I close my eyes, afraid to ask. But I have to ask. “Who was it?”
Please don’t be Carter. Please don’t be Carter. Please don’t be Carter.
“Carter Williamson,” Miles says.
I sink into my chair. At least now I can say I know what it feels like to actually die of embarrassment.
6
CARTER
A weekafter my conversation with Miles, the Jaguars host their annual community food drive. It’s a whole big thing, held in the parking lot at the arena, and as players, we’re all expected to make an appearance. The signing table and photo station are mandatory for all of us, slotting us into a specific schedule so fans know when to show up to see their favorite players. Otherwise, we got to sign up for how we wanted to help.
Miles is manning a booth where kids can trade canned goods for a chance to take a shot at our mascot. Fly and Jordo are set up at a table where people can play “Pin the jersey number on the player,” and Theo, Holly, and I are in an equipment sizing tent, helping youth players decide on the right stick length or helmet size. There are mountains of donated gear behind us, and if families bring in the requested pantry items for the premade meal kits being assembled in the neighboring tent, they’re free to take home whatever gear we have that meets their needs.
I like the equipment tent. It’s a lot better than where Iended up at last year’s event—running a spin-the-wheel-for-a-prize station. More than a few fans got a little too close for comfort. But in here, our purposes are a little more specific, so it doesn’t feel like we’re dealing with the masses in quite the same way.
The downside—or maybe it’s an upside?—is that we’re right next door to the tent where the WAGs are working with volunteers to assemble prepackaged meal kits.
The wives and girlfriends—and Sarah.
I find myself looking that way every time I have the chance. Sarah’s wearing a dark pink beanie, so it’s easy to spot her.
“What about this one?” The ten-year-old kid I’m trying to help, Jamison, holds up a hockey stick that’s much too tall for him.
I force myself to focus and keep my eyes off the neighboring tent. “Maybe something a little more your size,” I say. I swap the stick for a smaller one and hand it over.
“Shouldn’t I have my skates on?” he asks, and I shake my head.
“Not for this. Just hold it right in front of you—good, just like that. You want the top of the stick to hit you here, somewhere in between your chin and your nose. Have you ever played before?”
He shakes his head no.
“Got it. Then I think this one is a good height for you. It’s a little short, but that’ll give you more control, which you’ll need at first.” I reach for the stick and turn it upside down, placing the knob at the top of the handle on the ground so the blade is in the air. “Okay, now I want you to take this and lean onto it a little.”
“Like this?” Jamison asks.
“Yep. You’ve got it. Do you feel that flex? How the stick gives just the slightest bit? That’s what you want.”
Jamison’s dad is standing off to the side, but he has his phone out, and it looks like he’s taking notes. I look up and meet his eyes. “I think this one is a great fit for him. Do you have any questions?”
“I wrote down every word you said, so I think we’re good,” he says. “Hopefully, as he grows, I’ll be able to help him pick out the next one.”
On the other side of the tent, Holly fist bumps Jamison’s sister, who’s wearing a new set of goalie pads. “Thanks, Mr. Hollifield,” she says.
“No, problem,” Holly says. “You stay tough out there, all right?”
“I’m more than tough,” she says. “I’m a brick wall.”
Holly smiles and laughs, a sight I haven’t seen in a long time.
It was the beginning of last season when his wife’s cancer diagnosis turned terminal. He was out for almost five months, at first, just so he could be with her, and then, after she died, because he was in no mental state to play a hockey game.
He came back just in time to take us to the playoffs and get us all the way to the final game. But I rarely saw him smile, even when we were winning.
He was there because he had a job to do, but it didn’t seem like he was taking much pleasure in it.
Theo steps up beside me as we say goodbye to Jamison’s family. “It’s nice to see him smiling,” Theo says once we’re on our own. He tilts his head toward Holly.
