“Mike.” His frown deepened. “Mr. Gallows. I donothave an addiction problem. I was drunk. Sure. We had just won a big game. I went out to celebrate. Maybe I did overindulge, but one night on the town does not an addiction problem make.”
A vein in his cheek twitched. “As I said, you should strongly consider signing into a rehab program for at least thirty days. If you do not wish to avail yourself of the league’s program, which is quite good, I understand, you may choose a program that suits you better. After you are released, you will report to the Rochester Copperheads.”
My jaw dropped. “You’re sending me down for one little altercation?”
“Walker, this is four.” He held up four scarred fingers. A lifetime of fights and slashes could be seen on those meaty digits. “Four altercations that involved the police.” I was going to argue. I was good at that, but when I saw the resignation on his face, I flopped back into the nicely padded chair I was sitting in and crossed my arms over my nice blue suit jacket. “So, once you have completed your time with a counselor for anger and substance issues, you will report to the Copperheads. There, you will work on your game while attending weekly counseling sessions with a team-appointed anger management counselor. Then, we’ll look at your progress and stats at the end of the season to see if you’re ready to return to the Vipers.”
“That sucks.”
“No, this team is bending over backward to help you help yourself. I know you had a problematic childhood. I also like you. I like how hardnosed you are, how you hit the ice with passion and grit, and how you can shoot the puck. So, to that end, go get your head pulled out of your ass, help out the Copperheads, and try to find something in your life that’ll make you happy.”
“Hockey makes me happy.” I sounded like a truculent child, but it was the truth. There was little else that did, other than my sister Harper, but even she was weary of my shit and had told me so at full volume while driving me home from the first precinct.
Mike nodded sadly. “I know it does, but, son, there is a lot more to life than hockey. Try to find some balance. Hell, learn to meditate or do some yoga. Sip some green tea chai shit. Write poetry. Go for walks in nature. Journal. Find out what the kids are doing today to reach that happy hippy state and do that. Whatever brings you some damn happiness outside of the rink.”
“Mike, this sucks. We’ve only played ten games. The Vipers need me.” My arguments were weak. I knew it, but fuck, I had to try.
“I know, Walker. We’ll manage. Go fix yourself. We’ll talk next summer.”
That dismissal was as blunt as the crooked nose on Mike’s face. What could I do but rise, shake his hand, and slink out of the office like a whipped mutt? Nothing.
I made my way to the end of the corridor to look down at the fresh ice so far below. The team logo at center ice taunted me as I dashed at the sudden dampness on my face. My father’s voice hit me like a crosscheck to the kidneys. It had been years since his death, but his words lived on forever inside my head.
What the hell are you crying for? Men don’t cry. Now get up off the ice and come at me again, and this time, don’t hit like a girl.
Hockey players didn’t cry either. They hit things. Hard. Repeatedly. And without empathy.
“Fuck you tons, Dad,” I murmured to the rink, the only place where I’d once felt some peace, and drove a fist into the thick wall of plexiglass before entering the elevator. The ache in my knuckles matched the pain in my breast, but I swallowed it down like a loose chiclet.
Men didn’t cry. Men dealt. Men grew a pair.
Since I already had a pretty big set of balls, I guess I would have to find another way to express my emotions without sniffles or snivels. Or fists.
If they made me paint with oils in rehab, I would not be happy at all. Not all of us wanted to be Bob “I am so soothing people watch me to drift off to sleepy land” Ross. Soft guys didn’t finish first.
We all knew that.
TWO
Finn
I studied the painting carefully,drawn in by the bold colors and the passion radiating from each layer of thick paint. Something about it struck a chord in me as if the artist had thrown every emotion they had onto the canvas, hoping something would stick. The texture felt almost violent, yet there was a fragile vulnerability in how the colors clashed but somehow worked together. The strokes were heavy, rough enough to nearly tear through the canvas. It was as if the brush had been wielded with raw emotion, desperate to make a point. A potent mix of chaos and intention I couldn’t stop staring at.
“Wow,” I said.
It was a house with an orange roof that slanted steeply like a witch’s hat. The perspective skewed and impossibly challenging. The sun in the corner looked furious, all jagged lines and angry yellow swirls. A family was scattered in front of the house, and I loved the boldness and confidence in each imperfect line. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing, just raw, unapologetic creativity, the kind I wished I could channel before self-doubt crushed me. I loved the passion, the energy, and the way the colors seemed to pulse with life—just as captivating as any oldmaster. It reminded me of Van Gogh’s wild brushwork or the emotional intensity of a Munch painting. Art that didn’t just depict a scene but made you feel it. That was what this piece did. It grabbed me by the collar and refused to let go.
“And that’s Muppet, my cat,” a paint-crusted finger pointed at a dark blob, which channeled Jackson Pollock.
“Wow,” I repeated, pouring as much genuine awe into my voice as I could manage, my enthusiasm never faltering.
“Is it okay?”
I lifted my gaze and met Jamie’s wide eyes as he awaited my opinion. His fingers were twisted in his purple shirt, and his expression was uncertain.
He’d been quiet all day, which wasn’t like him. Sweet and angelic by name but a holy terror in every other way, the six-year-old would shove the paper in my face and demand I tell him he was brilliant. I made a mental note that the male figure in the painting—dad, I assumed—was standing some distance from the mom and the two kids, plus, of course, Muppet, the cat. Placing the dad apart like that could mean so many things. Maybe Jamie had overheard an argument or the dad had taken away a toy or perhaps it was something bigger, like a family breakup. I’d mention it at the end-of-day briefing to see if anyone knew anything because it might explain why Jamie had seemed off today.
One of the things I’d learned over the years was how much a child’s home life could appear in their drawings. A house set apart, a family member drawn smaller or further away. Sometimes those little details told stories kids didn’t know how to put into words. It wasn’t always a sign of trouble, but I’d seen enough to know when something felt off.
