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“Dude,” Benny began, “webetterget outta here soon.” He checked his watch. “We have a tee time at two.”
He meant the golf game we had planned, but I was having none of that.
“Fuck golfing,” I snapped. “I’m talking aboutreallygetting out of here. I think we deserve a much-needed break from this whole damn town.”
Nolan looked intrigued. “What’d you have in mind?”
I happily shared with him and Benny what I’d been thinking about for days. “Let’s head up to my house in Minnesota. We can spend the summer on the lake.” I grinned, bad intentions in mind. “You know I’m a fucking rock star up there. We can party every night. Hell, we can fuck and get fucked up till training camp starts up in September.”
Benny was in immediately, but Nolan had to think it over in his thoughtful kind of way.
At last, he said, “Okay, let’s do it.”
Since that day we’ve been partying like rock stars. Or, more accurately, like out-of-control hockey players.
We’re still on a roll, even though it’s August and we have to fly back to Vegas real soon. Until then, however, I’ve vowed my cool contemporary house by the lake will remaintheplace to party. It’s our OPS base for debauchery, after all.
In reality, though, this craziness can’t go on. We all know that.
Even wild and crazy Benny had the sense to ask me just last week, “Dude, what should we do?”
“About what?”
I was in the midst of texting a local puck bunny to see if she wanted to meet me for a quickie, so I was a bit distracted.
Benny sighed. “We gotta report to camp in a less than a month. Guess it’s time to start thinking about slowing down with the girls, the booze, the—”
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.
