Chapter Text
July 7th 2022 — NHL Draft
Jackson
“This is Jackson Doe.”
“Kid it’s good to hear your voice. This is Brandon Wiebe from the Ottawa Centaurs.” Coach Wiebe’s voice is a bit grainy. Jackson had dropped his phone a few weeks back and now nothing sounded quite right. “I got a feeling you know why I’m calling.”
“Yes Sir.” His voice doesn’t waver, and the pride he feels sits below his chin and starts to choke him. Still a sinner after all these years.
“You’re a good kid and a hell of a goalie. Can I look forward to seeing you in September?”
His father's rough drawl starts screaming in his ear. Take the blessin’ Jack, you ain’t gon’ get 'em every other Sunday. Jackson used to study prose and all the words in the good book. He was never the best reader, the letters shifted around the page too much, but he tried.
“Yes Sir.” He sounds like an idiot, like normal. He doesn’t have the capacity to make a more eloquent response, not right now. Coach Wiebe laughs, slow and deep. It makes the speaker crackle and pop.
“It’s Coach now kid. We’ll send over a big ass packet of shit in a few days. For now, go celebrate. You deserve it.”
“Thank you, Coach.” The lilt in his words is stronger than Jackson had intended. A leak in his composure because for a moment he was thanking God. He hasn’t done that for a long time.
“See you in few weeks son.” The call cuts off, gentle static disappearing.
Jackson has held years in his throat. Years of hurt, hard work, and devastation. He holds them with an unbreakable force made by his own misogyny, southern up bringing, and dysphoria. He holds years of memories that should have made him shatter.
The draft bell rings out of the old box TV and rolls through the shelter. It bounces between cots, card tables, and empty coffee cups. His face appears on the pixilated screen. Second round, ninth pick, forty first overall for the 2022-2023 NHL season. Selected by the number two team in the league, the Ottawa Centaurs. The team that lost the cup last season to the New York Admirals in game seven.
He shatters. His eyes itch and pull as he cries. His body curls in, as tight as he can make it for 6’ and 200 pounds. His cot lets out a deathly squeak. It’s been doing so for the past few months.
Second Chance was his favorite shelter, the staff never pushed and they gave him a bigger cupboard for his skates. They had a big, locked fridge to store everyone’s meds and the nurses helped him with his shots when his hands couldn’t stay steady.
Melissa makes it to him first. Her hugs feel like a battering ram, but they are incredible none the less. Richie scruffs him by the back of the neck to expose his cheek for a sloppy kiss. None of them are friends per say, just folks getting through shitty times together.
His phone rings out a sharp chime; the ringer still on from the call.
From Dad: I am so proud of you Jackson.
Travis slaps his back in congratulations and tells them not to wake up the little kids with their hollering. Desmond brings him a small cookie. It was decorated with messy frosting and gentle care. It smells like the cookies his ma used to make him. He’s too nauseous at that thought to eat it, but he still accepts it with a practiced southern smile.
His texts are already open. It’s so easy for him to make the dumbest mistake in the world. He clicks on his mother’s text thread.
To Mom: Happy Birthday Ma. I hope the boys don’t give you trouble today. I sent a little thing in the mail that reminded me of you. All my love.
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She’s busy, it’s almost harvest. His dad said it was a nice birthday. He didn’t mention if she liked her gift.
“Earth to huckleberry,” the yell pulls him back to Melissa’s megawatt smile. “I saw a secret stash of fresh fruit in the kitchen let’s go pilfer in celebration!”
He eats his bruised apple with half his mind buried in the yard of that Texas ranch and the other half flying across the Ottawa ice.