“It’s Nowak. Coach’s in a mood. Must be that time of the month.” Meaning, that when his wife Meredith goes to see her sister in Oklahoma, Coach is left to fend for himself with TV dinners and getting harassed by their pet parakeet Sugar, aka Satan. “We better get going,” I shoo him out the door.
“The fuck you tellin’ me for? I’m not the one making us late, bro.”
Yeah, I may as well put it on a business card.Luke Carrington aka Carry on, Kid. Aurora Mountain Lions D-man. Procrastinator extraordinaire and always fucking late!
Chapter Three
Cody
Parking my rented truckin the players’ parking area in front of the massive ice hockey arena, I ignore Mom’s call for the sixth time this morning. Focusing on the huge billboard on the front instead, I pull off my beanie and brush my hand through my hair.Aurora Arena—Home of the Aurora Mountain Lions.Shit. The butterflies in my belly are exceptionally hyper today. My phone chimes again, and I already know she won’t be letting up. Not until she’s had her daily fix securing her my-son-is-now-an-NHL-playerhigh. She started calling at 4:48 am because she knows I always set my alarm for 4:45 am to get in a morning run before hitting the gym. When I didn’t answer, she shot me the first text out of many.
Mom:Ready for your big day, hon? *screaming emoji* *hockey emoji* *trophy emoji* #proudnhlmamma
I just shot her a thumbs up as a reply, of course aware that it wouldn’t quench her need to bask in my success. It already started the night before when she lit up her Facebook page like a 4thof July bonfire, tagging me in a string of never-ending self-promoting posts. A selfie of my platinum blond, five-foot-three mom in a pink onesie—size I’m-in-denial-of-my-age—with a roaring mountain lion on the front, the caption readingProud NHL Mamma—when all your hard work and sacrifice finally pay off! #hockeymomforever
I stopped checking my phone after a post where she listed all her supposed sacrifices. How she raised me as a single, hard-working mom after my dad bailed on us when I was nine. How she fought tooth and nail, doing double—sometimes triple—shifts as a waitress to afford the hockey training fee and hockey camp. How she always encouraged me to ‘Never stop believing, Cody, the sky’s the limit!’ and stood by me when I had that serious—‘but not so serious that it killed his NHL dream and his winning spirit!’—meniscus tear when I played in the juniors in Phoenix.
We moved to Phoenix shortly after my dad and Danny left for Idaho, and that was it. Phoenix didn’t just mean a new reality, but also a new name.
‘You’re a Mitchell now. Not a Manning,’ my mom beamed at me, holding up my new social security card. ‘Cody Mitchell. That’s a winner’s name.’ She pinched my cheek. ‘Not Manning. No Manning ever did anything remarkable in this world. Your dad’s living proof of that.’ And just like that, my dad and my older brother disappeared from my life, right along with my old name. I continued playing hockey, shutting out all the outside noise, and as summer turned into fall, I learned how to react when my coach called outMitchellinstead ofManning. The rink became my safe place, the cool air allowing me to breathe freely. A place where I could skate away from a reality where my dadwas far away, and no longer wanted me. A reality where Danny was ripped from my life, and I now felt like I was missing a limb. Whenever I skated, whenever I took my place in front of the goal, I could pretend that my dad and Danny were there, cheering me on from the stands. I never looked at the crowd. Not one single glance. It would only kill me when I would have to acknowledge that they weren’t there looking back at me with faces filled with pride and encouragement.
After I started showing real promise during my teen years, Mom pretty much took over micromanaging my life with only one result in mind as the outcome of all her hard work: to see her son play in the NHL. And it was my dream, too. Of course, it was, but for entirely different reasons than my mom’s. I want to play in the NHL because I love the game, and the game doesn’t get any better than when you’re playing against the best. That’s the way—theonlyway—I ever measured my success: to play against the best. It isn’t about fame or money. Or about dating some famous Hollywood actor or model. It’s about bettering myself every single time I set foot on the ice, pushing myself, improving my stats.Making your father proud, reminds that tiny voice that never leaves me alone.If you’re the best, you’ll make him proud. And if he’s proud, he’ll come back.The words seem as logical now as they did at the ages of nine, twelve, and eighteen.
