Page 53 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“I know,” Principal Whitcomb says. “And I think that matters. But I’ll be honest with you, Forrest. Everyone knows you understand hockey. Everyone knows you can develop players. The question isn’t whether you’re qualified on the ice.”

“It’s whether I’m safe off it.”

The words come out flat.

Too flat.

I flinch because I hear myself the way she probably hears me. Defensive. Clipped. A man holding his temper like a lit match cupped in his palm.

That isn’t what I mean.

I’m tired of people thinking I’m an asshole who’ll beat the shit out of everyone who looks at me wrong. Tired of watching their faces change when they remember the clip. Tired of knowing the worst thing they know about me is also the thing they trust most.

Principal Whitcomb goes quiet.

Then she says, “I wouldn’t phrase it quite that way. Your mother, who is an outstanding member of our community⁠—”

“Listen, if you think this position belongs to someone else⁠—”

“No,” she says, cutting in before I can ruin myself further. “That’s not what I’m saying. We’re willing to listen, learn, and give you a chance if you’re the right fit.”

The right fit.

Sometimes I feel like my life ended in pieces, and no one told me which one was supposed to be the official ending.

Maybe it was the day my frustration got the best of me.

Maybe it was the day the league stopped seeing me as worth the risk.

Maybe it was the day I realized the plan I had for after retirement had been built on a version of myself no one believed in anymore.

I was supposed to get married.

Coach kids.

Have a normal life.

Ridiculous phrase. Normal life. Like it’s something you can apply for if your references are good and your worst moments stay offline.

Now the career I had is gone. The second one is standing on the other side of the line. Probably in a room full of parents waiting to decide if I’m safe. The marriage thing belongs to some other man—along with the children. Something I don’t want to think about.

I look outside.

The squirrel finally jumps from the wall to a low branch. Rain clings to the glass. October in Boston keeps trying to sell everyone on renewal. Cooler mornings. Damp sidewalks. People wearing sweaters too early because they want to believe the season can fix them.

Fall doesn’t fix anything.

It just knows how to dress the wound.

Faking okay got me out of bed until I learned how to do it for real. Now I’m trying to build a life that’s good enough to keep me going.

Not perfect.

Perfect was a stupid dream wearing expensive shoes.

Good enough sounds pathetic when I think it too loudly, but it’s more honest than most of what people sell you.

“I’ll be there,” I say.