“Ask me after next week,” I add.
Chen nods in a way that suggests he’s penned the date on his internal calendar with the intention of following up.
I’m all too aware that this is my last chance. I signed with the Knights on what amounts to a career finale “prove-it” contract taht terminates at the end of this season. Failure means retirement at thirty-one with no other skills.
Chen is aware of what that could do to a guy like me. I don’t know who I am without hockey and he recently emphasized that I can’t let fear of the future get in the way of how I play now.
Me, afraid? Pfft.
The problem is, my shoulder or knee could fail me. Then what would I do? Who would I be?
Chen’s attention turns to the stage where the hypnotist guides the pretty woman I danced with earlier into what sounds a lot like the kinds of meditations we can listen to when taking an ice bath.
Take three deep breaths. Feel your body warm and alive. Welcome the experience and accompanying sensations. Instead of fighting discomfort, breathe into it. Let your exhale be longer than your inhale …
“Hey, is any of this hypnotist stuff real?” Chen is a doctor. Surely he’d know.
He tips his head to the side. “Do you want it to be?”
“Sheridan!” Pierre Arsenault’s whisper shout cuts through my thoughts.
Chen leaves me hanging as he takes his seat in a nearby row.
Mikey follows closely behind and, using his inside voice, says, “What’re you doing lurking back here like a vampire?”
“I was thinking more like a ghoul.” Pierre shrugs.
I turn to find half the Knights’ roster approaching—at least those who aren’t already seated in the front row. All dressed in their best suits, they look like they’re far more entertained than I am.
Jack, our center, parts the pack with his usual cocky grin and points to the front row. “We have seats up there.”
“The ambiance here is fine.” I lift my glass to them with zero intention of sitting down.
“Ambiance?” Grady juts his chin toward the stage as if he knows I’d noticed the blond woman in the icy blue gown earlier. He’s the team’s enforcer and built like a brick wall, but supposedly is a doting dad. I wouldn’t know because this is the first team-related event I’ve attended, and that’s because it’s an official NHL shindig. The Knights invited me into the fold, but I’m better off flying solo these days.
Better not to form a brotherhood if I’m the weak link.
Redd hisses, “When you got here, you were sulking.”
“I don’t sulk.”
“Then I saw you dancing.” Mikey signals that we sit down or get down and boogie, I can’t be sure.
Yeah. That happened. Almost as if it were a dream. Our eyes met. We floated together from across the room as if drawn together by marionette strings—even with the roving photog, I knew I should’ve resisted, but I couldn’t. We danced, laughed … I’m actually not sure if it was real.
Redd clicks his tongue. “Sulk? Correction. Lane broods. Very different. Much more manly.”
Several of theguys nearby chuckle.
“Looked like you were having fun with that blond.” Jack elbows me.
Redd shakes his head with disapproval. “Then he instantly went back into his funk.”
Truth is, they’ve been trying to draw me out of my “shell” all evening—turtle jokes were told and they were all of the dad variety.
While I appreciate the effort, I really do, being traded to Nebraska after my entire career with the Wisconsin Warriors feels like being sent out to pasture, even if everyone is being generous and gracious by calling it a “fresh start” and an “opportunity.”
Fresh start. Right.