Slamming the car door behind me, I shiver against the freezing January wind, tucking my chin against my woolen coat. I want to sprint towards the players’ entrance, but it’s too damn slippery today with virgin snow on top of a layer of ice. And I know better than to risk it—my knee is still prone to occasional flare-ups if I twist it awkwardly or have an unlucky run-in with an opponent. Reaching the entrance of the building, the automatic doors slide open, and I’m welcomed by the familiar smell of locker room, ice, and anticipation.The ice.I can’t wait to get out there, in the rink belonging to an NHL team. Sure, the Mountain Lions arenowhere near being a top League team, but it’s still a step up from the AHL. Ahugestep.
When my coach at the Phoenix Chasers, Coach Nichols, called me into his office in June of last year and told me I’d been scouted by the Duluth Dockers, the AHL affiliate of the Aurora Mountain Lions, I nearly tumbled from the blue plastic chair.Me, Cody Mitchell?At eighteen, I wasn’t drafted and signed to an NHL contract, and academically I wasn’t exactly college material either, so I played locally as a free agent and later in the AHL while working construction on the side. Of course, I’d hoped to play college hockey, but I wasn’t lucky enough to get that sought-after scholarship. So, to actually be signed, at the age of twenty-two. That was a dream come true.
‘Seems like you’ve caught the eye of some manager outta Duluth, son,’ Coach Nichols mumbled into his thick gray beard. ‘Hate to see you go, Mitchell, but I always knew that it was just a matter of time with a raw talent like yours. Still don’t understand why you ain’t playing for the Falcons by now, but I guess it’s their loss.’ Coach looked at the papers spread out in front of him on his cluttered desk. ‘It’s a good enough deal that they’re offering you, kid. Pretty sweet, to be fair.’ I was still trying to recover from the unexpected turn of events on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, my mind coming up blank every time I tried to speak. ‘Now, there’s no guarantee that they’ll move you up to the Lions—they already have their goalies—but there must be a reason for the Dockers signing you.’ I nodded since it seemed the appropriate thing to do to signal Coach that I wasn’t stroking out on him, while at the same time digging my nails into the palms of my hands to make sure that I was, in fact, awake. My days of being a free agent were over at last. ‘You need to talk to your mom first?’ Coach Nichols scrutinized my face. Everyone in Phoenix knew my mom had the final say in every move—career or otherwise—that I made.
‘Yeah,’ I murmured, twisting my clammy hands in my lap, though I already knew that it would be a big fat resounding Yes! from my mom. She would have a field day, always making sure that I knew it was all because of her whenever I succeeded with something. When I failed, on the contrary, it was because I hadn’t practiced enough, focused enough, and wanted it enough.
The Chasers agreed to release me from my temporary contract, and after settling and playing in Minnesota, I was invited to the Lion’s training camp over the summer. The Lions already had their two first-choice goalies, but it was still a huge step up on the hockey career ladder. And now, seven months later, the Lion’s first goalie, McKinney, has a busted right shoulder and is out for the rest of the season. And suddenly, overnight, I have, at the age of twenty-three, become an NHL goalie. And even though I’m not the first choice, I’ll still get to practice with the team and probably play a few games, too. And who would’ve thought that this was where I would end up when I started playing hockey at six years old? Now I just need to make a good impression, proving to the team that they were right in signing me and that I can deliver, even when all eyes are on me, the rookie.
“Can I help you, son?” A middle-aged man with a cleaning trolley next to him looks up from where he’s sweeping the already very pristine floor.
