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“Yeah,” I say as a heaviness takes over my body. “We gotta win.”
The game is not for a few hours so I have time to go home and relax.
I grab my coat from the locker room and head down to the parking lot. I sigh as I sink against the wall when I’m in the elevator by myself.
Those reporters’ questions swirl in my mind. Is it time to retire? Have I gone downhill? Are my best years behind me?
I hate that they’ve gotten to me. I hate that I’m like this.
Maybe I should have retired at my peak. I just… I’ve always wanted to win it all. To hold that Stoney Cup over my head. To bring one home.
I thought that maybe this year might be it, but my body is starting to give out. There’s a reason why there aren’t many thirty-six-year-olds in the league.
I’ve had three elbow surgeries over my career. I’ve had both knees replaced, a broken hand, three broken ribs, a broken nose, and now my back is starting to hurt.
And for what?
What do I have to show for it? Who did I do it all for?
I sigh as the elevator passes the lobby and drops into the underground parking.
I know this has to be my last year. It’s not going to get any better.
But I was hoping this season would be different. That it would be fun again. With this new team and all these good players, I thought it would give me new life. That I would feel some of that old excitement I used to feel back in the days when I was something. When the whole stadium chanted Flamethrower in unison whenever I scored a goal.
Instead, it’s just making me feel old and tired and depressed.
It’s all coming to an end and I’m left questioning why any of it even matters if I have no one to share it with.
The doors open with a ding and I let out a long breath as I push off the wall and head out into the parking lot.
It’s all Ferraris, Porsches, and Lambos down here. I find my beat-up Range Rover and climb in. During my rookie season, I had a ridiculous car just like those, but all it did was cause me stress. I hated worrying about someone dinging it whenever I went into a store. I hated that people always stared and gawked at me and took pictures. This old Range Rover makes me feel normal.
That’s what these kids don’t realize yet. Normal is the luxury.
I drive out of the lot and into the pouring rain.
“What?” I whisper when I see a kid—about fifteen years old—standing in the rain holding a sign with my name on it. He doesn’t even have a raincoat. He’s just in a soaked hoodie and jeans.
Please Harris Sutton. Just a moment of your time.
The poor kid is drenched. The sign is all soggy and the ink is running from the words. He’s probably been standing there all day.
I don’t want to deal with this. I just want to go home and relax before the game tonight, but I slowly hit the brakes and roll down my window.
Rain pours into my truck as he runs over.
“How long have you been out here?” I ask.
“Six hours,” he says with chattering teeth.
“Get in the truck.”
His face lights up. “Really?!”
“Yeah, really. I’m getting soaked!”
I roll up the window as he runs around the hood and hops into my truck. He’s drenched and that water goes all over my seat.
