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Tyler Kane is still part of the Philadelphia Flyers organization. He’s the general manager, and my dad is now the coach. Because of that, it only draws more attention to us.
“Right,” Drake says. “It’s fucking bullshit. My dad’s shutout against the Blackhawks in game seven has been in highlight reels since I was a kid.”
“They won the Cup, though,” Tucker says. “That game was pretty sick.”
The only people who understand what I go through are seated next to me at this table. We were bred to become hockey players. But expectations are a bitch. Measuring up to not only our father’s impossible standards, but also those in the hockey world, is no easy task.
We were born to do this. Hockey is in our DNA. So, why does it sometimes feel like we can never surpass the players who came before us?
“Suck it, troll,” I yell at the TV, beating the magician, who kind of looks like a troll in Mage Wars.
With Jamie and Shannon fucking on the other side of the wall, I need a distraction. They’re louder than the sound effects the game makes when you find the hidden mage. But once I reach the dark tower, I have to answer a question. If I get it wrong, I have to start the level over.
I select the answer from a series of three possible choices. “No,” I scream. “Stupid fucking troll.”
The gray-bearded mage grows larger, towering over my player. “You are unworthy,” he tells me while laughing, taunting me with his evil cackle. Then the images on the screen pixelate, until they turn into melted lava. The screen flashes Game Over. I stare at it, unblinking.
I lost. Again. Dammit.
Angry, I throw the controller across my bedroom. It hits the door and lands on the carpet next to an open Bauer hockey bag. Which reminds me I have shit to do for tomorrow. The game starts at seven. Less than twenty-four hours from now.
Pushing myself up from the floor, I let out an aggravated groan. I spent two hours working on that level, all for nothing. Lifting my phone from the bed, I consider calling Uncle Jameson to yell at him for making a game that’s impossible to beat. Instead, I open my messages.
Preston: You evil troll, give me the answer to level 26.
Jameson: Not a chance, buddy.
Preston: I hate you right now.
Jameson: :(
Clutching my phone, I consider chucking it across the room. Mage Wars gets me so damn mad. But I’m addicted to it. Scrolling through my messages, I ignore those from girls I’ve hooked up with in the past. I need to focus for tomorrow.
I stop when I see Bex Bryant’s name. For a second, I forget all about Mage Wars. Bex’s ass in those tight shorts come to mind. And now, I’m even more frustrated.
Should I text her? I said I would.
But that was before her dad lectured me. He was right. I’ll be out of here at the end of the year. There’s no point in forming attachments to girls when I might be living across the country next year. One-night stands are more my speed. No commitment. No feelings. Nothing to hold me back from my dreams.
I hover my finger over her name, torn by my predicament. Coach Bryant knows I’m taking Bex with me to meet my mom this weekend. It’s not like we are hiding it from him.
I open a new message, about to type what I normally would to a girl I like. But Bex isn’t a random chick. So, what do I say?
I begin typing, Hey, girl, what’s up? And then realize I sound like an asshole and erase it. Definitely not smooth. What’s wrong with me?
With other girls, I would tell them to come over and be done with it. Easy. It works every time. I can’t do that with Bex. She would never respond to my typical brand of assholery.
So, I think long and hard about everything I know about basketball. My mom is a fanatic. Her prized possession is a ball signed by Michael Jordan. She shows it off where everyone can see it, front and center on a table in our living room.
Nervous and overthinking everything, I tap the keys, hoping Bex doesn’t tell me to fuck off.
Preston: There’s something wrong with your jersey.
A few seconds later, a chat bubble appears.
Bex: Who is this?
I sigh, now realizing my attempt at sports humor was stupid. But I keep going.
Preston: Parker
Bex: Oh, hey. What’s wrong with my jersey?
Preston: It’s not on my floor.
Bex: OMG. You’re an idiot. Remind me why I gave you my number again?
Preston: Because I’m taking you to meet my mom.
Preston: I can’t believe I just typed that. You should feel special.
Bex: And why is that, Mr. MVP?
Preston: I’ve never introduced my mom to any of the girls I know.