“Morning, sir,” I offer the man, rubbing at my eyes. I slept for shit last night, tossing and turning in the luxurious bed in the fancy hotel close to the airport provided by the team. Their extensive administrative team has already taken care of my temporary housing, but I arrived late last night so it was easier to stay at the airport hotel. I know from an email from an administrative secretary, Ashley, that I’ll be moving into the condo where McKinney has been staying with one of the team’sD-men. At least until I can afford my own place. “I’m looking for the team,” I blurt, cursing myself. “Sorry, for the team area, I mean,” I add, my cheeks heating. Smiling at me broadly, the janitor pauses what he’s doing and takes me in properly. “I have a meeting with Coach Bassey,” I clarify.
“You that new kid? The goalie? Coach mentioned you’d be coming in today.” The older guy leans against his broom, a welcoming expression on his face, fine lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes.
“Yeah. I’m Cody, sir. Cody Mitchell.” I reach out my hand and the janitor wipes his right against the front of his blue coveralls. Accepting my hand, he winks at me, while shaking it firmly.
“Well, mighty nice to meet you, Mr. Cody Mitchell. I’m Hal, the rink janitor. Anything you need around here, you just let me know, okay, son?” He smiles, continuing to shake my hand eagerly, eyes beaming with nothing but genuine excitement. “Used to work down at the City Hall before I landed this job, so if there’s anything you need to know about Aurora, I’m your guy.”
“Thank you, Hal. I’ll make sure to do that,” I release my hand from the older man’s. “So, the team…?” No way I’m going to be late on my first day of practice. In her email, Ashley informed me I have a brief meeting at 8 am with Coach Bassey—yes,theJamal Bassey—followed by a thirty-minute tour of the facilities by one of the assistant coaches, and an introduction to the medical staff. Then, I get to meet the team. Great, I’m sure that they’ll be just thrilled after they’ve been briefed about McKinney.
“Yeah, yeah, down that hallway and to the left. Then, at the end, there’s a double door. To the right is Coach Bassey’s office, and further down the hallway are the locker rooms, the gym, and such.” Hal points in the direction of a long hallway. I follow his finger and nod in acknowledgment.
“Okay, thank you very much, Hal. I’ll see you later.”
“Sure thing, Cody Mitchell. I’ll be seein’ ya around,” Hal grins before resuming his task of sweeping the floor, whistling quietly.
Hal’s directions are easy enough to follow, and after a few minutes, I find myself standing in front of the double doors to the team training facilities. I’ve been mostly calm this morning, still in a state of disbelief and pent-up excitement, but as soon as it settles inside me that behind those doors an entirely new life awaits, I recognize the familiar tightening in my chest.
It’s hard to describe, really, if you haven’t experienced a panic attack yourself. It feels like something heavy and unmovable has decided to sit on top of your chest. You can still breathe, but every inhale feels restricted and painful, and every exhale comes out in clipped pants. Sometimes it feels like I’m dying. That my heart can stop beating any minute. That every breath will be my last. Rationally, of course, my mind knows that I’m not dying but my body seems to think so, and the physical reactions are no joke.
I remember the first time I experienced one. It was a week before my tenth birthday, and I asked my mom if Dad and Danny would be making the trip from Idaho to celebrate with us. She looked at me, her eyes made up with heavy make-up as always, making her look like a raccoon. Pouring herself a glass of wine, she sat me down at the kitchen table, inspecting her red nails as she spoke.
‘You need to forget about your dad. The sooner the better. He doesn’t care about us anymore, Cody. He has Danny and I’ve got you.’ As her words settled in my head, the room started spinning, and for a few minutes—or perhaps it was only a few seconds—I couldn’t see or hear anything. All I could feel was the overwhelming rush of blood in my head and the sour taste of bile in my mouth. As my mother shook me, her mouth moving soundlessly in front of me, one question went on to repeat in myhead. A question that still pops up from time to time.Who doIhave?WhodoI have?
