Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 51827 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51827 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
I was trying to prove myself then, as a twenty-eight-year-old coming from the Swedish league. There are differences between the leagues, the biggest adjustment being how much more physical the game is in the US.
I was taught the game by a coach who was a former US player, though, so my game’s always been physical. Everything was going well in Tampa until my shoulder was broken in two places.
Now here I am, three years older and on another prove-it year after extensive rehab. This is my last shot.
When I walk through the front doors of the Grand Madison, the hotel I live at, the woman at the front desk flashes me a smile. I nod and keep my head down on the walk to the elevator. I’m already cutting it close on getting back to my room in time for my call with my agent; I don’t want to stop and talk to anyone.
It’s a quick ride up to the third floor, where I walk down the hall and around two corners before reaching Room 332.
I swipe the key card and walk into the room, scowling. It smells sweaty and stagnant, like the inside of an old hockey bag. But my bed’s made and my clean laundry is stacked on it.
I don’t even have time to take a piss before my phone rings, a photo of me and my agent, Art Marx, popping up on the screen. We were having dinner in Manhattan’s Chinatown, and he was still four hours away from a case of food poisoning that made him call his attorney from the hospital’s emergency room to be sure his ex-wife was officially out of his will. He cried and told me he was sure he was either going to shit or puke out some essential body parts.
“Hey, Art.”
“Hey, you still riding that natural hat trick high?”
“Yeah, that was a great night.”
I was locked in, scoring three goals in a home game against St. Louis. The fans covered the ice with hats and gave me a standing ovation. It was my first natural hat trick in the US. I got teary-eyed when the whole place was cheering for me because I didn’t know if I’d get another chance at it when I was rehabbing.
“Well, I think we should take advantage of your hot streak. I’d like to chat with a few GMs if you’re okay with it.”
I sit in the overly firm leather chair in the corner, thinking about it.
“You don’t think Cleveland will offer me a contract?”
“They haven’t yet. You’re still open to another team, right? If the deal’s good, I mean?”
“Yeah, for sure. If I can get at least three years and the money’s good, I’ll take it.”
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem. Keep doing what you’re doing. No late nights out, no fodder for the rumor mill. Stay focused and we’ll get you the deal you deserve.”
“Okay.”
“How’s Elin?”
Art’s been my agent since I signed with Tampa, and he asks about my sister every time we talk. He even sends her flowers every year on her birthday.
“She’s doing well, thanks for asking.”
“The German place is still working for her?”
“Yeah. My mom’s happy with it.”
“How about you? Other than hockey? Are you feeling more at home in Cleveland?”
I sigh as I stare at the art on the wall across from the chair. Three rectangles of varying sizes, all in muted brown shades. It’s the opposite of the art in Swedish galleries and museums, which is bright, colorful and full of life.
“Home enough. I’m here to get a contract.”
“You still at the hotel?”
“Yeah. It works.”
“I guess you’re living out of a suitcase when you’re on the road anyway.”
“I’m hoping to be living out of a suitcase on the road for the next four or five seasons.”
I need a contract offer. If I’m not making money playing hockey, the only other thing I’m qualified to do is coach, and it would take me a lot of time and luck for that to be as lucrative as playing hockey.
This has to work. My family is counting on me, and I can’t fail them.
“I’ll let you know what I hear,” Art says. “Keep it up.”
“Thanks, Art.”
I have an early morning, so I need to have an easy evening. I’ll probably knit and catch up on Survivor.
The blast of an RTA train horn pulls me from my thoughts. Those fucking train horns have made me consider switching hotels more than once, but anything close to the arena will still be close to the RTA tracks.
If I can just get a contract—no matter what team it’s with—all the nights I’ve been woken up by those horns will be worth it.
3
Blair
* * *
I could have gone my entire life without seeing photos of evisceration.
Internal organs can protrude through a wound, and it’s often brought on by coughing, sneezing, or vomiting hard after surgery. My textbook says I need to call for help immediately if this happens to a patient, which makes me scoff.