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Parker grins as she drops into a cheap office chair that makes a horror-movie-esque sound. I’m a little surprised it holds her based on the severity of the groan.
“There’s an order to my madness, I swear.”
“I believe it.”
And I do. The walls might be covered in sticky notes (some of her desk too), but they’re clearly organized. Maybe with a ruler. From the quick glance I give the closest set of fluorescent pink notes, even Parker’s loopy script is neat. Figures.
“Didn’t you used to have two planners for every year?”
She beams. “I did.”
I can tell there’s something she isn’t saying. “You still do, don’t you?”
“Yep. Only now it’s one physical, one digital.” Setting her tablet on the desk, she wiggles her mouse to wake up the bulky desktop computer. The motor whirring sounds like a helicopter taking off. I’m getting the sense from Parker’s noisy chair, old computer, and windowless office that the Appies’s budget does not lean heavily into office space. At least not for Parker. Larry was more than happy to show off his luxurious office and Malik, the manager, had one almost as big.
“How old is that computer?”
She sighs, scanning her phone. “Let’s just say they’ve discovered newer fossils. Sit.”
I glance at the chair across from her desk. It’s a lot nicer than the wobbly office chair she’s in that protests loudly every time she so much as exhales. I sit, drumming my fingers on my leg, waiting for the inevitable questions dissecting our past.
Instead, Parker says, “Let’s talk about your schedule.”
I blink a few times, then shake my head. “Did you just trick me into having a meeting?”
Leaning forward, she puts her elbows on the desk and steeples her hands under her chin. “That wasn’t my intent. But you followed me so nicely, like a little baby lamb.” She grins.
I huff out a laugh. “Right to the slaughter, huh?”
Parker tilts her head, still smiling. “This doesn’t have to be painful.”
“That’s where we’re going to disagree.”
Everything about this is painful. Getting kicked down to an AHL league team after almost ten years playing pro. (And yes, technically the Appies are still pro—it’s just not the same.) Moving back to Harvest Hollow. The idea thatdancingis somehow baked into my contract.
“Logan.” Parker saying my name snaps me back to attention. Or maybe it’s the seriousness in her tone. “It’s going to be fine. You’re in good hands here. Trust me.”
But trust isn’t a commodity I have in spades. And even if I could trust Parker, it doesn’t make this idea any more appealing.
The real reason I’m against the idea of being forced into social media isn’t about who’s behind the camera. Hockey is my profession. My job. If I’ve earned a reputation for not being a team player, it’s less because I’m egotistical and more because I’m focused on being the best of the best. Hockey is serious business to me—even if I also happen to enjoy it.
Dancing in videos for TikTok is ridiculous. The opposite of professional.
I find myself imagining my father’s reaction. Not that he’ll ever see these videos. He certainly doesn’t follow my career. But if hedid, it would confirm all the things he said when I called to tell him I first got drafted right out of high school.
I was naive to hope getting drafted so young would impress the man who left before I was a year old. It was the second and the last time I talked to him in my life.
“I hope you have a real job lined up,” he told me in lieu of congratulations. “Playing sports is just that—play. One day, probably sooner than you think, you’ll want to get serious and settle down. Make sure you’ve got your real life career set in place.”
I hung up the phone, some deep part of me crushed more than I’ll ever admit out loud. It’s not uncommon for pro athletes to have families and friends crawling out of the woodwork begging for money, cars, houses. It totally sucks to be seen as nothing but a paycheck or nothing beyond the sport. It’s how my mom is. She doesn’t care how I’m doing; she just wants money deposited every month to her bank down in Florida.
But between my two parents though, it’s worse to have a father who didn’t dignify my career or accomplishments enough to evenaskfor a handout.
No matter how much I wish it didn’t bother me, every time I lace up my skates, I’m aware that some part of me is skating for approval I’ll never get. Most of the time, I don’t think about either of my parents. But being back in Harvest Hollow forced them to the front of my mind. And filming stupid videos like this only drives my father’s point home.
And with all the negative press I’ve had lately, I really don’t see how taking part in stupid videos will help. They’ll just make me look more foolish. Not that I care about my reputation—unless it impacts my ability to play. All I care about is showing up and doing my job to the best of my ability.
“Yo, Boss.”
