Page 9 of The Tryout

I wake to the sounds of dishes being moved around the kitchen, the warm sunshine streaming through my window.

Damn, I do not miss morning practices at all.

I stretch out in my bed, reaching toward the four corners before bending and folding each limb. As I get to my right knee, there’s a little tightness, but it’s hard to tell whether it’s internal or just the scar tissue struggling to stretch.

I guess we’ll find out.

The clock on my bedside table tells me it’s just a little after nine, so I pull on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, hopeful I still stand a chance at getting breakfast.

Sure enough, as I turn the corner into the kitchen, Dad is pulling a pan of bacon out of the oven, a pinstriped apron protecting his Thomas Pink shirt. He places it on the stovetop next to a towering pile of pancakes, then begins removing slices to a serving plate.

“Oh good, you’re up! Wanted to let you sleep in since you’ll be back to work tomorrow.”

I smile, grabbing a strawberry for myself before jumping in to slice some for the pancakes.

“Thanks. Jamie tells me the pros don’t have to deal with the hours we did at UCLA, but you can never be too certain.”

He laughs, knowing my preference for late hours. Grabbing the pancakes and a plate of bacon, he walks over to the breakfast nook, where plates and silverware have already been laid out. I follow with the bowl of strawberries and, after a quick raid of the fridge, the whipped cream that I know I’ll find hidden on the second shelf.

“Pops leave for work already?”

As an entertainment lawyer, he works all hours – at the studio before shooting begins on some days and out late at awards ceremonies on others. Still, it’s what he loves – and the money certainly isn’t anything to sneeze at.

“Yeah, he had an early client meeting this morning. We were thinking of going down to Garden Grove tonight for dinner to celebrate you, though.”

I’m not exactly sure there’s anything to celebrate. Tomorrow morning – at a time even earlier than morning practice – I will get on a flight to Des Moines, Iowa. Well, actually, I’ll get on a flight from Burbank to Chicago, and then the shortest flight of my life – one hour and five minutes – on to Des Moines.

All for a tryout.

I’m still working on my gratitude for what Jamie and his boyfriend have done, lining this up. I know that there are other injured college players who would commit actual murder for the chance to show a team they’ve still got it.

But somehow it leaves a sour taste in my mouth, the thought that my shot at the pros isn’t down to my talent or ability, but rather the fact that I was lucky enough to share an apartment with Jamie Carter for four years.

My dad sees the look on my face and turns toward me.

“Avery, you know how proud of you we are, right?”

I roll my eyes, feeling more like a petulant teenager than a man in my early twenties.

Dad presses on.

“And you know that no matter what happens this week, we’ll still be proud of you, right?”

I snort at that.

“Sure. Pops will be even more proud, because then I’ll probably end up at law school.”

He sighs, but doesn’t disagree.

This has been a longstanding tension in our family. My dads were great growing up, making sure to support any extracurriculars I wanted to do. When I locked in on hockey at eight, they were at my games and – maybe more importantly – forking out the money for skills coaches and gear. I truly would never have made it this far without them.

Even when the UCLA athletic department came calling, their support only wavered a little. After all, hockey could get me preferential admissions status and even save a little money on tuition.

It wasn’t until I signed with an agent during my freshman year that things went south. Pops couldn’t understand why I’d even entertain the idea of playing professionally, when I could go to law school instead.

And me? I couldn’t understand who would ever want to be a lawyer when they could play hockey all day. The ice was where I felt most myself and it felt like he was trying to take that away from me.

Dad, meanwhile, has spent the last four years acting as the neutral party, careful to never agree or disagree with either of us. I should buy him a Swiss flag for Christmas.