight breaks out. The popular guys are grouping up, singling out the loner, and he knows it. Jones looks fierce, ready to fight. I hope this isn't going down the way it looks like it might. A fight on the ice is one thing, but a fight in the room is another thing entirely.
Coach Stevens and Doug enter at the same time. Coach lectures us for a bit, about our shitty work ethic today, about guys looking lazy and unprepared, about us looking like a team that doesn't wanna play together. It's obvious what he's getting at. But it's also obvious that these things have to work themselves out. That the coach can't fix issues like this for us. “So you better fuckin' figure it out, boys. You better get on the same fuckin' page real fuckin' fast.”
A few heads nod. A few gleeful smirks.
Coach and GM turn to leave the room, but Jones pipes up.
“Wait,” he says. They both turn around. “Listen. I gotta come clean about something.” He stands up and goes to the middle of the room.
Oh, shit, I think.
“The truth is, I didn't have a travel mix-up. I'll tell you what I told Vance when I made it to the hotel the other night. I don't have any excuses for what I did. I've never been traded before and I dunno what came over me. I did something stupid, alright. I panicked in the airport and ran off. But one thing I didn't do was try to make up an excuse about a travel mix-up, alright? That came from the media, and then I felt like I couldn't tell you guys the truth. But now I am. Maybe you guys think I'm a fuckin' coward, or a pussy, or whatever. But I'm not a liar, alright. So whatever.”
Without another word, Jones sits his ass down at his stall and angrily loosens his skate laces. After a few beats, a couple guys clap. The clapping doesn't exactly turn into a round of applause, but a few voices murmur their support nonetheless.
“Hey that's okay bud.” “All's good, Jones.” “Don't sweat it kid.”
I look over at Coach Stevens and Doug. They look at each other and shrug.
Ballsy move, I think. And he managed to do it without throwing me or Doug under the bus.
Donovan stands up and ends the good will, though. “According to team rules, though, any player who misses a game or practice, due to his own fault, will be suspended for the next game.”
It's like he's just let all the air out of the room. Shoulders all around the room drop. He's right, but it's gonna hurt the team not to have Jones in our next game.
“Donovan's right,” Doug nods. “On the other hand, the team can vote to waive the suspension. If two players vote to uphold the suspension, he'll have to sit the next game out.”
“So who's in favor of suspension?” Donovan asks, not missing a beat. His hand shoots into the air. “Come on. Just need one more.”
It seems inevitable that someone will vote against him. And, sure enough, a second hand shoots into the air.
But it's Jones'. He's voted against himself.
“The rules are the rules,” Jones says to the room with a shrug. “I don't want any special treatment just because I'm new.”
Doug folds his arms. I can tell he's suppressing a smile. That he knows this was the best of all possible outcomes.
“Alright, Jones,” Doug says. “If that's what you really want, you got it. You'll have to sit the next game.”
There clapping is louder than before, and more murmurs of support come from all around us.
“Hey, respect, Jonesy.” “Good guy, good guy.” “Better man than me! Haha!”
Donovan slowly takes a seat at his stall. The smile has been wiped off his face, replaced with a sour grimace. He got exactly what he wanted, but he didn't think it'd go anything like this. In the end, he looks like a petty rules-lawyer, and Jones comes out looking responsible and mature – maybe even admirable.
It's a smart, crafty move from the young player. But I don't believe it's just gamesmanship. I think he truly wants to make it up to the team – and this is the best way of proving it.
For the first time since the trade, I let out a breath of relief.
I think it's all gonna work out.