Sanchez and I exchange a fist bump, then walk into the media room. Flashes go off as the three of us take our seats. Soon, the questions begin.
“My question is for Jabari Hall. Crank, you’re thirty-three years old. Do you feel like your days in the NHL are numbered, or do you think you still have a future with the Warriors?”
Why does someone always comment about my age after games? Don’t they tire of the same ol’ questions? If they see any flaws in my performance, my age is always brought up. If I do something right, it’s a credit to me because obviously I’m an old man who keeps his body at peak performance. Their standards are impossible.
I quirk my lips into my trademark smile and speak into the mic. “You saw the game. Do you think I play like I’m ready to retire?”
The reporters laugh, including Julie Adams, the one who asked the question in the first place. Julie likes to flirt with me, but I refuse to date a reporter. She probably sees me as a meal ticket instead of a potential bae.
“You were on fire tonight, but surely this level of play won’t last?”
I shrug. “There have been plenty of people who have played into their forties. I’m not a phenomenon.”
Sanchez answers questions about his last-minute shot, then Raimo talks about his one-glove catch. Finally, we’re dismissed as Coach takes over. I get up from my seat and stroll to the door like I don’t have a care in the world. Truly, I don’t, but the high is easing, and fatigue is beginning to set in.
“Man, this night’s been crazy,” Sanchez says.
I slap him on the back. “Maybe so, but you did good out there, kid.”
“So did you, ol’ man.”
I bark out a laugh.
“Are you two going to the celebration tonight?” Raimo asks, his accented English a nod to his Finnish ancestry.
“Nah. Yas has been asking for a night out, so I already made a reservation at Jônt,” Sanchez replies.
My brows raise. “Taking her to a Michelin restaurant? Is tonight special?”
Sanchez clears his throat. “I bought a ring.”
“A ring?” Surprise fills Raimo’s voice.
We all stop in front of the locker room.
“Bro, you’re only twenty-four.” I scratch my chin, but my mind can’t come up with anything else to say.
At his age, I dated every single woman who thought hockey players were hot. Now I avoid jersey chasers when possible. I’m not interested in settling down. In my experience, women aren’t honest about what they want, and I’m not making promises to someone who isn’t genuine.
“Yas has been my ride or die since high school. She’s always been the one. I’m just worried this life’s not for her.”
Truth. But is that my cynicism speaking?
I’ve never seen his girl flirt with any of the other guys like I’ve seen some of the other players’ wives do. Those players are now divorced and working on their next marriage, but that’s beside the point. On paper, Yas looks perfect, and Sanchez seems hopeful.
“Good luck, man.”
“Yeah, good luck,” Raimo echoes.
“Thanks, Crank. Thanks, Raimo.”
I nod. Most of the guys call me by my nickname, which I earned in my first two years playing with the Warriors because Icrankout the goals. Even the coaching staff use my nickname more than mygiven one. Coach Turner is the only one who seems to remember my first name is Jabari.
I make quick work of a shower and change back into my game-day suit. After grabbing my duffel bag, I walk out to the players’ parking garage, where my SUV waits. Unlike the other guys, my ride isn’t a truck or a high-powered sports car. There’s too much traffic in the DC area for me to want to pay tons in gas—not that I can’t afford it. But I pair my practicality with the desire to show off, so I went with Lamborghini’s latest dip into the SUV world. The SUV is more of a crossover and came in a blue that perfectly matches the Warriors’ primary color. Add on an NHL license plate and my fandom is perfectly displayed.
I drive down Constitution Avenue toward I-66 and soon find myself on the toll road to McLean, Virginia, where I lay my head. A lot of the guys have homes in the area, and I almost went the route of the huge mansion, but that seemed impractical since I live alone. So I purchased a penthouse in a high-rise building. The three bedrooms are enough for someone to stay over if one of the guys needs a place to crash or my mom comes to visit.
My keys clang into the bowl sitting on the foyer cabinet. I toe my shoes off and step into the slippers waiting by the door, then drop my duffel next to the foyer table. My stomach rumbles, reminding me I need a postgame meal to replace the two thousand calories I just burned in the two-and-a-half-hour game. I open the fridge and choose one of the meals my personal chef left behind, a chicken-and-sweet-potato dish. After heating it up, I wolf down the food in no time. Though I have a dining tableanda kitchen table, I usually eat at the kitchen island. The barstools hold me just fine. There’s no reason to sit at a table all by myself.
