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I put down my phone and cut him off with a raucous, “Hell no, my friend. We just need to scale it back a little.”
“Scale it back in what way?” Nolan, who walked in the room just at that moment, wanted to know.
I shrugged. “Maybe have smaller parties? Maybe drink a little less?”
We all agreed to those things, but we haven’t followed through. In the past seven days we’ve abstained from partying for all of two.
This is so not going to play well with the team. My diet is crap, and I’m nowhere near peak playing shape. Sure, my body looks all lean and cut, meaning you’d never know I wasn’t ready to hit the ice rearing to go, but looks can be deceiving. I went out for a run just the other day and came back fucking winded as hell.
That was a first.
Still, I’m confident I can get back into playing shape in no time. It’s the inside of my head that’s kind of a mess. I just don’t fucking care about winning, not anymore. I mean, I do, but I don’t. Does that make sense?
Nah, it doesn’t to me, either. But I better figure it out, and fast.
Where’s my drive to get my shit together? Where’s my commitment to winning, my obligation to my players?
I ask myself these things every day now, but I guess the answers are clouded by my drinking copious amounts of alcohol and fucking way too many puck bunnies.
Dad would be so proud—not.
Well, he would be glad I diligently use protection. I haven’t gonethatfar off the rails. Still, wrapping my dick up isn’t enough to keep management off my ass. My agent already informed me—this morning, in fact—that the Wolves’ ownership group has a pretty good idea of what I’ve been up to, along with my teammates, here in Minneapolis.
I listened half-heartedly when my agent woke me up to say, “Don’t blow this off, Brent. Management isnothappy with you. There’s a certain image they expect you to uphold, and you’re not doing that.”
God forbid I’m not the team’s “Golden Boy.” I’m “The Next One,” remember?
Bullshit, it’s all crap.
Coach Townsend called me shortly after I got off the phone with my agent. He had the same warning.
“You don’t want the team to take action. You’re not going to like what they have in store for you, Brent, if you keep up with this bad behavior.”
“Oh, come on,” I replied, laughing. “The Wolves can’t fire me. And what could be worse than that?”
Coach T chuckled like he knew something.
Hmm…
“I can’t worry about that shit today,” I said to him. “I’ll start cleaning up my act tomorrow.”
“Brent…” Coach T sounded doubtful.
“Really, I will,” I insisted.
That was a few hours ago. And I plan to make some changes. But maybe not quite yet.
“Before tomorrow gets here,” I justify to myself, “we still have the rest of today. And that means there’s time for one more party.”
I stride into the second-floor living room of my house, a spacious and angled space overlooking the huge lake on my property. Peering out at the crystal blue water, I announce to Benny and Nolan, “Listen up, boys. We’re having one final blowout tonight, a party to end all parties.”
There’s a murmur from Nolan, but nothing from Benny.
“We’re going to do this one right,” I go on. “We party tonight. But then, when tomorrow arrives, we’re done with messing around. We start training full-on.”
Yeah, right,a little voice in my head coughs out.
I look around since no one besides my guilty conscience seems to be chiming in.
