His expression tells me everything I need to know. My phone, dripping wet and cold to the touch, sits dead in my hands. I stare at it for a couple of seconds before I call a ten-minute break and skate over to the sanitation closet. After a quick search, I grab a bag of spill absorbent that we usually use to deal with post-drill barf, tear it open, and jam my phone in.
A few frustrating minutes later, I take it out and the damn thing still won’t turn on. The stupid cable must have fried the chip or something.
Fuck my life.I didn’t bring my laptop with me, and the only phone number I remember is my parents’ landline, which I’m not sure they even have anymore. I can’t even take my phone card out and put it in another phone because my provider in Sweden switched to using those virtual cards.
Resigned, I slink over to the computer in the management office and try to log in to whatever account I can access without getting a code sent to my phone. That turns out to be my email and nothing else. I type out a note to my parents to let them know I’m alive, and I ask them to message Nils on whatever platform they can find him on. I also guess Luke’s work email address and write something to him, only for it to bounce back.
Then the email to my parents bounces back.
Oh, come on.
That’s all I have time to do because I have to give up and get back on the ice.
At least there aren't any scouts today to witness my chaotic first day as a coach. Whatever leadership and team culture management skills I have were absolutely not on display.
25
LUKE
Heading to the consulate now. Will keep you posted
READ 11:37 AM
.
Erik usually replies pretty quickly, but it’s whatever. He’s probably coaching, and I have to apply for that visa. After gathering my documents into a folder, I head downstairs, into the subway, and up to the French Consulate on Bloor Street.
Once I’m inside, the scene that greets me is placid. The guard at the front tells me to turn my phone off, and I take a ticket from the scheduling machine.
I’m called within five minutes—so much for the chaos my dad warned me about.
The agent at counter three sighs when I walk up. “Yes? What do you need?”
I empty the contents of my folder onto the counter. “Hi, good afternoon,” I say in French, which makes the agent’s surly expression soften a little. “I would like to apply for the French ancestry visa on the basis of having a French grandparent.”
“The what?”
Uh oh.
“My dad said that there’s some visa for people with French grandparents?” I say, sliding my dad and grandmother’s French passports over to separate them from the pile.
The agent mutters to himself while leafing through the pile of paperwork. “No such thing exists. Did you doanyresearch before coming here?”
“I trusted my dad. He told me he knew what he was talking about.”
“Well, your father misled you. He was poorly informed and incorrect.”
Ouch.
“But—”
He sticks up a finger. “Hold on,” he says, flipping through my documents. “This French passport is your father’s, correct? And this is your birth certificate?”
I nod.
“You don’t need a visa. You need to apply here for confirmation of French nationality.”
“Huh?” I stare blankly back at the agent.
