ONE
COOPER
“It’sincredible how much you two look alike. Twenty-five years older…or younger”—the reporter laughs at their unamusing and overused joke—“and you’d be twins. Add in the helmets and names on the back of your jerseys, no one would be able to tell you apart on the ice.”
Dad smiles. Eventhatis an uncanny resemblance—the same slightly heavier bottom lip and dimple carved into our right cheek.
Add Ryn Carmichael’s unsurpassed skills on the ice to the ‘Renaissance sculpted’ smile, and it’s no wonder he’s one of the greats. A walking billboard for aspiring hockey players.
“He’s far more handsome,” Dad responds, bumping his shoulder into mine. “Better player, too.”
“I think that’s yet to be seen,” another reporter cackles out with hint of sarcasm, but still a punch to the gut. “On the hunt, though. Cooper, you’re halfway through the season and halfway to one of your father’s most coveted NCAA records.” Dad’s name is tied to five major records, all have been surpassed in the past decade except for ‘Most Goals Scored in a Single Season’. “Do you think you’ll be able to reachthis onebefore the end of the season?”
This one.
As if breaking records is the only way to define my success. The idea has my jaw tensing, teeth grinding, but you’d never know. Pasted on my face is the golden Carmichael smile everyone is expecting.
I take a big inhale through my nose before exhaling. Slowly. Giving myself a minute to not snap. To refrain from screaming out that I don’t care about breaking his records. I don’t want to be him, I want to be me.
“Reach it?” I tilt my head. Let a corner of my mouth rise higher than the other to form a teasing, cocky smirk, playing into their hand the way I’ve trained myself to do. “I’m going to beat it. Finally put this old legend to shame. It’s about time someone breaks the record.”
In the distance, behind the cameras, Mom is rolling her eyes.
She didn’t have to come, but insisted. Her phone hasn’t left her grasp even though a production intern keeps telling her to put it away. Jordan, my little sister, and I made a bet during a break in filming how many photos and videos she’ll take. I bet over one-hundred.
Dad was invited to do a docu-special on ESPN for retired athletes and their kids actively playing college sports. Apparently, we are all ‘Future Legends’ as the series is titled.
Everyone except for me.
Jordan is sitting in a chair to our left. Dad and I are on a loveseat, which is way too small for us. Knees bumping anytime we move. I’m not sure they accounted for our broad shoulders and thick thighs. Large screens behind us are filled with pictures of our family from over the years—I count the seconds it takes for the pictures to switch, vying for a distraction. It’s thirty-two.
Dad’s been retired from the league for a decade. He was drafted out of college by Minnesota where he spent thirteen years before retiring. I was starting middle school, but Jordanand I were already deep into playing hockey. Our older sister, Molly, was in every production our school and community put on. He easily had a few more years in him, but we are his greatest achievement, and he didn’t want to miss any of it.
At least my sister’s achievements aren’t weighed against his career. They’re lucky, especially Jordan.
She hasn’t received a single question from the reporters asking about breaking records, picking apart her shots, or comparing her to Dad.
You are a spitting image of your father. Shorter, but wow, the Carmichael genes.
You didn’t want to wear the same number as your dad? Were you afraid you couldn’t fill in the big jersey?
Didn’t your father have double-digit offers?
Staying in college to pursue mathematics instead of starting your contract with Carolina. Interesting decision. What did your dad think about that?
It started when I was deciding on college, and Dad’s alma mater didn’t recruit me. No one even asked me if I wanted to go to Ohio State University…I didn’t.
That minor fact about me was brought up twice already in the interview because at least my sister received an offer.
“Why are you watching this again?” Jaxon picks up the remote from the arm of the couch, pausing the recording. “Isn’t this your third or fourth time now?”
Jaxon Greene, my ultimate hat trick: best friend, roommate, and teammate. We were assigned roommates our freshman year. Sharing the smallest dorm room on campus—I’m talking we could hold hands from our twin beds—does something to you, bonds you in ways you probably shouldn’t be bonded.
“You’ve got a famous dad? And share in his hockey genetics?” he tacks on. I turn my head, glowering. “That’s so cool. Why haven’t you ever mentioned that? No one in the house knew.”
“I—” I shut my mouth.
It doesn’t matter that I know he’s being sarcastic. Jaxon is the team clown. Loud and never takes anything serious. He’s easy going, doesn’t succumb to stress or pressure; he wouldn’t understand. I’m not sure any of my roommates would. All they see are the opportunities it has provided me—which I am grateful for, I never want that to get misconstrued.
