Page 11 of The Tryout

“Yeah, I think so. I’m packing light for now, so it wasn’t too bad.”

The admission is hard to make. Part of me wants to pack up a U-Haul, just to show him I can do this, can make something of my hockey career. But a much more realistic part of me knows that’s a fool’s errand. Even if I make the Pack, it’s not like I’m going to want to stay there forever.

Luckily, Dad jumps in.

“We can always send whatever you need when you make the team.”

To his credit, Pops also seems to be holding his tongue, his lips pressed tightly together.

Before long, we’re pulling into a parking lot in Garden Grove, near the heart of Little Saigon. I’ve loved a lot of things about growing up in California – the weather, the beach, the people – but the huge variety of food is high on that list. Mexican, Vietnamese, Ethiopian...the sky is the limit.

It’s hard to go wrong in this neighborhood, but we’ve always gone to Golden Turtles, a little hole in the wall. There may be fancier places out there, but you’ll never convince me they’ve got better food.

Strictly speaking, they don’t take reservations. The place is small, and it’s always been first come first serve. But as we walk in, I see a table at the back set with candles, a small sign above it saying “Good Luck Avery!”.

My vision goes blurry for a second, touched by the gesture. Mrs. Nguyen comes over, giving me a hug and pushing us to sit down.

“You’re late! Food will be out soon.”

With that, she heads back to the kitchen, leaving us at the table.

“Thanks. You didn’t have to do this.”

They smile, Dad’s cheeks going pink.

“You kidding me? Mrs. Nguyen knows who her best customer is.”

I chuckle at that. He’s not wrong. Since I was ten – even through four years of college – I don’t think I’ve ever gone more than a week between visits. I’ll really miss this place.

With that thought, plates start arriving at the table and we all dive in, a familiar dance borne of years of practice. Pops puts two spring rolls on Dad’s plate, then two on his own, handing me the plate with the remaining four. They position a bowl of Pho in between them, while I grab the Bún Bò Huế, knowing we’ll switch halfway through. Without further ado, we dig in, filling our stomachs with the delicious food.

Before long, we need to take a break, eyeing the various plates and calculating whether there’s room for another bite.

“Can I ask you a question?” This comes from Pops, who’s leaned back, suit jacket unbuttoned as his shirt stretches across his slight belly.

Dad looks hesitant, as though he’s considering stepping in before this going away party gets derailed. But honestly, I appreciate that Pops is asking. I know I could simply say no and it would be done.

“Hit me.”

“Are you still planning to go into this without an agent?”

I take a deep breath. Ever since my agent dropped me, I’ve gone back and forth on this. Yes, an agent to negotiate my interests would result in a better contract, in all likelihood. But they would also take a cut, and given the low payout for any contract I’m likely to sign, I doubt the trade-off will be worth it.

“Yeah, I think so. I just don’t foresee enough room for negotiation in the contract to make one worthwhile. And, uh, unfortunately, I’m not really getting interest from better agents, anyway.”

Or worse ones, for that matter.

Pops hums noncommittally, nodding his head.

“What…what do you think?”

There’s been so much tension between us this summer, that we haven’t actually discussed this, in spite of the fact that he is, at heart, a contract lawyer.

He presses his lips together again, then takes off his suit jacket and throws it over the back of his chair. Before turning back around, he grabs a notepad and pen out of the inner pocket. Pushing up his sleeves, he leans forward, ready to write.

Dad, meanwhile, rolls his eyes at me, a small smirk on his lips. This is Pops’ element, thinking through numbers and obligations – and I can’t say I hate it either.

“Alright, let’s think this through. What’s our best case scenario with this contract – the absolute best thing you think you’d see on the table?”