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| 23
I wipe the sweat from my forehead as I take a seat at the head coach’s table.
I shouldn’t be here. There’s no way I’m gonna be worthy of playing for the fucking Snowflakes. Their number one forward, Will Maxwell, led the team to the Stanley Cup four years in a row. They’re a top team in the NHL. I’m just a hotshot college kid. What the fuck does he want to meet with me for?
“You look nervous, son,” he says.
Coach Don Sebrum. Hall of Famer, played for the Toronto Renegades. He led his team tosixteenchampionships. He’s a clean-cut man with a suit I’m sure cost five figures.
“Nervous as hell, sir.” I chuckle to hide just how nervous I am. He chose an upscale steakhouse to meet. “I’m happy to be here, though. The Snowflakes is my top pick.”
He gives me a satisfied nod. “I’m glad to hear it, son. I was very impressed with your stats the last two seasons. In fact, your stats throughout college are quite impressive. And you led your team to championships your sophomore yearandlast year andwon.Those are the makings of a great player.”
I let out a breath of air. Well, shit. That settles me a little bit, but it doesn’t change...that I didn’t play this season.
“Thank you, sir. It means a lot to hear you say that.” I sound sappy as hell right now.Be still my heart, I might as well say.
He gives me a friendly nod before unrolling his silverware and putting the linen on his lap.
“So. You’re Dan Larson’s son,” he reiterates in awe. My heart stops when he brings up his name.
Hello, nervousness. We meet again.
“Yes...I am.” I didn’t expect to talk about my father. Or lack thereof. But he doesn’t seem to pick up on my intensity toward the subject.
“He was a phenomenal player. I played against him when he was playing for the Trojans. He was an amazing center.”
I want to throw up at this Dan Larson porn. Yes, he was a great player. He won twenty championships. Was he a great dad? The jury’s still out on that.
“Yeah, he was good player,” I deadpan. He gives me another nod before waving the waiter over. He orders a glass of cabernet. He motions to me. “I’ll just have a Sprite. Thanks.” He nods and walks off.
“Back to you. Your stats are great, you have a ton of potential, and you’re top in our prospects for Draft Day.” My eyes widen in surprise. I try to hide my smile. My heart starts beating faster. “Tell me about your season this year. How are your stats looking?”
I immediately freeze. My stats. The stats that are nonexistent. Well,somewhatnonexistent.
“My stats this season, right.”
He nods, expecting me to continue. But what do I tell him? I’ve only technically played half a season. Five games. He’s going to wonder why I only played five games. What do I tell him? I could tell him about my stats from the season I played in Slovakia. But again, I only played about ten games and lost almost half of them.
His eyebrows raise, waiting. I swallow. I’m not sure how I can say this.
“Coach Sebrum,” I say nervously. He just stares at me. “I have something I need to tell you.”
His eyebrows raise again. I swallow at his expression.
Fuck, this is not going to be good...
That might’ve been the end of my drafting year as I know it. I don’t regret telling him, however. I’m man enough to know I fucked up...in more ways than one this year.
I told him about the drama I had this year, smoking weed, dabbling in magic mushrooms, depression from getting injured, and being suspended for the rest of this season. I couldn’t tell if he took it well or not.
He just gave me a blank stare, nodded, and then thanked me for letting him know. We didn’t talk more about it for the rest of the night. We ate dinner, and he wished me well. It’s been a week, and I haven’t heard anything from him.
As I should’ve expected. No matter how much I should’ve expected it or not, it doesn’t mean it hurts any less. I fucked up my chances at going pro after college. I’m a fucking idiot.
If this taught you anything, it’s never fuck up your life over things that are in your control.
Sighing my annoyance, I take a swig of beer. I’ve just spent extra time in the gym lately, getting my pounds up, and getting shit off my mind. The knocking on the door wakes me up from my staring contest with the blank TV screen.
