4. Control City
4 /
control city
Tripp
I don’t find any players hanging around as I wander the halls, which is fine and not surprising at all. Most guys don’t hang around much in the offseason. The international players usually go home to see their families. Some guys run summer camps for kids or go on mission trips or whatever. Do-gooder stuff, which has never really been my focus. And it’s not that I don’t believe in doing good because I support a lot of good causes financially. Honestly, I’m just not that great with people. I’ve always been fine being on my own, and the times I’ve tried to engage or make deeper connections, I’ve gotten burned. So, I just keep to myself.
I’m not looking to make any lifelong connections or meet my BFF anyway. It’s a one-year contract. I’ll work hard and do my thing, and with some luck, I could sunset my career on a championship season.
I find the arena gym, which is empty but for a fit guy who looks like he might be thirty on the high side. He looks up from his phone as I approach.
“You must be Tripp.” He stands and holds out a hand.
I reach out for the shake and read his name tag. “Yup. You’re Dale.”
“The one and only. Did you just get in?”
“Yeah, I actually drove in early this morning. Picked up keys for the place I’m renting and came straight over for the once-over with Max.”
“Yeah? How’d that go?”
“He’s an old family friend of my parents. Known him a long time.”
“I’ve actually never met Max Terry. He doesn’t often prowl around down here in the pits.”
“Why would he?” I take a look around the space. “The gym is nice.”
“I’ve added some equipment in the last year or so,” he explains. “We do some unique things here as part of our team conditioning. We have yoga twice a week, and I brought in a Pilates reformer as well. Both help with core strength, body-weight strength, flexibility, and balance. We like for you guys to get a balance in your week. Some of them work out other places, too—they go box at the gym down the street or hike or whatever. But this gym should have everything you need for basic cardio and weight training.”
“I’ll just offer a gentle no thanks to the Pilates and yoga crap. I didn’t realize you had women on the team.”
Dale’s eyebrows raise into his blond hairline. “There aren’t. And most of the guys like the yoga now that they’re used to integrating it into their regimen. We’ll get a plan together for you and I’ll warn you now, there will be elements of this stuff in there. We want everyone doing it. I promise you’ll thank me later.”
“So, is there a specific schedule I have to keep for conditioning?” I ask, starting to feel a little less sure about my decision to play this season.
Dale grabs a stack of papers from his desk and pushes them at me. “This lays out the daily conditioning expectations for the team. The workouts are tailored, of course, to you individually, but this should give you an idea of the schedule. I’m in here from seven in the morning until five at night. I take a break at noon. I’m happy to work you out whenever you can get in here, but I recommend setting yourself a schedule so we can keep each other accountable.”
I flip through the pages, frowning deeper and deeper as I scan nutrition plans, conditioning regimes, a real long fucking list of protocols. “There are dietary restrictions, too? I’m sorry, I didn’t know we lived in a totalitarian state, either.”
Dale chuckles. “I hear you. Some of the guys had a hard time with the nutrition guidelines last year when they got rolled out. You’ll get used to it.”
“That’s fuckin’ stupid,” I growl, still looking through the many pages of mandates. “I’m retiring after this year. I’m not doing this shit.”
“It’s part of the deal here.”
“Well, I’m a grown-ass man, and I’m certain as fuck I don’t need people telling me what to eat and how to work out at my age. I’ve been in the league for sixteen years, and I’ve done just fine.”
“I’d argue that any athlete over thirty-five should be paying extra attention to their eating and exercise habits. This is a tough sport on the body, and as we get older, our metabolisms slow down, our bones get more fragile.” He takes the document and flips to a section, pointing. “This is the offseason conditioning plan. Everyone does it—they can do it here or there or on the moon, but it needs to get done. It’s five days on, two of rest. You pick the days. Once we get to preseason, we’ll have some group classes and workouts scheduled, plus personal training.”
“This is fascism, you know.”
“I think you’ll be all right. Now, head down the hall on the right and see Miss Devon, the team nutritionist.”
“Later.” I snatch the papers back and roll my eyes, stalking back out into the hallway.
“Your other right,” Dale calls.
I turn around with a sigh and head down to the next office on the right. The dark-haired beauty behind the desk does not disappoint.
“I would expect someone who looks like you to have a bigger office.” When she looks up, I introduce myself. “I’m Tripp.”
“Hi, Tripp, I’m Devon.” She reaches across the desk to shake my hand. “And why would what I look like have anything to do with the size of my office?”
“I’m just saying, I wouldn’t stick someone like you in a closet in the basement next to the weight room, where it smells like dirty jock straps.”
She makes a cringey face and shakes her head. “Thanks for the compliment. I think?”
