Chapter 14
Six games. Six goddamn games I’ve ended up in the penalty box. Countless minutes of gameplay lost forever, just to end up with my ass on the bench. Something’s gotta give and that means I have to get my head screwed back on right. We’re playing the Los Angeles Gladiators tonight, and we are barely holding on, the score too close for comfort. I can feel the eyes of Nolan Wilder burning into my back, which seems to have set every nerve ending on fire and I can’t figure out how to make it stop. The bullshit is all I can focus on, my head not in the game. At all. I can sense and see the pucks fly past and I half-ass go after them, but it's all failed attempts. My mind is stuck in limbo between what belongs on the ice and my life waiting for me off of it.
The Gladiators keep chirping and taking cheap shots. A big, cocky motherfucker with a grin skates up beside me, his shoulder slamming hard into mine. “What’s the matter, Samuels?” he sneers. “Losing your edge? Maybe it's time to hang up those skates?”
I don’t think, don’t hesitate. I snap, and everything goes red as I lunge at him. The roar of the crowd and my teammates are all drowned out by the sound of my blood pressure hitting dangerous levels and reverberating through my ears. My punch lands square in the cocky motherfucker’s jaw. The pain of the hit travels up my arm, but it doesn’t stop me. I can’t stop. I’m swinging, again and again, but I don’t feel any of it.
The fight escalates quickly. Before I can even register what's happening, the Gladiator flips me, and my back slams straight into the ice with a spine shuffling thud. The world starts to spin as my helmet flies off, and my head starts to bounce off the ice once, twice, three times; the searing pain shoots through my skull.
Another fist comes down hard, square in the eye. I feel my eyebrow split wide open, in slow motion, blood gushes down my face. My vision blurs with red, more than just metaphorically, as I swing wildly. I do what I can to try to land a hit or get him off me. I hear the crack of his cheekbone under my fist which just pisses him off more. He’s on me again, slamming my head against the ice. My breathing is shallow, ragged gasps.
I don’t hear the shouts of the players around me, barely registering the feeling of the referees attempting to pull us apart. Nothing they do matters, I’m not backing down. A whistle pierces through my brain, a voice booming over the PA system. “Number 3, Samuels—ejected from the game! Number 7, Smith–ejected from the game!”
I’m escorted off the ice, my face throbbing, my chest heaving, my eye swelling shut and it's all topped off by the blood dripping down into my mouth. The boos from the crowd start to register, the judgment of my teammates’ worried glances heavier than my pads. I’ve really stepped in it now, screwing it up for myself and the team. Again. What’s even worse, is that right now I don’t even care. All I feel is this raw, deep-seated hatred that feels like it will never go away.
As I walk into the locker room, I hurl my helmet against the wall, the bang echoing in the tight space like a gunshot. Blood drips steadily from the cut above my eye, but I don’t care about the pain or the warm liquid oozing down my face. I’m seething, my face burning with rage.
Before I can even take a breath, the team doctor rushes in, his expression one of concern. “Sit down, Oren,” he orders, leaving no room for argument. “I need to check you for a concussion.”
I slide onto the bench, metaphorical steam streaming from my ears. They better not bother checking my heartrate, it's far from regulating. The doctor checks my pupils, asking me questions I can barely hear over the ringing in my ears.
“Follow my finger,” he says. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”
“Just pissed off,” I mutter, glaring at his finger, the sight of it somehow offending me even more. Right now, the biggest culprit is the dull throb at the back of my skull.
His eyes narrow slightly, studying me to make his assessment. “You have a mild concussion,” he finally speaks, his voice stern. “You need to see a doctor in the morning, no excuses. And stay off the ice until you’re cleared, understood?”
The grunt-like growl that leaves my throat is the only acknowledgment, because I'm not really listening. The doctor quickly patches up my eyebrow with some steri-strips before he moves out of the locker room back to wherever else he needs to be. I kick my stick across the room. Instead of clattering against the door like it should, it shoots back at me as the door slams open again. Coach Wilder storms in, looking a step above thunderous.
“What the hell was that, fucker?” his voice booms through the space.
“Nothing. I’m handling it, Coach,” I say through gritted teeth, my eyes blazing. But even I can hear the lie in my voice.
Coach steps inches from me, invading my space. “No, you’re not,” he growls. “You’re playing like a damned rookie, and it’s costing us. Get it together.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I snap, anger pulsing through me. “You think I don’t know I’m screwing up? I’m trying—”
“Not anymore, you aren’t!” Coach cuts me off, his voice firm.
“I… I just. Wait, wha–” I’m breathing hard, my chest tight, what is he saying?
“No, you don’t get to talk now. Suspension. You’re out for four games. And if you don’t get your head on straight by then, your ass isn’t playing for my team.” Coach narrows his eyes, daring me to challenge him.
