Page 4 of Desire or Defense

“Fifteen games?” I roar, standing from my seat in our general manager, Tom Parker’s, office. I glance around at the four other people in the room, my agent (what’s his face), Tom Parker (obviously), Coach Young (who’s spitting mad), and some older guy I’ve never seen before.

I look away from the group of men staring at me and my hands fly into my hair, tugging at the strands. I do the math inside my head, fifteen games divided by 3-4 games a week… that’s like five weeks of not playing. Five weeks with too much time on my hands.

“Over a stupid headache? I knew Ilya was just a giant baby.” Five days ago I was happily pummeling his face, and now I'm suspended? Ridiculous.

Tom rests on the edge of his desk, his steady, calm demeanor entirely intact. His long legs are crossed at the ankles, making his slacks ride up just enough that I can see his D.C. Eagles socks peeking out from his dress shoes.

“You gave him a serious concussion, Mitch. And you’re a repeat offender. Hence a longer suspension,” Coach Young’s voice grits out. He’s in the seat beside mine. I can tell by his voice that he’s pissed, at me, sure, but likely at the NHL’s decision too.

But mostly at me.

Attempting to calm myself, I inhale a breath, but it comes out as a growl instead. “And a fine? Isn’t the suspension enough?”

“You’re getting off easy compared to some players,” Our GM, Tom, adds, not helping my escalating temper. “But there’s more, actually.”

The man in the room who I haven’t seen before takes a step toward me. He looks slightly older than the other men in the room, probably fifty. His hair is mostly grey, and he’s dressed professionally, in navy slacks and a crisp, white dress shirt.

His golden-brown eyes penetrate my own. His stance and direct eye contact make me think of a time, I must’ve been six or seven. It was one of the days my dad wasn’t high and actually acted like a father. One of my few good memories… the day he took me to a circus. I was enamored with the lion trainer, watching how his movements were as he moved around the lion, completely calm. The lion tamer is all smooth, confident movements in front of the beast—despite the animal licking his lips—following the movements carefully before performing the trick he was trained to do, jumping through the flame-ridden hoop without fear.

This mysterious man is obviously the lion tamer. Does that make me the lion?

Tom continues, “As you know, in the week since your… incident… The Eagles organization had a meeting. In congruence with the National Hockey League, and since this is a repeat offense, we’ve decided it would be profitable…” he pauses, “for yourself, and for the team,” he clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “To see our team therapist.” He gestures toward the older gentleman in the room, the team therapist, apparently.

The doctor extends his hand, his dark skin makes his hair look even more silver up close. “Hey Mitch, I’m Dr. Curtis. Looking forward to working together.”

Staring at the extended hand, I glower. They’re acting like I’m a child. Aren’t the fees and suspensions enough?

“It was just a stupid fight,” I say tersely, ignoring the shrink and turning my attention back to our general manager. “This is hockey, not the Rockettes.”

“Actually, I’ve heard the Rockettes can be pretty cutthroat.” The doctor retorts. I glance over to see his mouth is pulled up slightly at the corners.

I don’t laugh at his joke, instead I give him a why are you still talking look. But I am a little relieved that he at least has a sense of humor if we’re going to be working together. I guess. Remembering myself, I bring my gaze back to Tom, making sure to erase all evidence of humor from my expression.

He glowers right back. “It’s not up for discussion, Mitch. Safety and fair treatment are important in this organization. You need to hone your mind just as much as you do your body. Think of therapy as a gym for your brain.”

I barely withhold an eyeroll, but I don't argue. If I’m going to sit out fifteen games, I won’t have anything better to do with my time anyway.

My agent clears his throat. I’d forgotten about him already—I can never remember his name, it’s something a dog could be named, like Doug, or Buddy. He’s smiling at me now with that big smile on his face, the one that never looks genuine. Maybe because his eyes are so cold.

Tom nods in my agent’s direction. “Oh, and Max has a few ideas as well.”

Max. Right.

My agent always strikes me as the kind of person who’d be nice to your face, but would call you an asshole the second you left a room. He annoys me… maybe because he’s everywhere I am. At every event, and almost every game. The man would look totally harmless to anyone, he’s probably mid-forties, dressed in business casual black pants and a simple blue dress shirt. His brown hair is cut too short, which is another source of annoyance, because I know I pay the man enough money for him to get a decent haircut.

“The reason I’m here.” He brings a hand to his chest, his nails look clean and his hands soft, like he’s never worked outside an office a day in his life. “Is to help you work on your image. We know you’re a great guy, but we need the fans to know that too.”

One of my eyebrows raises, as if to ask does anyone here really think I’m a great guy?

Coach Young scoffs next to me, it’s subtle, but enough that I know he’s thinking the same thing. I’m valuable to the team for my size and brute strength… but I’m not Weston Kershaw. Pretty sure no one would describe me as a “great guy.”

“Plus…” Max rubs his fingers together like he’s holding money. “Better image, better sponsorships. And seeing as your biggest sponsor called me the day after watching that stupid fight, dropping your contract… I’d take this seriously if I were you.”

My eyes widen, reeling from the news that Advanced Athletics dropped me. I hadn’t realized the athletic wear company ended our contract. I clench my jaw. That’s millions of dollars… gone.

“Okay, so how the hell are we going to make people think I’m a great guy?” I ask Doug—er, Max, whatever.

My bluntness makes his easy facade drop for a split second, but he quickly clears his throat and straightens his spine. “As you probably know, the Eagles sponsor several youth sports teams in the district. And lucky for you, one of our youth hockey teams is in need of a short-term assistant coach.”