Golden Boy Gets a Little Tarnished
My father was a great hockey player. Back in the day, in the era of eighties’ big hair and synthesized music, Billy Oliver won not just one, but two Stanley Cups. He was awarded the Conn Smythe trophy both times and has received an assortment of other hardware throughout the years.
He’s retired now, but my dad was once a star.
To me, though, he’s always just been Dad.
But as his only child, I have a legacy to live up to. I pray I don’t disappoint him. I pray someday I’ll be as good as he once was. And damn it, I better win a freaking Stanley Cup like he did.
I have no choice, not really. Since the moment my father first laced up hockey skates on my three-year-old little feet, the look of pride on his face told me even then all I needed to know—anything short of being the best will never do.
And guess what?
In many ways, I’ve become the best at what I do, which is, like my dad, play professional hockey.
I’ve been good since the start, a natural some say. I don’t know about that, but I do know that even before I was drafted—in the first round by the Las Vegas Wolves, an expansion team at the time—I was being called “The Golden Boy” and “The Next One.”
These days, three years later, I’m pretty much the poster boy for the NHL. And I have a slew of endorsement deals to prove it.
Lately, though, I’ve been falling short.
And I really don’t know why.
Something is missing for me in the game. Or is it something that’s missing in me?
I blow out a breath and shake my head.
Things started out so great. Where’d it all go wrong?
I made a name for myself early on. Expansion teams usually struggle for years before posting a winning record. Not so for the Wolves. With me centering what was then a subpar line, I was still able to make us shine. We came out swinging that first season in the league.
Brent Oliver Scores the Game-Winning Goal in His and the Wolves’ First NHL Game, Sets Up Teammates for Two More
One month later, there was this:
The Wolves Off to a Completely Unexpected Stellar Start
Then things started to slide.
Those subpar players on my line weren’t enough to keep afloat a pretty much overall crappy team, even with me centering. The Wolves’ owners and management made the necessary moves—they don’t mess around when shit needs to get done.
We picked up a phenomenal winger, Nolan Solvenson. He started to play and things turned around.
Adding Skilled Right-Winger Nolan Solvenson to Rookie Brent Oliver’s First Line Proving to be a Masterful Move
On a Mid-Season Winning Streak, That Solvenson Trade is Paying Off for the Wolves!
Another trade made at the deadline gave us Benjamin Perry. A big, strong left-handed winger, he was the final piece to the puzzle. Even with far-from-elite second, third, and fourth lines, it didn’t matter. Not with me, Benjamin, and Nolan on the first line. We could not be stopped.
Benjamin—or Benny, as he’s known to the team—is adept at using his size and muscle to check the hell out of any sorry soul who happens to be matched up against him. He simply wears other players down…and then it’s a fucking scorefest. Thanks, in part, to his killer slapshot.
Together with Nolan, a sniper in his own right, we were—and in many ways still are—quite a force to be reckoned with. We destroy teams, though not as much lately. But back then, man, we were racking up so many points that the press branded us the OPS line, as in Special Forces.
The OPS Line’s Snipers of Oliver, Perry, and Solvenson Eliminate the Competition with Ease
There’s Nothing Covert about This Line’s Scoring Prowess
We worked our reputation to our advantage. Trash-talking on the ice and taunting players became our pastimes. We also happened to get a lot of pucks in the net.
Ah, the good old days.
We still trash-talk and taunt, but we aren’t as lethal as we once were.
“We just need to get back on track,” I murmur to myself. “The season doesn’t start for a few more weeks. I’ll have my shit together by then.”
I better, since I’m the captain of the team.
If I go down, we all sink. And that’s not fair to anyone, especially not to my linemates, Nolan and Benny.
Over the past couple of years they’ve become my best friends, which is a blessing and a curse.
It’s a blessing that we play so well together, but it’s a curse that we also have a tendency to fuel each other’s vices.
God knows this off-season we’ve become far too focused on partying and women.
Like me, my linemates are extremely popular.
Hell, let’s not mince words—we’re gods. In the hockey world, it’s good to be a god.
Guys want to be you and girls want to do you.
Multiply that all by a hundred if you’re not an ogre in the looks department.
And none of us are.
Not to brag—though, I guess I kind of am—but I have the most women falling at my feet. Hell, I’ve had women who’ve wanted to lick my feet.
