Shit, Not You Again

 

After the crazy—though very much intriguing—girl leaves, I head to the bathroom for that aspirin.

When I stop to take a piss, aspirin dissolving on my tongue, I discover a pair of lacy red panties on the floor in front of the toilet.

“What the…?”

These must be the panties Psycho Girl was going on and on about. Figures she left them on the bathroom floor all on her own.

“What a crazy girl¸” I say, chuckling as I drain the monster.

Later, after a refreshing shower and a few more aspirin, I pack for my impending trip to Vegas. When I remember that I need to throw a toothbrush in my bag, I head back to the bathroom. The panties are still balled up on the floor. That red scrap of silk and lace is the only reminder I have that this morning really happened. It’s already starting to feel like a faraway dream.

I don’t know why I do what I do next, except maybe just to hang onto something tangible so I don’t forget Psycho Girl. In any case, I grab the undies and throw them in my bag.

And then it’s time to go.

Nolan drives me out to the regional airport, where the team’s private jet is waiting for me to board. The whole way there I bitch about being kept in the dark as to why I’m required to fly to Las Vegas today.

“Why would the Wolves want an in-person meeting with me?” I ask Nolan since he’s like Yoda—all-knowing, all-seeing. “Haven’t they ever heard of Skype?”

“Probably not,” he replies. “If you recall, management only recently discovered text messaging.”

“Unfortunately for me,” I murmur. “If they’d stayed in the dark ages, I’d probably be off the hook.”

“I doubt that,” Nolan says, chuckling. “It was your agent who sent the text.”

“Good point. He is a savvy bastard.”

Once we reach the tarmac where my plane awaits, I reach around to the cabin in the back of the truck to retrieve my bag. “Thanks for the ride,” I say to Nolan.

He knows I’m starting to stress about this meeting, and why shouldn’t I? I’ve been a bad boy in the eyes of the team. Hell, I’ve been a bad boy in the eyes of just about everyone.

“Hey,” he says, “whatever is going on, just keep in mind that it can’t be as bad as what’s happening to Benny right now.”

“Yeah, that’s for sure.” I lean my head back against the headrest and think about how poor Benny is on his way to an airport as well, but not this one. “Not only does the sad bastard have to enter that rehab facility out in Arizona by tonight, but he has to fly to Phoenix commercial.”

It’s a message from the team, a smack in the face to wake the hell up. The good life could end at any time—for me, for Benny, for anyone. We’re all fair game. Maybe not Nolan, though, since he’s basically kept his shit together.

Sighing, I say, “I should’ve followed your example, man. You’ve been working out, eating good stuff, doing all the right things.”

He pats me on the shoulder. “You’re going to be fine, kid.”

Let’s hope Yoda is right on this one.

 

 

In Las Vegas, my agent—a middle-aged man, trim and fit and with silver-streaked hair—is on the tarmac, waiting to pick me up.

His name is Jock Sosarelli. With a name like Jock, how could you not be involved with sports? Before he became an agent, Jock played professional baseball. When a career-ending injury took him out of the game for good, he went into sports management.

Jock’s a great agent—one of the best, with a killer rep. He’s slick, polished, and professional. He expects the same from his clients. That’s why I’m not the least bit offended when he lowers his four-hundred dollar sunglasses and eyes me up and down with a shake of his head.

I have to chuckle. Already evaluating and assessing, and I’ve only been off the plane for three minutes.

“Glad to see you arrived cleaned up,” he says. “You look more or less ready for a meeting of importance.”

“Hello to you too, fucker,” I retort.

Laughing, Jock holds out his hand.

We shake, and he tells me, “You don’t pay me the big bucks to kiss your ass, Oliver. You pay me to land you seven- and eight-figure deals. And to make sure you retain them.”

He has a point.

Glancing down at the navy blue suit I threw on at the last minute, I remark, “Dressing like this seemed the wise thing to do.” With a quick glance up to the blazing sun—and I mean quick, so as not to scorch my corneas out of my head—I add, “Even if it is like hell on earth out here, and I feel like I’m melting.”

Jock chuckles as he indicates we should get into a waiting limo.

Once we’re settled in the comfortable, air-conditioned car, he says, all cryptic-like, “You think this is hell? Just wait till we meet with the team.”

“Jesus, Jock, what could this possibly be about?” I scrub my hand down my face. “So I partied a little extra hard this off-season. I fucked a few more women than usual. I didn’t do anything any other hockey player out there isn’t doing.”

