I look up from my desk and see Asher leaning against my office doorway, holding a file folder.
I met the former Renegades quarterback and love of Julie Parker’s life last year before the start of his final season in the NFL. A couple of months ago, after he retired from professional football, he started working for Kids Play, the foundation I started soon after my own retirement from professional hockey. His official title is program director, but he really runs the sports camps the foundation recently started.
In addition to funding equipment for kids who want to play sports but whose families can’t afford the high costs, the foundation has always paid for kids to attend outside sports camps and clinics. A couple of years ago, I had an idea for the foundation to run its own sports camps, and the idea kind of took on a life of its own. We now have fully functioning and wildly popular year-round boys and girls football and hockey camps, and professional sports teams all over the city arepouring fundraising dollars into the foundation to help support them.
I should be over the moon that my idea took off and has been so successful. I should be thrilled that kids all over the city are playing the sports they love without cost being a barrier to entry, which was the whole reason why I started the foundation more than a decade ago.
But I’m neither of those things.
Instead, I find myself vaguely dissatisfied at best, and apathetic at worst, about the entire operation. I come into work and sit at my desk, staring at paperwork I have no interest in doing. I talk to donors and can’t muster up the excitement required to get them to open their wallets. I walk the halls of the foundation I built with none of the excitement that pushed me to build it in the first place. I don’t know where that excitement went, but I sure as hell can’t feel it anymore.
I sigh, pushing the paperwork aside. “Sure, come in.”
Asher drops into one of the chairs in front of my desk and tosses the folder at me. I open it and glance at the picture of the jerseys he apparently needs my opinion on. The hockey jerseys. I flip the folder closed.
“They look fine to me,” I say, handing the folder back to him. “Just go ahead and place the order.”
He takes it, looking at me quizzically.
“That’s it?”
“Did you need an opinion on the color scheme or something?”
He smirks at me. “With your fashion sense? Definitely not. I just figured you might have a stronger opinion on the jerseys the kids on your hockey teams are going to wear.”
I probably should. But I don’t.
“Nah, I trust you. Whatever you think is best.”
“Good enough. Do you have time for some more shop talk?”
“Why not? You saved me from paperwork hell, and I have no burning desire to go back there.”
Asher grimaces. “Better you than me. That’s why you’re the big boss and I am but a mere employee.”
“Ash, you run four year-round sports camps for kids, have plans for at least six more, and control a multi-million-dollar annual budget. You’re not a mere anything.”
“Still hate paperwork though.”
“You and me both. So, what’s up?”
“The hockey teams are going to need a coach in the new year.”
“Where’s John going?” The current coach of the foundation’s hockey teams is a buddy of mine from Juniors. He never played in the NHL—went straight to coaching instead—and he was my first call when I decided to start the camps.
“His wife got a big promotion or something, and it involves relocating out west, so he’s moving in January. He’s sticking around through the fall, and we’re on break anyway for the last two weeks of December, but we should start thinking about his replacement now so we’re ready to go in January. I can start looking but figured I would talk to you first. Anyone come to mind?”
Me.
The thought is sudden and shocking, and for a minute, the idea of being back in the game, even in this small way, makes me feel so light I’m practically buoyant. But then I remember the very real reason coaching is out of the question for me, and I crash back to earth so abruptly it’s like I feel the impact, despite never having left my chair.
“I’ll think about it,” I say quickly, my voice a little thick. I clear my throat, hoping he didn’t notice, except of course he did because he is eyeing me a little strangely.
“You okay, Jer?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
So good. So completely good except for the fact that I can barely even think about playing the game that used to be my salvation without freaking out. So…yeah. Everything is fine. Totally normal and fine.
