One
Baylor Nix
Einstein once said, “Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity…and I’m not sure about the universe.”
And I’ve just proven him right.
By being stupid.
Really fucking stupid…
The conference room door closes behind me with a sharp click that might as well be the sound of my coffin lid snapping shut.
Why couldn’t I just apologize? Beg for forgiveness? Be a good “team player” and kiss whoever’s ass needed to be kissed to get my own ass out of trouble?
I don’t know.
I’m not built that way, I guess. I was built stubborn, determined, with a strong sense of justice, and an even stronger aversion to saying I was wrong when IknowI’m right.
I stand in the hallway, breathing in the scent of industrial cleaner and the tang of ammonia from the rink down the hall. The air feels too thin, like I’ve just skated five overtime periods without a breather, and my dress shirt is sticking to my back.
Turns out being repeatedly reminded that I’m one more “incident” away from becoming a cautionary tale makes me sweat. A lot. But hey, at least I’m not out of a job.
No official suspension.
The words should be a relief, but they’re not.
I was also gifted/cursed with the ability to read between the lines and hear the subtext in every polite conversation. What they really said was—We’re watching you, bucko. One more slip, one more outburst, one more toe out of line, and you’re done.
Keely’s voice still echoes in my head, that careful PR tone she uses when delivering bad news wrapped in corporate speak, “I understand where you’re coming from, I really do. But the optics are problematic, Baylor. Regardless of intent.”
And then Coach Merwood chimed in, his dwarf-lord beard bristling as he rumbled, “Get your head on straight, son. We don’t live in a society that condones vigilante justice. You’re putting the entire team’s reputation at risk. Control your temper, or you won’t be here to defend anyone.”
The way they’d all looked at me, like I’m a liability instead of a player who’s logged more ice time than half the defensive roster.
My throat goes tight, and a low-grade nausea roils through my gut that has nothing to do with the stale coffee I slugged down at the start of the meeting.
Six days until the season opener. Six days to be invisible, angelic, the picture of restraint. Six days for the press to hopefully forget that I was the guy who put that wife-beater in the hospital because I couldn’t walk away from a woman getting her face rearranged behind a club on Bourbon Street…
Management made it abundantly clear that my “history” is a problem. Three fights in two seasons, the suspension I took last year for going after the enforcer who cheap-shotted Grammercy, and now…this.
Never mind that the bastard I beat deserved every bruise.
Never mind that his wife just sent me a thank-you email with a photo from her new apartment, where she feels free and safe for the first time in nearly a decade.
I’mstill the problem.
Aristotle said a man should pursue virtue for virtue’s sake, but he never had to answer to team owners worried about their brand image.
I start down the hall, determined to be gone before management finishes their meeting.
The Voodoo’s side of the arena is clearing out fast, my teammates headed home for the weekend after a grueling final week of training camp. I can’t wait to join them…as soon as I change into something that doesn’t make me feel like I’m suffocating. Grammercy and Blue said slacks and a dress shirt would show management that I gave a shit about their lecture.
I give a shit, all right.
Just not in the way they want.
I want to do therightthing, not the politically correct thing—and not always thelegalthing, if I’m being completely honest—and that’s…
