Page 11 of From Wink to Kink

CHUCK

After takingone last look at myself in the mirror to make sure I’m meeting-ready, I grab my bag and keys and head down to the parking garage. Moments later, I ease my car out into traffic.

The one thing I did indulge in is my car. It’s a Camaro, fully loaded and decked out, and the prettiest shade of red you’ve ever seen. I could have gone fancier, no doubt, like getting myself a goddamn McLaren or some such, but again, I’m not about screaming that I have money aside from my team paycheck.

I’m ten minutes early for the meeting, and Coach nods approvingly. I can’t lie, I’m full of nerves in a way I haven’t been since I tried out for the team. I glance around the room with all the outward confidence and swagger you’d expect of a pro athlete like me, and take in the fact that there area lotof fucking people in here with me.

Guess I can really draw a crowd. Unfortunately, it’ not the kind of crowd I want.

I take a chair and cordially nod at the others as we wait to get started. Coach is whispering with the one of his assistants, Vinceis scrolling on his phone, and the general manager of the team is pouring himself a cup of coffee.

BJ Sullivan, the agent I share with some other team members, is staring out of the window, and I wonder what he knows that I don’t. More than anyone in the room, he’s got to be on my side. I’ve made him a rich man and if I so much as smell a whiff of betrayal, I’ll fire his ass and make sure as many of my friends as possible do the same.

I slouch, feeling like a kid sent to the principal's office. Except this principal's office is the San Francisco Aftershocks' conference room, and instead of one disapproving adult, I've got a whole firing squad.

Coach, his perpetual scowl somehow even deeper than usual, is in his usual seat at the head of the table, flanked by the assistant coach and Vince and some people from his staff. On the other side are the big guns—the general manager and his minions. The only person who’s missing is the owner, who never comes here anyway. Thank God.

BJ finally tears himself away from the window, his glance darting my way. He’s usually a jovial guy, but right now he looks like someone peed in his corn flakes.

"Well," I say, to break the tension, "if this is a surprise party, you guys really nailed the 'surprise' part. Though I gotta say, you're a little light on the 'party.'"

No one laughs.

Coach leans forward, hands clasped on the table. "Chuck, this isn't a joke. We're here to discuss your recent... incident."

The GM leans his elbow onto the table. “Chuck, I, too, was very troubled to learn you’d been arrested. Vince has assured me that no charges are pending and that it’s all been squared away. But this is something that can’t be overlooked.”

"You mean my impromptu field trip to the county jail?" I offer. "Look, Coach, it was just a silly misunderstanding thatgot a little out of hand. You know how it is—one minute you're having a friendly debate about whetherDie Hardis a Christmas movie or not, and the next you're teaching some meathead the finer points of facial reconstruction."

Vince winces. The GM’s eyes narrow. And BJ is still avoiding me.

"Chuck," the GM says, "this isn't just about last night. It's about a pattern of behavior that's becoming increasingly problematic for you and the team. There were several game fights last season. Most of them at your instigation. You’re a damn fine player, son, but you’re going to start working on your anger management skills. Your temper, aggression, and image are becoming a problem.”

Myimage?

I sit up straighter, a flicker of anger igniting in my chest. "Pattern, you say? Come on, I've had a few... enthusiastic nights out. It's not like I'm the first hockey player to blow off some steam."

"Blowing off steam is one thing," Coach chimes in. "But you're crossing lines, Chuck. The fighting on the ice, the bar brawls, the... incident with the team mascot at the children's hospital..."

Oh that. I hold up a hand. "Okay, in my defense, that polar bear had it coming. And those kids learned some valuable life lessons about standing up to bullies. Even if they are wearing fuzzy costumes."

BJ finally speaks up. "Chuck, buddy, we're not here to bust your balls. We're worried about you. And frankly, we're worried about what your actions could mean for your career, man. What you do and say, even when not wearing an Aftershocks uniform, reflects on the team. Your image helps me help you get brand deals and a better salary, among other things. And unless you change, your image is going to tank.”

The seriousness in his tone makes my stomach drop. BJ's always had my back, always been ready with a joke to lighten the mood. Seeing him this concerned... it's unsettling.

I look at Vince.

“I do what I can,” he says, “with what I’m given to work with. I can spin the hell out of a story, Chuck, but it’s got to be worth spinning. I can, will, and have already started spinning last night as a misunderstanding. If you keep out of trouble, it’ll fade away quick enough. But every time you start a fight during a game, every time you get a penalty, every time you lose your temper either on the ice or off it, this will be rehashed. And you’ll look worse and worse.”

"What are you saying?" I ask, my throat drier than dust. “What… what do you want me to do?”

The GM leans forward. "We're saying that it's time to take action before things get worse. You're a talented player, Chuck. When you're focused, you're one of the best enforcers in the league. But your off-ice behavior is putting all of that at risk."

"So what, you're benching me?" I ask, fighting the panic rising in my chest.

Don’t let them see you sweat, buddy.

"Not exactly," Coach says. "We've decided you need some... professional help."

---