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Nothing makes me feel like the idiotic delinquent I used to be in my teenage years more than being called into Coach Byrne’s office before practice to have a good telling-off.
I don’t care how old you are, how fat your bank account is, or how big a set of balls you think you have, Coach Liam Byrne has a way of making you feel like youain’t shitwith just one look.
It’s his fucking superpower.
And right now, he’s using it all up on me.
Fuck my life.
I try not to shift uncomfortably in my seat as he continues to shout at the top of his lungs, little balls of spit flying every which way in the air as he slams newspaper after newspaper on top of his desk—with my fucking face plastered all over the front pages.
I haven’t read any of the headlines yet, but it’s not hard to imagine what they could be.
NHL star, Nathan Wilder, breaks more bones out of the rink than he does in it.
Yep, that’s me, alright.
My whole stellar career as one of the best grinders Boston has ever seen has now been summarized as the player who prefers to use his fists to settle arguments rather than his brains.
I’m a fucking cliché.
But for all his shouting, I’m pretty sure Coach Byrne doesn’t give a rat’s ass that I threw a few punches in a bar fight last night. What he’s really pissed about is that the paparazzi caught it all on tape. What was supposed to be a drunken brawl between a bunch of testosterone-fueled assholes has now turned into a media spectacle where I’m being portrayed as a fucking menace to society.
Great.
Just fucking great.
Not only will this look bad for the club, but all the sponsors my sports agent has been working tirelessly to get will now think twice before offering me a deal.
I mean, I get it. No parent is likely to buy a cereal box with my stupid-ass mug on it if they think they’re sending the wrong message to their kids. And apparently, the message I’m putting out into the world is to resolve all your issues with violence, instead of words.
I wish the press was wrong about me, but more times than not, it’s my fists that do most of my talking for me to settle any score.
Fuck.
It’s not like I go asking for trouble.
I don’tintentionallygo looking for fights.
They just somehow always seem to find me.
Besides, I’ve never been a fan of turning the other cheek when provoked.
I’m more of a ‘you get what you put out’ kind of guy.
Life philosophies aside, one day Coach Byrne and the team will get tired of my shit and think of me as too much of a liability to keep. I wish this was the first time I was seated in this chair, getting hounded and shouted at by my coach, but unfortunately, it’s not.
It’s become a monthly occurrence ever since…
Fuck that, Nate. Don’t go there.
Hmm.
Maybe I should quit going out altogether.
That should limit my interaction with people, right?
Maybe becoming a recluse or some kind of hermit is the answer to all my problems.
