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That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it?
“Thank you,” he says. “Now let’s get down to business.”
Yup. Sure. Whatever you want, buddy.
Practice today was a bitch, so I’m just glad I’m sitting down. I partied far too much this weekend, and Coach, who knows me better than I know myself, really put me through the paces when he realized how hungover I was.
In fact, my partying this weekend went a bit too far, and that’s why I’m in Vince’s office right now.
“First, I want to thank you for attending the auction today. That’s a huge first step in rehabilitating your image.”
The nerve of this jerk.
I lean forward in my chair. “Rehabilitate? My image? What the hell are you talking about?”
Vince sighs and looks out his office window. “Rake, I was brought on board here to make sure the Aftershocks are the darlings of the hockey league. The more respectable you guys are, the more sponsorships you get, and the more money everyone ends up with in their pockets.”
Fucking sports. Always boils down to the almighty dollar.
“Yeah, I know. So?” I ask.
“This weekend was the third brawl you’ve been involved in this year. If the owners weren’t as well connected as they are, you might have enjoyed a lovely night in jail with San Francisco’s finest.”
Oh. That.
“Look, I told Coach that wasn’t my fault. Some asshole was giving a woman a hard time, and I stepped in?—”
Vince raises his hand and cuts me off. “Rake, you are not the savior of put-upon women. You know when you see trouble that you are supposed to exit the situation. You’ve been told this time and again.”
I straighten up in my seat. “I don’t think I can do that, Vince. I can’t just walk away from something like that.”
Vince leans onto his desk, his fingers clasped. “I’ve been told, Rake, that if this happens one more time, you’re out.”
I drop my head back and laugh. Hard.
Yeah, right. Like that would ever happen.
“It’s true, Rake. You’re just about out of chances. That’s why the owners have tasked me with cleaning up the shit you leave behind everywhere you go.”
I am so not down with this punk giving me the what-for. I’m tired, still hungover, and sore from Coach’s punishment. And I want something really good to eat for dinner. I’m fucking starving.
Maybe when I’m done with this stupid conversation, I’ll head over to Presidio Heights for a Spruce Burger. I love Spruce. They always give me a great table even though I never have a reservation.
And the hostess is hot as fuck.
“Okay, Vince,” I say. I’m too tired to argue with the man. He needs to just tell me what the hell he wants so I can get out of his office, so creepily wallpapered with photos of his damn face.
“Rake, today’s charity event is the first of several things you will be doing to convince your fans you’re a respectable, professional athlete, and not a guy walking around looking for fights to get into.”
“Really, Vince? I doubt my fans think that of me.”
He leans even further over his desk, like he’s driving home a point—one he really wishes I’d pay some attention to. “Rake, how do you think the kids who follow your career, who collect your trading cards, who see your face in the morning on their box of corn flakes, who wear your number, feel when there are photos of you all over the internet, bloody, beating the shit out of some poor schmuck who had no idea what he was getting into when he pissed you off?”
Okay. Here we go. He’s hauling out the big guns, bringing up the kids. Our young fans. If there’s one thing that’s impossible to argue with, it’s the importance of the kids who follow the team.
First, they get their parents to buy all kinds of Aftershock stuff. Second, they are our future ticket holders. They are animportant audience, everyone around here likes to say.
I don’t disagree. I love kids. They’re cute and funny and most of the time, smarter than adults.