“You’re not just any other hockey player, Brent. You’re the team’s biggest asset and their chief investment. You’re their golden boy—”

I hold up my hand. “I hate that fucking moniker, man.”

“I know,” he tells me. “But it’s true. And the team pays you a shit ton of money for the privilege of calling you whatever the hell they want. I’d suggest you learn to like all the names they come up with.” He catches my eye. “Or at least pretend like you do.”

“Duly noted,” I reply dryly.

I want to ask Jock more about the content of this meeting, but the drive to Desert Sports Complex is a quick one, meaning we arrive in what feels like no time at all.

I’m surprisingly calm on the way into the building, but that’s only due to familiarity. Knowing that the ice I practice and play on is so close kind of soothes me. It’s all very Zen, or whatever. I just love hockey, okay?

Despite all the business bullshit I deal with, like this upcoming mystery meeting, the game is what I live for. Skating, the smell of the ice, it’s all a salve to my soul.

As we walk to a bay of elevators, I say, “I think everything is going to be okay, Jock. Really, this is all just a big misunderstanding. Once I talk with management and assure them my head’s in the right place, we should be good.”

“Maybe,” Jock murmurs, doubt coloring his tone.

I blow out a breath. “Who should I expect to see at this meeting?”

I’m curious as to how many asses I’m going to have to kiss.

“Just Dolby,” he says.

Mr. Dolby, who we call Dolby, is Director of Player Operations. His lone presence at the meeting begs the question, “Why isn’t ownership attending? If this meeting is so important they should be here, right?”

“Not necessarily.” We step into the elevator, and I ready myself to be whisked up to my possible doom. “Don’t be fooled by the lack of attendees, Brent. This meeting is vital for your career.”

“Sure it is.” I make a face as Jock hits the button for the top level.

My agent isn’t one to hem and haw—he tells me shit straight up—so it’s only mildly surprising when he informs me, “Now that you’re in town, ownership wants you to stay put. That means there’ll be plenty of opportunities for them to talk with you in person.”

Okay, this is unacceptable.

“No, no way.” I shake my head. “I’m going back to Minneapolis the minute this thing is done. I’ll come back to Vegas when preseason training officially starts.”

“Consider it starting for you, as of today.”

“Fuck!”

“About this meeting, Brent, there’s more.” Jock looks uneasy, and that’s a rare occurrence. There has to be something coming up that I absolutely will not like.

“More?” I ask, wary. “What’s that mean?”

He crosses his arms. “There’s someone management wants you to talk with. Maybe even spend some time with her. Well, actually, there’s no maybe about it. You’ll be meeting with a woman today, one who’s here to help you. She flew in from back east, like you, just a little earlier.”

Now I’m worried and confused.

“What are you talking about, Jock? Help me with what? And what’s with the ‘she’ and ‘her’ crap? I thought the team wanted me to stay away from women? Now you’re telling me they want me to hang out with one?”

Jock looks guilty, and that’s never a good sign. “This isn’t some random woman, Brent. You’re meeting with Aubrey Shelburne. She’s worked with a lot of high-profile figures, and she’s very good at what she does.”

“What exactly does she do?” I ask through clenched teeth.

“She’s what’s called a ‘life coach.’”

“A life coach?” I hit the Stop button, and the elevator shimmies to a halt. “My life is just fine, thank you very much. What exactly is going on? Talk to me, Sosarelli.”

“Just meet with Ms. Shelburne, Brent.” Jock hits the button and the elevator resumes its ascent. “This is going to happen whether you like it or not.”

I’m tired of fighting. It’s always a lost cause when you’re nothing more than a commodity. And that’s what I am to the team.

“Fine,” I concede.

I guess I’ll have to meet with this life coach, whatever the hell that means. We’ll just see about spending time with her, though. Maybe if she’s hot I’ll give her a day or two, let her “coach” me, preferably in bed.

Outside the conference room where the meeting is about to take place, I stop so I can say to Jock, “Okay, let’s do this. But for the record, I still think this is total bullshit.”

“Duly noted,” he says, throwing my words from earlier back at me. Smartass bastard.

All things considered, I’m actually in a pretty good frame of mind when he pushes open the door.

I’m good that is, till I walk in the room and see her.

What… the… ever-loving… fuck?

In a tone betraying my utter shock and horror, I say, “Shit, not you again.”