We lost four of our exhibition games. Sure, they aren’t anything to truly sweat over, but it still sucks.
But that’s not what has me wanting to toss my dinner back up.
What’s killing me is that I know I’m playing like shit and I can’t seem to get my act together. With the regular season starting in just two days—and starting on the road no less—it’s beginning to worry me more and more.
Am I done? Washed up? Is hockey…over for me?
“So, is this something we need to be worrying about?”
I glance across the table at my agent. His water cup is held loosely in one hand, arm slung across the chair next to him. His leg is pulled up, resting on his knee as he regards me carefully.
To most, he’d appear calm, nonchalant even.
But not to me.
I see the trepidation in his eyes, and I’m sure it matches my own.
More than anything, I want to answer his question with a resounding no. Want to reassure him that it’s nothing. That I’m just still shaking off the bad vibes of last season and I’ll be ready when the season officially starts.
But I know he’ll see right fucking through me.
So I don’t say anything at all.
He nods, then sits forward, arms resting on the table we’ve been sitting at for the last hour, idly chitchatting, avoiding the real nitty-gritty of things until our stomachs were full. “All right. Let’s tackle this together, then. What’s going on?”
So, I tell him.
I tell him all about how I’ve been carrying around this dark cloud of uncertainty since the end of last season. All the bad shit that’s happened. All the pressure of it being a contract year. The way my teammates are looking at me. I leave out Harper and how guilty I feel for lying to her.
When I’m finished, he doesn’t speak for a long time, just watches me with those perceptive eyes.
Then he laughs.
He fucking laughs.
“You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t find this funny.”
I glower at him and shove a fry into my mouth, annoyed by his reaction.
He doesn’t care. He just keeps laughing.
He’s lucky he’s an amazing agent and has become a good friend over the years.
When Shepard Clark knocked on my door, asking if I was represented, I told him to fuck off. What the hell does a former pro-baseball star and World Series champion want with a hockey player? Turned out, a lot.
He was honest from the get-go. He and his best friend started an agency, and he wanted to step outside his comfort zone and push himself by getting immersed in another world.
There was no bullshit with him. No trying to schmooze me. Straight and to the point.
I liked him right away and signed a contract without hesitation.
Lucky for me, trusting my gut was the right thing to do. When I got arrested and the news about my prior charge came out, he didn’t even bat an eye. He was just there, ready to help make it right. We’ve had a good, solid relationship through the years.
But right now I kind of want to punch him.
“Sorry, sorry,” he finally says, then he clears his throat and shakes his shoulders, taking a drink of the water sitting in front of him. “I’m good.”
“What’s so fucking funny?”
“You!” He chuckles again, runs a hand through his hair. “Can’t you see that it’s you?” He reaches over and flicks my temple. I swat at his hand. “You’re up there, not in the game like you need to be. You need to just relax. Get laid. Get a massage. Meditate.”
“Not you too.” I groan, tossing my head back. “Fucking Rhodes keeps saying the same shit.”
“And he’s right.” He shrugs. “I’ve been in your position before, pissed at the world because it’s fucking you over. But athlete to athlete, if you’re not relaxed, you’re not going to play well. It really is that simple.”
“Tell that to my brain. It won’t shut off.”
“When’s the last time it did? The last time you weren’t completely stressed to the max? The last time you let go and had fun?”
My mind drifts to Harper and that car ride we shared.
To Harper and our texts at night.
Talking to her is easy. Effortless. Every time a conversation between us ends, I can’t wait for another to begin.
“Oh.” Shep draws my attention his way. “Whatever—or whoever—it is you’re thinking about, do that…them. Your whole”—he waves a hand over me—“everything just changed.” I scowl and he laughs, setting his water down and flagging down our server. “Listen, Col, you know I want this season to go well as much as you do. You deserve to hoist that Cup as much as any other player.”
The server appears with our check in hand, and Shep slips them a black card without even looking at the bill. He can afford it. I know what he makes in commission from me alone, not to mention his other clients.
“But if you don’t get out of your own way, it’s not going to happen,” he finishes once the server disappears again.
I let out a long sigh because somewhere deep down, I know he’s probably right.
This means Rhodes is right too—not that I’d tell the asshole.
But it’s not as easy as they make it sound.
Every time I’m out on the ice—the place that was once my haven—all I see are the disappointed faces of my teammates. All I hear is the deafening silence of when the call that sealed our fate was made.
Usually when you think hockey arena, you think boisterous, cheering fans.
But most people forget about the quiet moments. The ones where everyone collectively holds their breaths.
The ones where the game of inches and seconds really becomes a game of centimeters and milliseconds.
I remember them.
I remember them all too well.
“The Comets love you,” he says like he can read my thoughts. “The fans love you. Your coaches, the staff, teammates—they all want to see you stay here as much as you want to stay. But…”
My gut sinks, already knowing where this is going.
