Page 2 of Punked By the Playmaker
Since I didn’t have anything nice to say, I kept my mouth shut, allowing Cole to speak again.
“We could really use a veteran presence on this team, especially one with your championship pedigree.”
I would tout being a champion every goddamn day and twice on Sunday, but being labeled a veteran made me cringe. While technically, that’s what I was at thirty-two, I didn’t love that itimplied I was in the dying days of my career. Mentally blocking out the fact that the sand at the top of the hourglass shrank each year, I focused on what I could control. I ate clean and took good care of my body. There wasn’t any reason I couldn’t be one of those guys who managed to play into their forties.
“A lot of young guys in this room, huh?” I remarked.
Cole barked out a laugh. “You can say that again. Half the time, I feel like their chaperone instead of their captain. Keeping them out of trouble on the road is a full-time job, and I could definitely use some backup.”
Great, just when I thought this couldn’t get any worse, I got delegated to rookie wrangling. If I’d wanted to be surrounded by a bunch of rowdy teenagers, I would have settled down and had kids.
Well fucking played, Slate. You knew this would be my personal version of Hell, didn’t you?
“Anyway,” my new captain continued. “I’ll leave you to get settled. Just wanted to pop in and welcome you before it gets crazy later.”
I dipped my chin. “Appreciate it, man.”
With a knock on the doorframe, Cole was gone. And there was nothing left for me to do but prepare myself to make the best of a bad situation.
Because what other choice did I have?
“Fuck.” The curse came out as a pant as I dropped my head to the boards.
It was common knowledge that things were rough out here—I mean, the standings spoke for themselves—but experiencingit firsthand, I realized it was worse than anyone could have imagined.
Shitshowseemed almost too nice a word to describe it.
There was no one to pass to because my linemates were completely out of position, reminding me of my first year of full ice at nine, when it was chaos with the entire team chasing the puck. The number of icings was ungodly, forcing me to take shifts upwards of two minutes on dead legs. And don’t even get me started on the goalie. The dude was Swiss cheese, letting what felt like every shot past him.
Never in my life had I been in a game where we were down ten—yes, you heard that right, ten—goals.
It was fucking embarrassing. Beyond that, it was demoralizing for every man forced to play on this joke of a team. There was defeat written across every face on the bench, and when they were sent out on a shift, they looked as though they were headed to their execution.
No wonder guys got out of here the first chance they could.
And I was stuck here for at least the next three years until my current contract expired.
For the first time in my career, I toyed with the concept of early retirement. That’s how bad it was.
“Nixon, back out on the ice!” Coach Faulk shouted.
As I hopped the boards, my skates carving into the ice without conscious thought, I wondered if maybe I could pretend to be injured. I’d still get paid, while being spared the humiliation of getting my ass kicked on repeat.
That’s when God decided to give me the middle finger, and before I knew it, I was taking a shoulder to the chest in open ice. Knocked off my feet, I landed on my back with enough force that my lungs emptied of air, and I was left gasping as I stared up at the rafters through vision that swam despite my rapid blinking.
With my hearing muted, I was vaguely aware of a whistle blowing somewhere in the distance, and before long, the lead trainer’s face appeared in my field of vision.
“Levi? Can you hear me?”
Only a wheeze spilled past my lips in response.
“How about your legs? Can you move them?”
I managed to nudge him with my right knee.
“Good. How many fingers am I holding up?” He brought his hand into view, showcasing his index, middle, and ring fingers.
Turning on my side, I grunted, “Three,” before flipping onto my stomach and rising on all fours.