Like, literally.
There was this crazy bitch this one time…
Wait, I digress. Back to where our team is today—floundering in a sea of mediocrity.
After that first good regular season, we fell apart during the playoffs.
A dirty hit that sent me flying into the boards also sidelined me with a concussion.
It didn’t end there. More bad luck plagued our team.
Nolan went into a scoring slump, and Benny took a punishing check against the boards that broke his foot.
We were knocked out of the playoffs in the first round.
I went to Minneapolis, my hometown, to sulk.
“Next year will be different,” my always-positive father tried to reassure me.
He was wrong.
We missed the playoffs entirely the following year, for reasons still unknown.
Then there was the season that just ended this past spring—another disappointment.
Las Vegas Wolves Fold, Knocked Out Once Again in the First Round
Needing a break from all things desert-life, I said to Nolan and Benny, “Fuck this shit.”
That was over three months ago. We were in the middle of cleaning out our lockers for the summer. My linemates looked at me, confused.
And then Nolan finally asked, “Fuck what shit, Oliver? What are you going on about over there?”
“Everything,” I replied, gesturing around the empty locker room. “We’re done, finished. Let’s get the hell out of this place for a while.”
I meant Las Vegas the city—and I think Nolan was catching my drift—but Benny misunderstood.
“Dude,” Benny began, “we better get outta here soon.” He checked his watch. “We have a tee time at two.”
He meant the golf game we had planned, but I was having none of that.
“Fuck golfing,” I snapped. “I’m talking about really getting out of here. I think we deserve a much-needed break from this whole damn town.”
Nolan looked intrigued. “What’d you have in mind?”
I happily shared with him and Benny what I’d been thinking about for days.
“Let’s head up to my house in Minnesota.
We can spend the summer on the lake.” I grinned, bad intentions in mind.
“You know I’m a fucking rock star up there.
We can party every night. Hell, we can fuck and get fucked up till training camp starts up in September. ”
Benny was in immediately, but Nolan had to think it over in his thoughtful kind of way.
At last, he said, “Okay, let’s do it.”
Since that day we’ve been partying like rock stars. Or, more accurately, like out-of-control hockey players.
We’re still on a roll, even though it’s August and we have to fly back to Vegas real soon. Until then, however, I’ve vowed my cool contemporary house by the lake will remain the place to party. It’s our OPS base for debauchery, after all.
In reality, though, this craziness can’t go on. We all know that.
Even wild and crazy Benny had the sense to ask me just last week, “Dude, what should we do?”
“About what?”
I was in the midst of texting a local puck bunny to see if she wanted to meet me for a quickie, so I was a bit distracted.
Benny sighed. “We gotta report to camp in a less than a month. Guess it’s time to start thinking about slowing down with the girls, the booze, the—”
I put down my phone and cut him off with a raucous, “Hell no, my friend. We just need to scale it back a little.”
“Scale it back in what way?” Nolan, who walked in the room just at that moment, wanted to know.
I shrugged. “Maybe have smaller parties? Maybe drink a little less?”
We all agreed to those things, but we haven’t followed through. In the past seven days we’ve abstained from partying for all of two.
This is so not going to play well with the team.
My diet is crap, and I’m nowhere near peak playing shape.
Sure, my body looks all lean and cut, meaning you’d never know I wasn’t ready to hit the ice rearing to go, but looks can be deceiving.
I went out for a run just the other day and came back fucking winded as hell.
That was a first.
Still, I’m confident I can get back into playing shape in no time. It’s the inside of my head that’s kind of a mess. I just don’t fucking care about winning, not anymore. I mean, I do, but I don’t. Does that make sense?
Nah, it doesn’t to me, either. But I better figure it out, and fast.
Where’s my drive to get my shit together? Where’s my commitment to winning, my obligation to my players?
I ask myself these things every day now, but I guess the answers are clouded by my drinking copious amounts of alcohol and fucking way too many puck bunnies.
Dad would be so proud—not.
Well, he would be glad I diligently use protection.
I haven’t gone that far off the rails. Still, wrapping my dick up isn’t enough to keep management off my ass.
My agent already informed me—this morning, in fact—that the Wolves’ ownership group has a pretty good idea of what I’ve been up to, along with my teammates, here in Minneapolis.