“If you don’t step aside and let your hockey sense take over, given your…history…we should probably start talking about the real possibility of playing somewhere else next year.”
His words fall around us like a heavy curtain.
I want to stay with the Comets. As much as I love my parents and miss them, this is home now. I know there are no guarantees in hockey, but if I had a chance to work hard and make it happen, I’d stay.
The server drops off the tab, and Shep signs the receipt, then snaps the book closed with finality.
“I was hoping to stay and chat some more, but I gotta get back to the wife.”
His wife, Denver, is a journalist and always keeps her ear to the ground about anything ready to blow up concerning Shep’s athletes. I knew the press had dug into my past before they even aired the story thanks to her.
“Never have kids, man,” he says, standing. I follow his lead, gulping down the rest of my water, then grabbing my discarded ball cap and pulling it low over my head. I’m sure most people won’t bother me in the restaurant, but I still like to keep a low profile on the streets. “I swear they never stop shitting.”
I laugh. “Trust me, much to my parents’ dismay, I’m good on kids.”
“That’s what my brother said too, and I guess he was right to an extent, but those fucking goats of his are just as bad as having human children.”
He shakes his head as we make our way out of the restaurant.
I only get stopped once, which is a win for me.
“Look,” Shep says when we get outside, “just think about what I—” He shakes his head. “You know what? No. Don’t think. No thinking for a change, just doing. Whatever feels good, do that.”
I nod.
“Good. Now go home and get some rest.” He claps me on the shoulder. “I’ll text you, okay?”
Another nod.
He spins on his heel, then turns right back around, snapping his fingers.
“Shit, I almost forgot. Home opener? Your parents coming?”
“Nah. They have some big fall festival thing to prepare for.”
“Mind if I get your seats? Denver bought some photographs from a local photographer and fell in love with the gal. They won’t stop gabbing with each other. Figured we could hook her and a friend up with tickets to a home game or something.”
“Of course,” I say. “They’re all yours. I’ll get it taken care of.”
“Thanks. Appreciate it.” Another slap to the shoulder as he backs away. “Remember, just relax.”
I flip him off, and he laughs.
I head in the opposite direction, my apartment only a couple of blocks away. I keep my head down as I make my way home, not wanting to be bothered by anyone. At the beginning of my career, this always made me feel like an asshole. I thought I had to be “on” for my fans at all times. But the more I settle into the limelight, the better I am at creating boundaries.
“Good evening, sir,” Beau says, holding the door open for me as I approach. “You look like you’re deep in concentration. Anything I can do to help?”
“Apparently I think too much. Think you can perform a lobotomy?”
“I once landed a plane in the water and survived floating in the ocean for five days. I was a pilot, not a doctor, but I can give it my best shot.” He leans in close. “For an Oatmeal Creme Pie, sir.”
I tuck my lips together at his answer. “I’m fresh out tonight. Rain check on the pie and lobotomy?”
“You bet.” He sends me a wink as I step into the elevator. “Have a good night, sir.”
“Good night, Beau. Say hi to Meghan for me.”
Once inside my apartment, I change into a pair of sweats, forgoing a shirt, then grab a beer and settle onto the couch.
I’m physically tired, but my brain is nowhere near ready for bed. I know if I lie down now, I’ll just wait for hours with no sleep in sight.
When I turn on the TV, SportsCenter is pulled up and I click away fast. I don’t want to think about hockey tonight. I just want to watch something mindless and not think.
I settle on a rerun of FRIENDS and grab my phone, scrolling the internet with no real purpose.
Shep’s words play in my mind over and over again.
Whatever feels good, do that.
No thinking, just doing.
I don’t let myself overthink it as I navigate to the BeeMine app and click on Harper’s messages.
HockeyGuy69: So…
Dots dance on my screen almost instantly, and I grin.
HorrorHarper: Oh no. Nothing good ever starts with so.
HorrorHarper: You’re breaking up with me, aren’t you?
HockeyGuy69: Did I miss a step in our relationship?
HorrorHarper: Well, I don’t mean BREAKING UP breaking up. I mean like…you’re gonna break the news that you’ve met someone else and you’re all in love and shit and we have to stop messaging.
HorrorHarper: But because you’re a total gentleman, you’re telling me.
HorrorHarper: At least I have you built up in my head as a gentleman.
HorrorHarper: Are you a gentleman?
HockeyGuy69: Depends on the setting.
HorrorHarper: Oh. OH. *blushes*
HockeyGuy69: Also, I’m not messaging anyone else. Just so we’re clear.
HorrorHarper: Neither am I.
HockeyGuy69: Good. That’s good.
HockeyGuy69: This is a good so, by the way. I think.
HorrorHarper: You sound totally confident about that.
HockeyGuy69: What can I say? I’m a confident guy.
HorrorHarper: *waits for bombshell*
HockeyGuy69: Go out with me.
