AS IT TURNS OUT, CBS does want an interview. The reporter catches up to me in the tunnel right when the game ends. We won in overtime, thanks to a beauty of a goal by Mickey, and I’m still sucking wind, sweat dripping from me like I’ve just climbed out of a pool. I had to literally throw myself in front of a couple of shots on the net, which means I’m sure to have a bunch of fancy new aches and pains once the adrenaline wears off.
“Hi Cooper, I’m Kacey Green from CBS Sports. Mind if we chat for a few minutes?” she says with a camera-ready smile. She’s wearing a pine-green dress that complements her deep brown complexion, and even though she has heels on, she barely comes up to my chest. I feel like a huge, sweaty monster compared to her, but she must be used to it, because if she thinks I smell, she doesn’t show it.
I lean on my stick. “Of course.”
“Fantastic game,” she says. “Do you feel like it showcased what you’re hoping to bring to the league?”
I try my best to ignore the cameraman standing next to her as I bend down to speak into the microphone. It would be weird to talk about myself after such a great group effort, so I say, “Thanks, Kacey. The whole team played great. We had a tough loss to UMass earlier in the season, so it’s exciting to keep the Turkey Freeze trophy here for another year.”
“But you really put it all out there today.”
“Yeah.” I laugh a bit, wincing when that makes my gut ache. “Pressed well on the forecheck, blocked some shots. It was a good effort.”
“You were recently named captain.”
“Yes. I’m honored that Coach and the team chose me.”
“You and Nikolai Abney-Volkov are the highest ranked defensemen in Division I men’s hockey,” she says. “Your stats are nearly identical this season. The Sharks drafted Volkov in the first round of the first year you were both eligible, but you chose to remain undrafted.”
I wait for a question, but she pauses, so I just nod. Fucking Nikolai.
“Do you have any regrets about holding out for a deal after graduation?”
“I…” Before the season started, I would have said yes, I’d rather be at the pro level, putting all my energy into the one thing I care about most in the world. Let me scrap and enforce our zone and fight for my ice time like everyone else. But now? I’m not so sure. If I was in the league already, I wouldn’t have met Penny. If someone gave me the choice between sticking out the rest of college or entering the league tomorrow, I don’t know what I’d say.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my father. He’s leaning against the wall as he talks to someone on the phone, half in shadow, but I can feel him looking at me. Maybe other dads wouldn’t wear slacks, a collared shirt, and a cashmere sweater to see their sons play hockey, but he still gets recognized everywhere he goes, so his standards aren’t the same as most. Technically, he’s not even allowed back here, but I’m sure someone recognized him and waved him through.
We fought about whether I would enter the draft for most of my senior year of high school. The resentment ran so deep that we hardly spoke to each other for months. It’s mostly faded now, a part of the past I have no interest in reliving, but as Kacey’s question echoes in my mind, and as I look at my father, no doubt able to hear our conversation, I feel the sting. He’s never understood how the world of professional hockey differs from football, and he’s never cared to learn, either.
“No,” I say. “I’ve been improving with every game I play, and Coach Ryder is a big part of that. I’m where I need to be right now, even though I’m excited about what comes next.”
“Congratulations again,” she says. “Thanks for your time.”
I thank her and wait until the camera stops rolling before crossing the hallway to my father. “Dad,” I say, wiping at my forehead with the sleeve of my sweater. I can’t contain my smile. “Did you hear that?”
He ends his call, a frown on his face. “What?”
“The interview.”
“Is there something I should have noticed?”
I bounce on my toes, nearly lurching forward for a hug but stopping myself at the last moment. I’m drenched in sweat; he won’t want me to ruin his clothes. “What about the change in uniform? Pretty cool, right?”
He looks me up and down. I straighten, years of being told to watch my posture kicking in, and smooth down the front of my sweater, just in case he hasn’t gotten a good look at the new addition.
“You didn’t want to tell us in advance?” he says, still studying me like I’m a complex route in a playbook.
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“It’s good that your coach saw sufficient improvements in your play and behavior.”
“I’ve been working really hard this season.”
“Which is what I expect from you,” he says. “I raised you and James to become captains.”
“Yes, sir.”
Why did I think we’d get through this conversation without him mentioning James? No matter what I do, no matter what I achieve, even in a different sport, James will do it first. And Dad will like it better because he did it in football.
“That sloppy turnover at the start of the third period could have been a disaster,” he continues.
He’s right, of course; that was the biggest mistake I made during the game, and I’m not surprised he caught it. I nod, biting the inside of my cheek. It’s a fair critique, even if it’s not what I want to hear right now. When we go over the tape of this game, Coach will say the same thing. The remedy to turnovers is not making them in the first place. “Right, sir. But aren’t you—isn’t it great? And I’ve scored four goals already this season.”
The phone in his hand buzzes. He glances down at it, and his mouth tightens. “I need to take this, son. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Wait, Dad—”
He claps me on the shoulder again as he passes. “Don’t make sloppy plays.”
I watch as he hurries down the hallway, his phone pressed to his ear. I don’t catch what he says, but judging by the look on his face, it’s not very pleasant.
I feel stupid, all of a sudden; I’m going home for Thanksgiving in less than a week, it’s not like I won’t see him there. We can talk more then. But even though I know that, part of me wishes I could’ve talked to him for just a little longer right now. To actually hear the words that I’m craving come out of his mouth. He tells James—and Izzy, and Seb—how proud he is all the time, so why don’t the words come for me? Whenever I try to connect with him, something gets lost in translation. If he looks at James and sees himself, then I’m Uncle Blake, and he’s just waiting to see when I’m going to fuck everything up.
I’m about to open the door to the locker room when I see that McKee hat with the pom-pom on top.
It’s Penny, looking like she just saw a ghost.
