Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 408(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 408(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
So, as long as it was helping them, I became known as the asshole on the ice. "I’m sure they thought otherwise when I got a two-game suspension last year." Five years ago, I got my first ever game suspension. It was in the preseason for a late hit on the play. I felt horrible after it happened, but that’s when the media really started putting me in the bad-boy category. It didn’t matter that I had four points in the game. It mattered that I fucked up and made an illegal hit. No one knows I reached out to the guy and apologized or that we are very close friends. They just see what was on paper.
"Well, we are hoping that history doesn’t repeat itself," Martin says. "The team needs you on the ice, not sitting on your ass watching."
"I agree," Nico confirms. "Watching you sit out fourteen games five years ago was not fun."
"That was bullshit, and you know it," I point out. "The media is the one who pushed for that one. The league had to come out and call me a repeat offender." I pfft and shake my head. "It was such bullshit that after the third appeal, they put me back on the ice." Just the thought makes my stomach burn again. Was I innocent? No. But that hit didn't merit a twenty-game suspension. Thankfully it got overturned after fourteen games and I was allowed back.
"We can go on and on about this." Nico holds up his hand. "But let’s cut to the chase." I look at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "This is a new year, and we want your word you will be on your best behavior." I chuckle. “I’m not kidding, Brad." Nico uses my first name. "I want to show all those people out there that you are more than just a bad boy on the ice. I want them to eat their words."
I nod now. "Fine," I huff. "I can give you my word that I will do my best." I shrug. "I can’t do more than that." Nico leans back in the chair and just looks at me. "Fine, I’ll really try this time."
"Good," Martin says. "We need the support on the ice." I nod. "Lots of young kids this year. We need someone to help mentor them."
I laugh. "Trust me, the last thing they need is to learn from me." I look down and wonder how much longer the team will keep me if I fuck up again. "Listen, in my defense, I never wanted to be that boy on the ice."
"It’s that pretty-boy face of yours," Nico jokes. "Those blue eyes and scruff drive the women wild." I groan and roll my eyes. "It looks like we are on the same page." He claps his hands together. "And let's show the press why we extended your contract, yeah?" Nico stands. "Now get the fuck out of here and get ready for the game next week."
"Will do, boss." I salute him and walk out of the meeting, my shoulders heavy from that talk. Walking into the dressing room, I see some of the rookies hanging around talking. "Later," I say to them, grabbing my keys and heading out.
Sitting in my Land Rover, I make my way over to my house. My mind replays the conversation. By the time I get home, I have so much pent-up energy I walk straight to my home gym. I bought this house as soon as I turned twenty-one. It was a crazy purchase, and I knew it was too big for me, but I just wanted something that was mine.
Climbing on the bike, I turn on the television to the sports network. They are doing a replay of baseball. I watch the replays while I go as fast as my legs can, peeling the T-shirt off me and tossing it in the laundry basket in the corner. I put my hands forward as I start to run out of steam when the phone rings. Picking it up, I see it’s my mother, and I groan. "Hello," I answer it while I stop pedaling. I get up to grab a bottle of water from the fridge in the corner.
"Hello, son," she says, and I can tell she wants something.
"What’s up, Mom?" I take another pull of water, my stomach almost throwing it up when I hear her next sentence.
"Why does something have to be up?" she shrieks. "Can’t a mother just call her son?" I close my eyes, knowing this phone call has nothing to do with her caring how I am doing. My mother had me when she was twenty-two. I was the result of her sleeping with her boss at the law firm where she was working. An affair with a married man who did not want his name or family tarnished. So what did he do? He paid my mother off. Every month, he would send her a check to cover her rent and everything that had to do with me. It was the only reason I went to a private school and she could afford to put me in the top hockey league. I was good at the game, but those lessons put me where I am today because of all the money he kept sending to her. Of course, that stopped when I turned eighteen—not because of my age but because he had a heart attack at work.