I shake my head because I didn’t know. I should know because Grady plays for them and he could have said something. Although I haven’t been communicating much with anyone in my family since I found out about Dylan, and I’ve muted all the group chats so… maybe he did say it somewhere. “And Liam is a goalie with Portland, right?”
“As of this season, yeah.” Coach nods. “I left him a message to call me and weigh in on this chai debate but he hasn’t called me back. He’s the worst with communication.”
I nod, wondering why he’s telling me all this when Coach adds, “Kind of like how you’ve been lately.”
My eyes dart to his and I grip my water bottle tighter in my right hand. Coach sips his chai and makes the most comical face ever. He curses under his breath and moves the steaming cup to the edge of his desk. “Sir? Did you call me and I didn’t answer?”
“No.” Braddock leans back in his chair, his hands linking behind his sandy blond hair which is cut short and laced with silver. “But Adam had to come to me today and tell me that you haven’t returned one of Christine’s messages or phone calls. About the ceremony they want to do for the short-hand goal record.”
“I haven’t beaten the record yet,” I reply and my shoulders loosen. I mean, I’m still tense about the coach being called in to chastise me by PR, but this isn’t about my on-ice performance and that’s all that counts. “They want to make this a big deal, get my family involved, and it hasn’t happened and might not happen. We only have three games left and I have to score two shorties to beat my dad. Two normal goals, at the end of the season when everyone is pushing to make playoffs and beat our asses, is hard enough. But two shorties? Nearly impossible. And if I just tie his record, it's not really worth throwing a big celebration. Tying isn't a big deal. "
Coach frowns, drops his hands, and leans on his desk. He's in a team track suit and he's still in good enough shape that he looks like he could be a player, except for the gray hairs and crow's feet around his blue eyes. "Is this a superstition thing? Or is there something going on with your family?"
Both, I want to reply, but I can't. I scramble to figure out what I can say but Coach doesn't give me a chance before he elaborates with more personal stories. "I grew up with three younger sisters who made it their job to make sure I had little to no ego. It was all fun and games but sometimes… I needed space. Are you on a relative sabbatical? Because if you are, hate to break it to ya kid, but your timing doesn’t work for the team.”
“No sabbatical. I mean, not officially,” I reply. “I don’t want to have my dad here, and all the media see him in the stands and crap, and then I don’t score. You know? It’s bad enough that happens to players when they make it to game seven and don’t win. It feels ridiculous to add this pressure to a short-handed goal record. I mean, let’s just concentrate on playoffs.”
“We can and will do both,” Coach replies in a tone that leaves no room for debate.
“My parents… my family can’t come to Los Angeles right now,” I blurt out, the desperation in my voice is clear and shocking, to both the coach and to me. But I think I’m on the edge of a panic attack. Not that I know specifically what they feel like, but my heart is racing and my hands are so sweaty my water bottle is hard to hold. “Things are… I’m dealing with some personal stuff I don’t want them involved in.”
Coach Braddock looks deathly serious now, but also compassionate. There’s a softness in his stare I don’t think I’ve ever seen.
"I have to ask…" Coach pauses and gets up out of his chair. Walking around his desk he closes the door he told me to leave open earlier. I twist in my chair to follow him with my eyes. He looks down at me with even more compassion in his eyes. "Do not hesitate when you answer this next question and know that your contract, your career, your future in hockey is secure as long as you answer honestly. Do you need the player's assistance program?"
“No,” I reply quickly and firmly. “This is not about any kind of substance abuse. It’s… I’m fine. I promise you.”
“Okay…” Coach doesn’t actually seem like he means that word. He walks back to his desk with his arms folded over his chest but this time he leans the front of it instead of sitting behind it. “Well, please stop avoiding Christine. Go to her now. You can join us in video review when you’re done. Use us as an excuse to keep the meeting with her brief. But Tate, sorry, we’re gonna have to give PR something. They love the family dynamic of a player with your heritage. The fans love it too. You're from a legend and you're becoming one yourself. The PR bullshit comes with it part and parcel. Sorry, but I think you know what you signed up for, right?"
I nod. And when I think about it, once everything is settled with Dylan my parents will be my first call. But I don't think that's going to happen before I beat this record. Unless I just don't try to beat the record. I stand up and walk to the door. "Thanks, Coach. I'll handle it."
“And you know you can tell me anything,” Coach adds as I start to open the door. “And you kind of have to. The Quake can win the Cup this year and I need to know if something is going to get in the way of you helping us get there.”
“Nothing will stop me from getting us there, Coach.”
“And youcanbeat this record.”
“I can.” I nod and I walk out of the office.
“I won’t though,” I whisper to myself as I head for the elevators to go up to the offices where the marketing and PR departments are located.
Christine is great. She's also a former bed buddy. Former I guess isn't the best word for it as we never had an official start or stop date. I mean, start and end dates are something that people in relationships do. Bed buddies are a less structured thing. But that is currently biting me in the ass because Christine is flirting, hard.
“I really have to go back to the team,” I say for the second time since I got to her office twenty minutes ago. “We have videos to watch.”
“Speaking of videos, you never responded to the one I sent last week,” she replies and smiles.
I didn’t know she sent a video. I saw two texts about inviting my dad to come and watch the last game of the season, and asking me to do an interview with ESPN and that was it. I saw a third message later that week but I ignored it.
“I haven’t even opened your messages,” I say, trying to make it sound like I was ghosting more than just her. “I’m trying to focus on ending this season on top of the division.”
She sighs. “You are now officially a tease, Tate Garrison. And that’s no fun for my work or my personal life.”
She takes the clip she pulled out of her hair when I got to her office and grabs it off her desk. As she sits back down in her chair she twists her blonde hair back up the way it was. “So no Dad at the last game?”
“I mean, if I score a shorty in the next one, yeah. You can have him fly down and plan something. But that still doesn’t mean I will break the record in the last game,” I warn her. “And tying it means nothing.”
“God you athletes are this toxic blend of narcissism and insecurity.” She rolls her eyes. “Tying a record no one has come close to for almost two decadesisa big deal, Tate.”
