Playing for Real - Book 2

Chapter 3

Cash

Rotating my shoulder back and forth, it resets with a resounding pop. I felt zero pain from that blow. Either because there truly is no pain or I've blocked it out. This hit into the boards should've sent me into roaring agony, but it didn't. Regardless, I push back from the boards during a routine practice scrimmage and wrestle for the puck against my teammate on the Santa Anna Tornadoes, Jason Garatti. We played on the Tornadoes the first year I was drafted to the pros. I give him a stiff jab into his back as we wrestle for the puck between our legs, scrambling to flick it loose.

Less than five minutes are left in practice, and I can't wait for it to be done. Although I've been loving every minute of being back in the pros, it's fucking terrible to be on the ice with a massive hangover. I could hardly pull myself out of bed this morning, not just because my head was pounding. I can't stop thinking about Quinn. About what I lost. What I barely had. What I never expected to find.

I'm so ready for this practice to be over. I need to get back to my bedroom and away from everyone.

My vision blurs as I give another hard pushback to Garatti. I finally freed my stick from his and put my blade on the ice. Because we are just at practice, and he's my teammate, I won't bother hammering him into the boards as payback. Instead, I focus on making a good impression on our Coach, using my speed and accuracy to spin and skate around Jason and then grab the puck and take off for a goal.

With a quick wrist shot, the puck fires cleanly into the net, top shelf and past the goalie's right shoulder.

That's how you do it in the pros.

"Okay, switch it up." Coach shouts. "Good goal, Brooks."

And even though Coach acknowledged my hard work, I know he'll undoubtedly find something to criticize about my performance today. He isn't making my return to the pros easy. He's one the best coaches in the league, but he's also a hard-ass. He hasn't been shy about giving me a hard time.

Skating back to the bench, I step through the open gate and sit. Jason sits down beside me and gives me an elbow in the side. "Nice goal, show off."

"Yeah, thanks." Grabbing a water bottle, I squirt a bit into my mouth, swish it around and spit it back out.

I don't watch the action on the ice for the remainder of the practice. I sit on the bench and lean against the glass, thinking about how returning to the pros doesn't mean anything without Quinn in my life. There's no reason to act like I'm okay. Anger from the mistakes of my past still simmers in my veins. I am starting to think I will never recover from knowing the pain I caused Quinn.

After practice in the dressing room, I stripped off my equipment, not bothering to engage with my teammates' friendly banter. I know I've been reclusive and guarded with my fellow teammates. And chances are, I probably won't let anyone back into my life again.

"Brooks," Coach calls out from the dressing room doorway. "Fifteen minutes. Meet me in my office."

Jason glances over at me. "He's got it out for you, huh, Brooks?"

I wish I felt something, anything when Jason stated the obvious. My mind and my body are completely numb. Coach could ream me out at the top of his lungs for all I care. I should be nervous, but I'm not. I don't respond to Jason. I know it's a total dick move on my part. He's the only friend I have right now. Everyone on the team is skeptical of my return. Let's say I haven't been welcomed back with open arms.

I slip on my jacket, zip up my equipment bag, leave the dressing room and go toward Coach's office. None of my teammates, other than Jason, say goodbye. And I don't blame them; I'm a miserable fucking bastard.

I rap my knuckles on Coach's office door, and he calls for me to enter. I don't close the door behind me, only because I could give two shits if anyone hears him tear me apart. I take a seat across from his desk, and I casually lean back in the chair.

"Good practice today, Brooks," he says, looking up from the iPhone he was texting on when I entered. "But you ain't fooling me, son. You may have had your shit together on the ice this morning, but those dark bags under your eyes tell me otherwise."

I stare at him, offering no response to ease his mind. I should give a fuck what he thinks, but I don't. He holds my professional career in the palm of his hand. I respect him as a Coach, but I don't give a fuck what he thinks about me.

He waits for me to say or even acknowledge that he's said something. He gets nothing, so he sighs and continues.

"You are on thin ice, Brooks. Your AHL coach may have put up with your shit, but I won't. This is the pros. And your last fucking chance," he tells me.

"Yeah, I get it," I tell him, my face stoic.

"Do you think I'm fucking stupid, Brooks?" Coach leans forward across his desk, and his frown turns into a snarl. "You're not my first player with an attitude and alcohol problem, and you won't be my last. You look like shit. And you smell like a brewery. Go home, clean yourself up, and avoid the bottle."

My body is numb. I hear what he's saying, I just don't give a shit. Without Quinn in my life, why should I? I've fucked everything else up in my life so badly, why not my career too?

"Can you do that?" he shouts. "We have our first regular season game next week. Don't disappoint me."

"I won't," I say.

Coach leans back in his chair, studying me for a moment. "You know, Brooks, I don't get you. You were the best player when you were first drafted to the Tornadoes, and even after you were sent down to the AHL, despite all your issues, you still managed to make your way back here. You have the potential to be great if you give a shit about yourself and your career. Instead, you choose to drink and fuck your life away. You are here for a reason, Brooks. You have the talent and ability it takes to make it, but sometimes you have to make choices in life, and sometimes those choices make you. Don't be a fuck up. Be a fighter."

Unfortunately, I don't have any fight left in me. His words tonight are wasted on me.

"Thanks, Coach."

Coach snorts at my dismissive response. "Get out, Brooks."

Emotionless, I turn to walk out of his office, close the door behind me, and continue down the hallway. I know I should take his words seriously. I really should do what he says: go home, shower and avoid the bottle. Except I know I won't do any of those things. Hell, I can't even look at myself in the mirror. For what I did to Quinn and the pain I caused her... I've lost everything I ever let myself love. And now all I've wanted to do from the moment Quinn walked away from me is to punish myself the only way I know how; drink and fuck my life away.