“Definitely a compliment, Devon. So, I hear this place likes to control us all like Stepford wives. What kind of mind-control menu do you have in mind for me?”
Devon looks distinctly unamused. She pushes another sheet of paper at me to add to my workout plans, and I see a giant—and I mean gigantic—diamond on her left ring finger.
“Your husband must have a good reason for buying you a rock that huge. Whoa.”
“You mean my husband, Grant Gerard? The general manager of your new team?” She gives me a syrupy, sweet smile.
Oh, shit. I think I do remember hearing that Grant bagged one of his employees. Good for him, then. She is spectacular arm candy, for sure. “Your ring is very lar—lovely,” I manage to sputter. Mouth, meet my fuckin’ foot. I blew that introduction. Par for the course thus far in this place.
I may have made a huge mistake by signing here.
“So, tell me about a normal day’s meals for you,” she says, staying professional. “Start with breakfast.”
I blow out a breath. “Uh, I usually eat oatmeal or something for breakfast. Coffee. Maybe some fruit.”
“Okay.” She takes some notes. “That’s not a bad start. Do you work out in the morning?”
“Sometimes. During season, I usually get up and run in the morning, then eat after.”
“Do you work out more than once a day?”
“In season, absolutely.”
“And do you eat lunch?”
“Sometimes, sometimes not. If we’re doing meetings and training and conditioning, I’ll just wait and grab dinner once we’re all done.”
“And what’s for dinner?”
“Whatever I’m in the mood for. Hamburger. Pizza. Pasta.”
“Do you drink alcohol, Tripp?”
“A beer or two here and there, sure.”
“How much water do you drink each day?”
It goes on like this for a few minutes, the twenty-nine questions and counting. Finally, Devon tells me she thinks I need to switch to small meals five times a day, high protein, low carb.
“I’m in great shape. I don’t see why?—”
“You’re telling me you get up and run, then do training, then do weights, and you’re barely eating until you decide to pig out right before bed. You need consistent protein, and you need way more water throughout the day. I’m glad you’re not out getting trashed every night in the bars. A beer or two every once in a while will not kill you—and everyone needs a cheat meal every so often. But during the season, when you’re really putting the pedal to the metal, you need more fuel in your tank. I’d recommend that for any athlete, regardless of age, because we want you in top form.”
She knows what she’s talking about; that much is clear. Still, I find the many rules here oppressive. I must be making a face because she asks me what’s wrong.
“What is up with this place? I mean, all the rules and control issues in force. You’re talking to elite athletes who’ve been playing probably since they were just out of diapers. Maybe even before, for some of them. They know what they need for their own bodies.”
“Do they.” She folds her arms across her chest and nails me with a chilly stare. “Because I’ve seen guys down here who were literally sweating alcohol and then trying to go out and play. I’ve seen guys ready to have a heart attack, they ate so much grease. Their triglycerides and cholesterol numbers looked like those of an overweight, middle-aged person. Now, I’ll give it to you; you’re better than most. But you’re also older than most. You’re not in your twenties anymore. You need to do better for your body.”
“Meh.”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head again. “Tripp, why did you want to be here? Why agree to another year in the league when you’d already announced your retirement?”
I push out my lips while I think about her question. “I guess I thought it would be cool to finish my career on top. I’ve been impressed with the Crush the last few years. They’ve been lean and mean and fast and controlled. I liked playing them, and I liked that they were consistently in the finals or winning the cup. And I think they can do it again this year before they lose Kazmeirowicz. Plus, I figured I’d enjoy living in Vegas and the general vibe here with the team.”
“All of that makes sense,” Devon says carefully, “but I’ll just tell you that the team today is different than the team even a year ago. Every single guy here made sacrifices this past year. They had to check their egos, no matter how big they were, and get with the program. They’re all facing the same direction, focused on the same goal. I hope you can acclimate to what we’re asking of you here.”
I find that I’m gritting my teeth as I stand up. She holds out my hand-written nutrition plan. “Thanks for the advice, but I’ve done just fine in my career without being micromanaged.” I take her nutrition plan and add it to the growing pile. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it, Devon,” I say with a nod before leaving her sitting at her desk with her stone-faced expression and her ginormous fuckin’ wedding ring blinking at me. I probably won’t have to see her again, I’m guessing.
“Same.” Is all she says before turning back to whatever she was doing before I stopped in, probably silently cheering I’m leaving her space.
As I wander through the catacombs, holding my stack of papers, I find myself longing for Anaheim, where life was far less regimented. Sin City is turning out to be more like Control City.
I’m pretty sure I hate it.
Fuck me.