I nod, swallowing hard. Anger and shame burn through me, making it hard to think straight. Nolan glares at me for a few beats longer.
“I’ve got to get back out there,” he says, firm but slightly less biting. “Shower, change, and wait here. We’re not done talking.”
I watch the door swing shut behind him. I let out a long, shaky breath before I force myself to shower. I want the hot water to wash away some of the anger, but it’s hopeless. Instead, I sit with the pain radiating through my head that keeps my thoughts spinning. After I clean up and am dressed in a fresh pair of sweats, I sit on the edge of the bench. I wait for the other shoe to drop, fidgeting with my hands as I wait for the last minutes of the game to count down.
The buzzer finally sounds, and players start to file in. Based on their demeanor, we pulled out the win, but I single-handedly made it harder for them. Eventually, Coach props the door open, still looking serious but calmer than before. He gestures behind him, “Come on, Oren,” he says. “Let’s go to my office. We need to have a chat.”
I stand, wobbling a bit as I try to follow silently behind him. I’m not sure if I should blame the spins on the so-called concussion or the lack of depth perception caused by my partially swollen eyelid. Nolan shuts his office door behind us and comes up beside me, leaning against the desk, and I brace for whatever comes next. For the first time since being coached by Nolan Wilder, maybe the first time in my career, I’m genuinely afraid of what he has to say.
“Alright, Oren,” he says, his voice lower now. “I’ve been around you assholes long enough to know when one of my guys is distracted. This isn’t you. What the hell is going on?”
I sigh, scrubbing my hand down my face. “I ran into someone recently,” I admit reluctantly, knowing that Nolan will smell any bullshit from a mile away. “Who… changes things forever.”
Coach raises an eyebrow. “Changes things how?”
I swallow hard, unsure if I should even say what I’m about to. “In an, ‘I have a baby’ kind of way.”
Nolan’s eyes go wide, but he doesn’t say anything, waiting for me to continue.
“I didn’t even know she existed until I ran into them in Charlotte before the game,” I say, feeling the frustration building again. “And now, because of my job, I haven’t seen her since.”
Coach nods slowly, taking it in. “Okay. So what’s your plan now?”
“No fucking clue,” I say in exasperation. “I don’t know the first thing about being a parent. The fact that I haven’t been there… Not knowing how I can get to know my daughter. I don’t know. It's tearing me up.”
Nolan sits quietly, his expression unreadable as he watches me. Then he finally nods. “I’m not going to pretend to understand what you're going through. And it's huge—that I can recognize, but you can’t let it ruin you. Whatever you need to do, do it. We’re counting on you out there.”
I nod, appreciating that he isn’t being overly nice. He is just approaching this like it's anything else and that makes me feel better. “I won’t, Coach. I promise. It’s just… Can you keep this between us?”
“Sure, Oren. It’s not my business to tell.” Coach claps me on the shoulder, his grip firm. “I’m not one to lecture, but keeping this a secret won’t make it any easier.”
“Yeah, I hear you,” I reply, feeling a flicker of resolve. “I’m on it.”
“So, you’ve got a kid?” Nolan says, I guess letting it sink in, “what a mindfuck.”
“That’s what I said,” I say quietly. “And it might take me a while, but I’m going to be a damn fine dad.”
“I’m proud of you for wanting to be a part of her life,” he says, his tone softer than is normal for him. “Before you can do that, you’ve got to get your head right. Not just for the team, but for your new family. When you are sent straight to the hospital from a fight, you are no good to your daughter, either.”
“Fuck,” I nod again, feeling a lump in my throat. “How do I fix it?”
“Why do you think I would know?” He says, with a sigh. “Look, use this suspension. I’ll give you eight days out of practice, go figure your shit out. And when you come back, be ready to play like you are looking to take home The Lady Byng. You understand me?”
I blink, surprised. “You’re giving me eight days?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Not another fight. Don’t make me regret it, Samuels.”
“Thanks, Coach,” I say quietly. “I’ll…I’ll figure it out.”
“Good, because if I don’t see a difference when you get back, you’re benched for the rest of the season. Got it?”
“Understood,” I say, with determination.
“Alright, get out of here,” he says, and I can see a hint of understanding in his eyes.
I head straight for my condo, unable to sit around waiting for solutions to present themselves. I’m going to Atlanta, to see Rachel and Lily, to figure this out face-to-face. The second I’m in the door, I grab my laptop and book the first flight out. No hesitation. I’ve got eight days until our next game, eight days to figure out how to be a father, how to make this work. I throw open my closet, yanking clothes off hangers and stuffing them into a bag. Within minutes, I’m packed with the bare bones and a ticket out on the next flight. I sling my bag over my shoulder, and I’m out the door.