Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
“Shoot.”
“Do you ever think about what you’ll do after this?”
“Sure. All the time. I’m fucking thirty-five years old. And some days my body tells me I’m twice that.”
“I get it. So what will you do?”
“My contract is up next year. At that point, I’ll probably just move back to Canada and buy some land. Watch my kids grow up in the country. That’s what my wife wants.” He shrugged. “We’ve been down here for eight years, in Boston before that, and she misses her family. She wants the kids to have some good years with their grandparents.”
It surprised me. I thought for sure he’d look for a job in management or coaching. “Aren’t you worried you’ll miss it?”
“I’ll miss parts of it, sure. But not all of it. And it’s not just about me.”
“Maybe that’s my problem,” I muttered before tipping the bottle up again. My entire life, everything had been about me. My family took vacations around my hockey schedule. My parents spent countless hours driving me to tournaments in places like Saskatchewan and Manitoba. My professors gave me extended time on assignments and tests because a winning team was good for the school. I’d never had to put anyone else’s needs before my own.
“What’s that?” Tessier leaned a little closer to me. “Didn’t hear you.”
“Nothing,” I said. “I guess I’m just having some doubt that I’m as good a man as my dad and brothers are.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m kind of a selfish prick off the ice. I’ve always known it, and I used to just laugh it off. But I can’t do that anymore.”
“Nope. You can’t.”
“I don’t even want to.” I spun the beer bottle around in my hand, its bottom leaving wet rings on the wooden bar. “But I don’t know any other way to be. I’ve never wanted to be anyone but the old me. And suddenly I’ve got these fucking complicated feelings that are tearing me apart.”
“Feelings about the baby?”
“No. Those feelings are simple. These are about the girl.” I closed my eyes, and she was in my head—her laugh, her dimple, her yellow cupcake scent. “Mabel.”
“Why not try to make it work?”
“That doesn’t seem to be a risk she’s willing to take.”
“Are you?”
I took a sip of my beer without tasting it. “Yes. But even saying that just now, I get this panicked feeling, like I need to slow down and think some more. Until I’m absolutely one hundred percent sure it’s right. I feel like there’s no room for uncertainty.”
“Let me ask you something. When you’re lining up a shot, are you always one hundred percent certain you’re going to score?”
“No.”
“But you take the shot. Because it’s worth a chance.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “But that’s hockey. I’m good at hockey. And this isn’t a puck I’m playing with. It’s someone’s feelings. It’s someone’s life.”
“Still. The Joe Lupo I know would take the shot.”
His words stuck with me.
Our next game was Monday night in Montreal.
We’d gotten off to a good start with a 1-0 lead, but then took six straight penalties in a row. When it was finally five on five again, I passed the puck to Larsson on a breakaway and went to skate around the defenseman, but he tripped me—and the ref either didn’t see it or didn’t call it. As he skated past, fury surged through my veins. I wanted to retaliate, but forced myself to keep the urge in check. That was how the game was played. Things got rough sometimes.
I got up and continued to play, but the anger didn’t dissipate. It grew and festered and boiled. They were up by two goals going into the third period, coaches were pissed, tempers were hot, and my shoulder was fucking killing me. But when I saw that same defenseman take a cheap shot at Larsson, I made up my mind I was going to do something about it.
I tripped him the same way he’d tripped me, only when he got up, he pitchforked me and I went down hard on my bad shoulder. We both came up swinging. We were separated fast and handed penalties, although someone else had to serve mine for me—because of the injury, I was out of the game, which we lost.
Later, I’d get even worse news . . . I was out for at least two weeks, which meant missing the All Star game. Adding insult to my injury was the doctor’s opinion that most of the damage to my shoulder was due to “overuse and aging.”
My agent was mad. “What the fuck, Joe?” he demanded when he called me on Tuesday. “Why would you do something so stupid? That’s not the kind of hockey you play.”
“He came at me first!” I shouted, sounding like an eight-year-old. Lying on my couch with ice on my shoulder, I winced at the pain that lanced through my arm.