“Does it look like I want to meet with you right now?” I toss my water bottle into my locker and shift around my gear, pulling my wallet and keys from the locked box. My phone is already in my pocket, and the suit I’m supposed to be wearing is hanging from the coat hook. Fuck that shit. I’m walking out of here in a T-shirt and athletic pants. “Can’t you tell now is not a good time?”
“When will be a good time?”
Head turned down, my hand gripping the back of my neck, I answer, “When I’m fucking ready.”
Doesn’t he get it? The last things I want to talk about right now are endorsement deals and positive publicity during the off-season. Let me fucking mourn my loss for a day. He should know this. Working with athletes, we take a loss hard, let alone a loss that ends the season.
Shifting behind me, his shoes rubbing against the short carpet of the locker, he says, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Tossing an almost empty roll of tape across the room, I spin on my heel, suit hooked in my finger and hanging over my shoulder, I say, “Don’t bother. I’m heading to Binghamton for a few weeks, clear my head. I’ll call you.”
“Hayden.” He walks next to me as I make my way to the parking lot. “We have some important matters to discuss. You have business meetings you have to attend.”
I ignore him and continue on my path.
“What about the power drink deal? They have a promotional photo shoot scheduled.”
“I’ll be there; send me the information.”
“I really think we need to talk about this.”
Halting, I come within inches to James’s face, bending at the knees to meet his shorter height. My voice is menacing when I speak, my jaw tight with each syllable uttered. “If you want to keep your job, I suggest you leave me the alone for now. Give me fucking space, man.”
Startled, James backs up, hopefully well aware of the kind of damage I can cause despite my usual sunny and outgoing temperament.
I’m a fucking fun guy, easygoing, but when it comes to my sport, my job, I take it seriously and expect nothing but the best from myself. When I lose, I need time to regroup.
Succumbing to my request, James backs off and leaves me to walk alone to my black Porsche Cayenne, one of three cars still left in the parking lot.
Unlock. Toss the suit in the back.
Everything feels so . . . robotic.
Sitting behind the wheel, I let out a long breath and press my forehead against the cool leather.
The season is over.“Fuck,” I whisper and push the start button, the car coming to life.
The windshield is glistening, the leather seats chilly, and since I’m only wearing a T-shirt, my entire body stiffens, aches. I know I should have showered. I know I should have worked out the lactic acid currently burning my muscles. I know what I should be doing as an elite athlete.
But I welcome the chill.
Philadelphia in spring isn’t pretty and isn’t easy on you. It’s chilly and dreary, which is perfect because that’s how I’m feeling right about now.
Letting my car warm up for a few minutes, I take my phone from my pocket and let out a long sigh.
After the game text messages are either fun to read or fucking dreadful. Tonight’s round of messages are going to fall under the category of torture, especially when I get to my dad’s text. I know it’s there, and I can tell you what it’s going to say before I even read it.
Call me.
Two simple words that hold so much weight I dread seeing them come from him. I might be an adult now, twenty-three to be exact, an old rookie in hockey years, but I still fear the wrath of my dad, the lecture I get whenever I get in a fight.
I taught you better than that.
True men don’t fight on the ice; they prove their point with their footwork.
Do you enjoy upsetting your mother?
It’s the same thing every time, and frankly, even though I’m grateful for the time my dad has put into getting me to where I am today, I’m not up for the lecture.
