Tacker (Arizona Vengeance #5)(2)

I was a pretty unmarketable player, having sat out most of the second half of last season due to the plane crash. Not because of my injuries, though. I came out relatively unscathed except for some deep lacerations. Rather, I didn’t have much spirit of competition left within me and stayed on “injured reserve” with the Dallas Mustangs.

I wasn’t surprised they put me on the auction block for the expansion draft. I was too much of a risk, but apparently not to the Vengeance. They wanted me on their team, and so I thought… what the fuck? Why not? At least it provided me some respite from my demons.

What I found when I came back to playing professional hockey was that as long as I was out on the ice, I was able to keep MJ and her death out of my head.

Step foot off the ice and she occupied everything.

I do my business in the bathroom, wash my hands, then nab my phone from the charger. After I shuffle into the kitchen, I start a pot of coffee. While it brews, I reach into the cabinet and pull out the only coffee mug I have. An Arizona Vengeance one I picked up in the arena fan store when I first moved here. It’s the only drinking container I have in my apartment unless the empty water bottles in the recycle bin count.

My phone lets me know it’s six forty-five, and I wonder if I’ll actually make my nine AM meeting. I have plenty of time. A ten-minute shower and change. A twenty-five-minute Uber ride to the arena—thanks to my license being suspended due to my DUI charge—and probably a five-minute mandatory wait in the front office until I can be granted an audience with Christian Rutherford.

He’s the general manager of the Arizona Vengeance, and he’s expecting me to give him an answer today.

The question?

Will I choose to continue playing with the team?

His offer for my continued employment as a player on the team wasn’t made without a lot of thought and care. He met with Coach Perron and the team’s owner, Dominik Carlson. They discussed the benefit I could provide, and they weighed it against the terrible shadow I’d thrown over their entire program with my antics.

They are not without compassion, although it’s probably misplaced in a man like me.

Regardless, they made me an offer, and I’ve been considering it. Last week, I got called in to talk to Christian. His terms were simple and nonnegotiable.

First, I was going to be fined one-hundred-thousand dollars for driving drunk. He wanted to send a message to the Phoenix community as well as to the hockey world at large that my type of behavior would not be tolerated and would never be condoned.

Really, it was a punishment designed to make me think twice if I were to ever do something so stupid again.

The second requirement was no big deal. I was not allowed to drink alcohol anymore. Not a single drop. If evidence were presented that I had partaken, I would be released from the team with a forfeiture of my contract. This didn’t bother me. I didn’t intend to drink again as it was never really my thing to begin with. MJ didn’t drink at all, so neither did I.

It wasn’t for any religious, spiritual, or health reasons. Neither of us liked the way it made us feel. Besides, the morning after my run-in with the concrete barricade, along with the three-quarters of a fifth of Jack I had drunk, left me vowing never to touch another drop of alcohol again.

The third requirement to my continued employment was I had to attend some sort of grief counseling. The terms were specific. I had to go at least twice a week for the remainder of the season, and I was even provided a list of suitable places I could go. I had to sign a full release so the counselor could communicate my progress back to management. If at any time I was not fully participating, he could release me from the team with forfeiture of contract. If I skipped one session, I’d be released. If I didn’t make progress in emotional healing, I would be released.

It was all very rigid, narrowly defined, and almost designed to set me up for failure if I didn’t know any better.

There’s a big part of me that just wants to hand the team a big ‘fuck you’. The terms aren’t going to be easy. It means I’m going to have to confront my demons.

It means I’m probably going to have to let MJ go. No matter how fucking painful it is to remember her dying beside me in that plane, they’re the freshest memories I have of her. I don’t know if I can do it.

I’ve done a lot of thinking. I’ve prayed to the only God I know and one who I never called on much until now. I’ve searched my soul for the right answer, but there’s no clarity.

There seems to be no right answer for me, except…

Except if I hand a ‘fuck you’ to the team, my hockey career is over. And for better or for worse, it’s the only thing in the world that gives me some small measure of happiness.

Maybe happiness isn’t the right word, but it sure as hell gives me respite from the pain.

And that has value to me.

I glance at my phone again, noting it’s now six fifty-one. Still time to think on this some more, but I know the clock is ticking ever closer to the decision I’ll have to make—one that will have a profound impact on my future.

No easy task.





CHAPTER 2




Tacker


That may have been the most horrible hour of my entire life, and trust me, I’ve had some horrible moments.

I let the door of the counselor’s office swing shut behind me, glancing over my shoulder at the nameplate before walking away.