“I’m retired, AJ, you can say it. It’s not a bad word,” I mutter, even though it is a bad word. It’s the worst word, and I’ve spent too much time in therapy trying to get used to the sound of it on my tongue.
Something like sympathy flashes behind his eyes, and he raises his palms in concession. “Alright. You’re retired at the ripe old age of thirty, still probably one of the best centres to grace the ice, and you happen to be great on television. With social media, it’s a whole new landscape for networks. They’re constantly trying to appeal to younger audiences. You poll great with men and women ages eighteen to twenty-nine.”
“Fascinating.”
AJ snorts before continuing. “Just a fact, Bohdan. Zane is going to offer to make you a regular at the desk. But just so you know, he’s going to ask for something else, too. Those one-to-one segments you did with the team fresh off the world juniors, he wants a new show with different coverage. Something short, clippable. Where you’d—I don’t know, skate around with other players, kick a ball down a field, and talk about ...” He swallows, an apologetic shrug to his shoulders. “Injury. Recovery. Expectations. Mental health.”
It’s a psychosomatic, a figment of my imagination, but the scar along my temple feels like it’s pulsing with the beat of my heart, and a sharp pain stabs at my brain behind it. I feel my lips curl backward and I give a jerk of my head. “Zane wants me to ... what? Be some sort of pseudo talk show host? About mental health in sports?” My nostrils flare with an exhale and I reach down, snatching my duffel bag from where I left it beside the makeup desk. I need this conversation to be over. “Am I supposed to be some sort of example? Don’t worry, you might lose it all, but there’s light at the end of the tunnel?”
AJ’s mouth tugs to the side, and he gives a weary shake of his head, hands finding the pockets of his suit again. “I’m just the messenger. You can’t do that anymore”—he angles his elbow towards the magazine, still askew on the desk—“but you are good at this. You’ve got too much talent to let it all go to waste.”
“Bit late for that,” I say flatly, pointedly walking past him towards the door.
I’m being difficult. I’m being rude. This isn’t the version of myself I want to be—the one I’ve been stuck with for a little over a year.
Not the me I used to be.
But she’s not here to remind me, and she’s not here to stop me, so I brush past AJ without a backward glance.
His voice stops me when I reach the doorway.
“You could be, you know. An example. That injuries should be taken seriously. That your brain matters. That there’s life waiting after sport.”
I do turn back, about to tell him that I pissed away the only life waiting for me after hockey, but he grabs the magazine from the desk and hands it to me. “Go on the cruise, Bohdan. Celebrate your friend. Think it over. Decide who you want to be now.”
He leaves me standing there, half in, half out of not just the doorway but probably my life, lights beating down on my throbbing head and a brain that feels a bit like it’s bleeding, holding an old magazine with the only version of myself I was ever interested in being immortalized on the cover.
The me who had his whole life ahead of him.
The me who knew with absolute certainty what he was supposed to do.
The me who had her.
I fish my phone from my suit pocket and open the text thread. It’s been named the same thing since college.
The Only Line to Ever Exist—Talon’s doing.
It’s full of mostly unanswered texts from Talon, with the occasional begrudging response from Jay.
Talon: Bohdan, please. I can’t celebrate my retirement without you.
Talon: You’re Czech. You’ll love the cruise. Back to your roots.
Jay: Is the boat even going by there?
Jay: And leave him alone, he’s on-air.
Jay: You know, his job. He has actual responsibilities, Talon.
Talon: Says the guy who’s probably sitting on his couch because he didn’t make the playoffs. Unfortunate run, Jay.
Talon: Novo? Bohdie? Bohder? Please say yes. I need you.
I don’t know who I want to be—certainly not any of those unfortunate fucking nicknames—but I know I don’t want to stand in this doorway any longer.
Bohdan: If it’ll shut you up—you can count me in.
Sloan
