Page 51 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Emotional regulation.

Great.

I’ve become a pamphlet.

A very large, unemployed pamphlet with a rescue dog and a squirrel problem.

“Right,” I say.

Puck presses harder against my leg. I look down at him and unclench my hand.

He has no idea what this call means.

Or maybe he does. He was a shelter dog. He understands people deciding who you are based on the worst day they know about.

“That’s why we’d like you to attend the community dinner at Winterberry Cove during the first week of November,” she says. “There will be donors, school board members, parents, and a few students from the athletic leadership committee.”

Of course there will be a dinner full of people trying to decide if I’m safe enough to hire and respectable enough to put on a brochure.

Former professional athlete joins our community to inspire local youth.

Small print: Please ignore the grainy tunnel video, and the fact that several mothers will be watching him like he might check someone into the dessert table.

“We’d also like you to run a short on-ice session that week, if you’re comfortable,” she says.

Comfortable.

Interesting word choice.

I have played through fractured ribs, two concussions I lied about, and a playoff game where my shoulder felt like it was being held together with tape and spite. Comfort has never been the point.

“I can do that,” I say.

“Wonderful. We think it would be helpful for the community to see you in a coaching environment. Structure. Patience. Leadership.”

“I understand.”

“And,” she adds, “we were hoping your significant other would come with you.”

My brain stops.

Not slows.

Stops.

Puck sneezes.

The squirrel darts along the wall.

“My—” I stop.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.