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I turn around with a blank expression on my face, shoving my hands into my front pockets to avoid him seeing me ball them into fists for a second time today.
He’s already sending me to have my head examined, so I see no reason why I should give him more ammo to use against me. With my luck, he’d lock me up in a white padded room somewhere and throw away the key.
“I hope you’re taking everything we discussed today seriously,” he says with a somber hint of worry in his eyes. “You’ve been given a chance here, Nate. My advice—don’t fuck it up. The Guardians don’t do second chances.”
“Understood, sir. I won’t let you down.”
“Good,” he retorts, keeping his stern gaze locked with mine while tapping the end of his pen on the edge of his desk.
“Still, I feel it’s my duty to make you aware of all the facts though. Now, I won’t sugar-coat this for you, but Trent and the other board members are going to keep a close eye on you, both in and outside of the rink,” he adds worriedly, scanning my face to see if I understand just how deep a hole I dug for myself.
Unable to meet his scrutinizing stare, my gaze lowers to the pen in his hand and focuses on how he keeps taping it on the edge of his desk while he continues on with his spiel.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
“Now, I’m not worried about you busting heads when a game is on the line. I’ll back your play every time since you’re one of the best players I’ve ever had the pleasure to coach. What worries me is how you spend your time outside of this arena.”
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
“My suggestion for you is to keep your head low. Maybe find something that will keep you busy without involving socializing with a lot of people to reduce the risk of someone pissing you off.”
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
“I don’t know, but maybe if you met a nice girl—or a nice guy, if that’s what floats your boat—it would occupy your time and take your mind off busting heads in bars. If the GM and the board see you putting in the effort of trying to change the narrative around you, it will go a long way in their eyes. Therapy is their solution to fix our little problem, but believe me when I tell you that they’ll be watching to see if you also step up and find other ways to clean up your image. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you, son?”
Tap.
“Nate?” he calls out again when I take too long to answer him.
“Yes, sir,” I croak after clearing the lump in my throat. “I understand.”
What Coach means is that getting my head examined by a professional is only step one on my road to redemption.
To keep doing what I love, I’m going to have to jump through all sorts of hoops until I’m officially out of the doghouse.
Great.
Just fucking great.
How the hell am I supposed to do that?
Instead of opening my mouth to protest the load of bullshit that the club’s higher-ups are demanding of me, I just nod again and keep my lips shut. Nothing good will come out of this if I start ranting about how unfair this whole thing is. I’ve given my blood, sweat, and tears for this team, but knocking a couple of guys’ teeth in seems to have erased all of that effort.
This whole thing stinks.
But it’s just as Coach said, I am nothing if not a team player.
