Page 107 of Ice Ice Maybe
Mr. Dalton grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. The room fell silent, all eyes drawn to the massive screen where Mitch Redding lay motionless on the ice. Bob Chandler and Jim Ferris, the Sea Lions’ veteran television sportscasters, filled the tense silence with their commentary:
“Mitch Redding is still down on the ice, with the medical team assessing the situation, but it does not look good,” Jim said.
“Even the players on the Maple Leafs are watching with concern,” Bob replied. “As a professional, the ultimate goal is to win, but nobody wants to see an injury like that, no matter what team they’re on. The question is, how bad is it? We’ve seen the replay a few times, and I honestly have never seen a leg contort like that. What are your thoughts?”
Jim’s voice dropped an octave. “The pain Redding is exhibiting is definitely not a good sign. I can’t help but be reminded of the brutal Patrick Steinhoff injury back in 2015, which ended his career. You have to wonder if we’re witnessing a similar fate for Redding.”
Mr. Dalton slammed the rest of his brandy and set the empty glass down on the table, not taking his eyes off the screen.
“They’re signaling for a stretcher,” Jim reported. “This doesn’t bode well for Redding or the Sea Lions’ playoff hopes.”
Bob sighed heavily. “You’re right, Jim. Redding has been the cornerstone of this team’s comeback. The Sea Lions’ bench isn’t exactly deep. They’ve got some promising rookies, but nobody of Redding’s caliber. This could be the end of their playoff hopes right here.”
Mr. Dalton muted the TV, his face ashen. He set the remote on the bar and reached for his phone with trembling fingers.
“Everett?” Mrs. Dalton said. “How are you doing? Please be careful with your heart.”
“I don’t like when people speculate—I need to know how bad it really is,” Mr. Dalton said, tapping the button on his phone. A few seconds later, he barked, “What is going on with Redding?” He stood and paced, his free hand raking through his hair as he listened to the person on the other end of the call. “Okay, thanks.”
“Is Mitch going to be okay?” Mrs. Dalton asked.
Mr. Dalton poured himself a second glass of brandy, his face a mask of defeat. “It’s bad. It could even be his last game.”
What had begun as a night of fun and celebration had morphed into a perfect storm of disasters. The ruined vow renewal surprise now seemed trivial in the face of this potential career-ending injury.
“I should have known this whole thing would come back to bite me in the backside,” Mr. Dalton said, slumped further into his chair, his face etched with guilt. “The plan was a mistake from the beginning. And now look where it got me. It was all for nothing.”
Mrs. Dalton placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You were trying to do what was best for the team.”
“I’m not so sure that’s the case anymore.” Mr. Dalton sighed. “I should have just allowed them to play the game and let the chips fall where they may. After our dismal season last year, I was desperate for a change, not only for me, but especially forthe people who fill the arena. I care about the fans more than they know.”
“You always have, Dad, and that is a wonderful thing,” Zena said. “But when your actions take their toll on your health, that’s a sign to make some changes. As for injuries, anybody can get hurt at any given moment. This is nobody’s fault. It’s a risk all players know about before they step on the ice. Ask Nolan.”
I nodded. “It’s the truth, and that’s the case with any athlete playing any sport.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about this, Everett,” Dad said. “I’ve been there before myself. I got so obsessed with my job, I forgot about my family. Luckily, Vivian set me straight and made me see the light.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. “Nothing is more important than family.”
“I agree with you wholeheartedly,” Mr. Dalton said. “To get my stress levels under control, I’m selling five of my companies. I thought I was on the right track, but it doesn’t look like it’s enough. Maybe the only way to truly eliminate the stress is to step away from the team.”
Zena leaned forward with a compassionate smile. “People take sabbaticals all the time. It’s not a bad idea to take a break, recharge, and enjoy other things in life for a little while.”
Mr. Dalton shook his head. “I’m talking about a permanent change. It’s been on my mind this last week and I think it’s best if I sell the Sea Lions.”
“What?” Zena and I said in unison.
“Are you sure you’ve thought this through, Everett?” Mrs. Dalton said. “That seems extreme. Maybe having less responsibility is the best option. Besides, who would you sell the team to? It can’t be anyone. It’s not a car you can just sell on a whim over the weekend.”
“Brock Steadman has been hammering me for over a year to purchase the Sea Lions,” he said. “He’s President and CEOof Steadman Sports and Entertainment, which owns teams in the NFL, MLS, and the WNBA. He’s a good guy, a true sports enthusiast. Look, I love the team, but I think the best thing I can do right now is take him up on his offer.”
I felt my stomach drop.
Mr. Dalton was going to sell the team?
We all stood there in shock.
Mr. Dalton’s phone pinged, and he glanced at the message. “Maybe this is a sign. It’s Brock saying the offer is still on the table, even without Mitch Redding playing for the team.” Then he dropped the bomb that nearly knocked me off my feet. “The downside is Brock would move the team to Sacramento and change the name, which I don’t like.”
“What?” Zena and I exclaimed in unison again.
