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Jeff was thirteen when the first letter showed up. At first it looked almost bruise like, nothing but a blue-black smear on his wrist. It took nearly three weeks for it to sharpen into something that could be considered legible, and even then he wasn’t entirely sure of what it was.
The stroke was thin, hurried, and while it swooped like a J it also crossed like a T, or possibly an X. For all Jeff could tell it might have been written in cyrillic, or even Chinese. Still, he laid awake for hours, tracing the single letter, and trying to envision the person it belonged to.
He liked to think they had a smile warm enough to chase away the chill of Michigan winters, that they would love hockey as much as he did, and that they were thinking of him too.
When he told his mom as much she had smiled pityingly, her voice gentle if not a bit chiding.
“There are so many people in the world Jeff, the name on your wrist is just one of them.”
He didn’t have to ask to know that the name on his mother’s wrist was not his father’s, or that the one on his father’s was not his mother’s. Real life wasn’t like the movies, the promise written on one’s wrist was fragile and altogether, very, very breakable. There were people, a good handful of them, that never found the person who owned the name on their wrist. There were people who would wake up one morning and find the name had faded from existence. And there were those who would never have a name at all.
It was still a nice notion though, to think that someone, someday, would be tracing his name too.
---
The O, and it is definitely an O, comes in around the same time a year later. It darkens into existence next to the J, or at least Jeff figures it’s a J. After that his friends start a list of possibilities.
They’re all expecting a Joanna, a Joyce, or even a Jocelyn.
But three months later the bets came to an abrupt halt when Jeff woke up to a third letter, one that didn’t lend itself to Joanna or Joyce or even Jocelyn.
He stared at the name for nearly two years, trying in vain to will another letter into existence. But nothing more came and he had to face the brutal truth.
Joe, is scrawled across his wrist in hurried loops. It’s not Joseph or Josiah or Jonas, no, it’s just Joe. One of about 76,948,112 according to a late night google session.
Everyone said the odds are against him, that the chances of him just happening upon his Joe are near non existent. Still, Jeff checked the rosters of every tournament and game he played without fail.
He meets 35 Joe’s in the year he plays for the Sioux City Musketeers, 168 in the three he spends in Miami, another 46 with the Ontario Reign, and an additional 57 during his first year with the Monarchs, his optimism waning with each sympathetic smile and gentle rejection.
Six years, three-hundred and six Joe’s, and none of them bear his name.
So before he starts up his second season with the Monarchs, instead of looking up opposing team’s rosters, Jeff goes rummaging through his hall closet instead, and finds the wrist guard his mother had gotten him for Christmas years ago, still in its original packaging.
It felt like a lead weight around his wrist, heavy and unsettling, but Jeff got used to it just like he got used to the continuous ache of bruises from pucks and blisters from skates. He threw himself head first into hockey, quickly forgetting about the band around his wrist and the name hidden underneath it.
---
When he gets the call from Pittsburgh, it’s everything he’s ever wanted.
Jeff even finds that smile, the one that seems warm enough to melt away the chill of a Michigan winter. The man that it belongs too loves hockey, and has a laugh so insanely intoxicating that Jeff dreams about it.
He dreamed about Joey Vitale being his Joe, about how nice it would be to strip away the wrist guard that seems to have gained a few hundred pounds since that beautiful shutout game and the devastating look of pride and elation on Joey’s face when he’d pressed his helmet against Jeff’s cage and shouted breathy praises over the roar of the crowd.
Jeff almost told him that night, when they went out to celebrate with the team. He’d had his fingers hooked into the velcro, ready to ask just one more time if this Joe was the right Joe.
But Flower beat him to the punch, throwing an arm around Jeff’s shoulders and chiding Joey playfully. “Tonight belongs to baby Rosebud, Joey! Don’t go off looking for that Jennifer of yours.” He hollered, words ever so slightly accented, putting special emphasis on the ridiculous nickname the Jeff had somehow been stuck with.
Joey flushed a bright red, twisting his own wrist guard with uncharacteristic bashfulness at the netminder’s gentle ribbing.
Jeff was surprised no one saw his heart leap out of his chest and crumple to the pavement in agony. He begged off early, after only a couple of shots, much to the guys confusion. They let him go though, buying into his complaints of being tired and feeling a bit under the weather. No one wanted a sick goalie, even if he was only the backup.
He hailed a cab, giving the driver hushed directions to the Marriott near Consol. Trying to ignore how Joey’s protective gaze burned between his shoulder blades long after he’d closed the hideously yellow door of the car.
The rejection had always hurt, even when it came from complete strangers, all of whom just happened to share a name. But this hurt was different, bone deep and raw.
Jeff knew he shouldn’t have gotten attached, he shouldn’t have let himself hope for so much when the chances were so slim.
Crawling between the cool sheets, inhaling the stiff and musty scent of whatever detergent the hotel used, Jeff hesitantly hooked his fingers through the velcro and pulled it away. He half expected for his wrist to be unblemished, for the name to have faded out in the years it had been covered. But it was still there, a stark black signature across a pale expanse of skin.
He traced the name reverently, not daring to hope that someone somewhere was tracing his.
---
Joey sat at the bar, waiting on a round of shots he’d ordered for the guys, when she approached. Long brown hair, pretty curves, and big bambi eyes--everything he’d never really wanted.
“Your friend over their told me you’re looking for a Jennifer.” She smiled warmly, perching herself on the stool closest to his, and jerking a thumb in Flower's direction.
Joe didn't want to break it to her, he didn't want to dash her hopes, but it’d be wrong to lead her on.
“I’m not actually looking for a Jennifer.” He undid his wrist guard just enough to reveal the name etched in neat cursive beneath it.
Jennifer tilted her head sympathetically, patting his knee pityingly.
“They don’t know that you’re gay, do they?”
Joey sighed and shook his head, “Nope.”
Her smiled softened, and her parting words were about as sweet as the fruity cocktail she'd ordered.
“Good luck, finding him. There can’t be that many Jeff’s out there right?”
“Only one that really matters.” Joey muttered under his breath, wondering not for the first time, if he’d already passed him by.