Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
I’ve done a lot of thinking. I’ve prayed to the only God I know and one who I never called on much until now. I’ve searched my soul for the right answer, but there’s no clarity.
There seems to be no right answer for me, except…
Except if I hand a ‘fuck you’ to the team, my hockey career is over. And for better or for worse, it’s the only thing in the world that gives me some small measure of happiness.
Maybe happiness isn’t the right word, but it sure as hell gives me respite from the pain.
And that has value to me.
I glance at my phone again, noting it’s now six fifty-one. Still time to think on this some more, but I know the clock is ticking ever closer to the decision I’ll have to make—one that will have a profound impact on my future.
No easy task.
CHAPTER 2
Tacker
That may have been the most horrible hour of my entire life, and trust me, I’ve had some horrible moments.
I let the door of the counselor’s office swing shut behind me, glancing over my shoulder at the nameplate before walking away.
Gordon Dumfries, III, PsyD, MA, LCSW-C
Jesus fuck… with all those goddamn initials behind his name, one would think he’d have a clue about people.
The man had spent the first twenty minutes of our session lauding himself and explaining all those letters after his name. Then, in the next fifteen minutes, he’d explained the importance of opening myself up to confronting pain, and that the best way to release it was through tears and the shredding of the soul.
Or some shit like that.
The last twenty-five minutes of our session, we spent staring at each other because I wasn’t going to make it easy on him. He was forced to ask me pointed questions just to get any information out of me.
At the end, he shook his head in disappointment and said he expected better of me next time.
Fat fucking chance there will be a next time, Dr. Dumbfuck.
Yes, I’m well aware my hockey career is dependent on me getting counseling. Two days ago, and on the heels of another horrible nightmare about the crash, I sat before our general manager, Christian Rutherford, and the team’s owner, Dominik Carlson, and I told them I wanted to stay on the team. I accepted the given ultimatums I couldn’t drink alcohol again and had to seek counseling.
The alcohol was easy. I was never a big drinker anyway and my abuse of it a few weeks ago—where I got drunk and drove my truck into a concrete barrier—coincided with MJ’s birthday. It was a low fucking moment for me.
But it also wasn’t my first brush with trouble on the team. I’d been suspended and heavily fined back in November for what some would call an extreme act of brutality on an opposing player.
Bottom line… the management has had it with me and while I’d managed an average 1.32 points per game, putting me at the top of the league, that wasn’t going to save me anymore.
So the other part of my ultimatum was the counseling, something I’ve successfully managed to avoid since the plane crash that killed MJ fifteen months ago.
I fucking hated the idea of doing it, but there was one other thing that factored into my decision to make a go of it with the team.
Yesterday, my teammates, Bishop and Dax, showed up at the door of my crappy apartment, and they pleaded for me not to give up.
Well, Dax pleaded.
Bishop was an asshole about it, and I could tell he’s reached his limit with me. He’d said I needed to get my head out of my ass—to figure out not only how to be a professional hockey player again, but also how to be a comrade to my teammates.
It was something I knew how to do prior to the crash. I was close with all the guys at my former club, the Dallas Mustangs.
And despite the fact he was a dick about it, he actually reached through to me. So that was my intent when walking into Gordon Dumfries’ office, actually somewhat heartened by the amount of letters after his name.
Until I realized what a douche he was and that I’d rather repetitively stab myself in the ear with a Phillips-head screwdriver than listen to him for another moment. He’d tried to set up another appointment when he declared our time over, and I told him I’d call him once I knew my schedule.
I have no intention of calling him.
Making my way out of his building, I take a moment to pull up my Uber app to order a car. It sucks having lost my license following the DUI charge I’d received following my up close and personal meeting between my truck and the concrete barrier, but that’s the price I’ll have to pay. Luckily, Dominik Carlson recommended a great lawyer, who I retained, and he’s supposedly going to be able to plead me down to a reckless-driving charge. He told me I’d be able to get my license back after I complete a driver-safety course or some shit like that, but I’ll gladly do it. I hate being driven around.