Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
My swift reassurance is met by a glower of disbelief.
“Look,” I gingerly place the can down next to the coaster waiting for it, “I know—generally speaking—that my life is a clusterfuck stuffed inside a shitshow stuffed inside dumpster fire like a motherfucking turducken, but when it comes to hockey shit—real hockey shit—” my shoulders deliver the smallest bounce, “I’m always ready. Pads are on. Skates are laced. Sweater ready to be worn.” Abandoning the box of crackers on the other side of my phone happens at the same time I softly smile. “The world of hockey is like being at home, Margot. I’m comfortable here, and I know exactly where mama hides the cookies.”
To no surprise, my shot reference noticeably eases her worries regarding my job and allows her to resume doing hers. She leans over to relocate the can onto the coaster as she instructs, “Put on your jacket, your shoes, and reapply your lip stain. I’ll go grab Mr. Blanc.”
She’s given a nod of comprehension that’s followed by me executing her orders the instant my office door is shut.
While it won’t be impossible to hide the fact that I’m nervous about this interview once he’s in here, sitting in the seat across from me, listening to my unrehearsed, fly by the seat of my sweats, please take this job speech, I do need a moment now to panic.
What I said to Margot wasn’t a lie.
Hockey is my domain.
My life.
Carved into the very fiber of my DNA.
I don’t doubt my capabilities or my knowledge or the balls I have to do the things people are constantly telling me someone like me can’t do, but sometimes…sometimes the shit gets under my skin.
Yeah, I smile in their faces, present my middle finger, and say something that makes pearl clutchers wanna wash my mouth out with soap; however, it doesn’t mean the shit doesn’t hurt. That it doesn’t gnaw on my insecurities. That I don’t stay up at night and wonder can I really do this?
Will I be able to do this?
Am I really meant to do this?
How long does that whole “make it” part of “faking it” take to kick in?
And what happens if it never does?
Reapplying my lip stain is barely finished before there’s a knock to alert me of their return.
Margot enters the room first to professionally hold the door open for Milano Blanc, a 5’11, two-hundred-pound, almond brown skinned, retired NHL defenseman, who politely thanks her for the gesture. She gracefully nods in acknowledgement, shoots me a scolding point to actually put on my shoes under the desk, and soundlessly slips out.
The wiggling of my feet into their respective heels secretly occurs during my greeting, “Good morning, Blanc.”
“Hennington,” he warmly states in return, open palm extended my direction for shaking. “You look well.”
“I look like I’ve been doing dryland two a days for six weeks,” I playfully argue and let my hands fold in my lap, “but I do appreciate a man who knows how to sell a lie to the cameras with a charming smile.”
Blanc lightly chuckles as he lowers himself into the seat on the other side of the desk. “We’re on camera?”
“You’re an NHL player. You’re always on camera.”
“Retired,” he corrects on a respectful nod.
“Barely.”
Blanc doesn’t hesitate to airily laugh again.
“Wanna know what I’ve learned in my years and years and years of being around hockey players, Blanc, besides how hard they bitch when you beat them at Skee-Ball?”
He casually motions a hand my direction.
“You hate to retire.”
His eyebrows lift in question.
“You’re all the same in that aspect. You go until you have to hang ‘em up. It’s rarely about want and typically about must.”
Blanc doesn’t dispute the claim.
“And then once you do, you’re fucking stoked. You’re wondering why you waited so long to do the shit. You enjoy sleeping late and not hitting the gym unless you’re in the mood. You enjoy your long overdue vacations and waking up to your wife on your sac before she’s gotta go get the kids ready for school. You settle into a cushy fantasy in which you convince yourself you’ve made an amazing call and are the happiest you’ve been in what feels like years.” My fingers fold together on top of my churning stomach I’m trying to ignore. “But that shit typically only lasts for a season. Maybe two. And then you’re missing the barn. Wondering how can you get back in. What can you do to get back to it. Is there any part of you left that can be of use. The truth is for most retirees…no. You transition out of The Show and the best you can hope for is killing it in a lower club league that barely fulfills anything inside or bite the bullet and coach in that same minor club bullshit. However,” the smirk on my face transposes to one of enticement, “some of you…some of you are destined for a new round of greatness as coaches. And you, Blanc, are undeniably one that is destined for that shit.”