Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
“Good luck, Dawson.”
“Thanks, Jer.”
Jerry walks away and before I can even knock on the door, I hear Randy’s deep, booming voice on the other side of it, beckoning me in. I step into his office, close the door behind me, and cross to the chairs in front of his desk. I feel like I should be saying, “Dead man walking.”
“Sit,” he says gruffly.
Randy played in the league for sixteen years—mainly as his team’s enforcer—and still has that rough and rugged look he had on the ice. Unlike his playing days when it hung to his shoulders in a god-awful mullet, these days, Randy’s dark brown hair is flecked with gray, cut short, and styled well. His flinty gray eyes still miss nothing, and he’s still in good enough shape that he’ll sometimes come down during practice and mix it up with us on the ice. He’s in his fifties, but I still won’t bet against him in a scrap.
The grim look on his face tells me I’m not here to negotiate my next contract with the team. Whatever it is, it’s not good news. I take a seat and run through the scenarios in my mind. I know they’re not going to cut me. I’m playing at a level that has me in the conversation for the Hart Trophy and have the team closing in on a playoff spot—something unthinkable a month ago.
I haven’t broken any team or league rules. There is literally nothing I could be in trouble for. Which leads me back to Devon. It’s the only possible thing anybody might be taking some sort of issue with.
“Listen, Randy, before you say anything, I’ll be straight with you and tell you it’s true—”
“You’re admitting it?”
“Yeah, I am. I’ve got nothing to hide since I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“League rules would beg to differ, Dawson,” he replies and runs a hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ, how could you do this? How could you betray this organization like this?”
“Let’s not be dramatic, for fuck’s sake, Randy. A betrayal? Give me a fucking break,” I spit. “Yeah, she’s significantly younger than I am, but she’s very much of age. That’s hardly unique. Your own wife is more than a decade younger than you are, need I remind you. So, get off this betrayal of the organization bullshit. Also, there is absolutely nothing in the league rules about women I can date. Jesus, man. You’re making me out to be some kind of damned pervert when I’m not.”
Randy sits back in his chair with a puzzled look on his face. “What the fuck are you talking about, Dawson?”
I share his confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“You first.”
“Isn’t this about the girl I’ve been seeing for a little while now?”
“Uhh… no. Why would I give two shits about who you’re seeing?”
“That was my goddamn question,” I snap. “Now, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“The story that broke this morning—somebody’s alleging that you’re using PEDs, Dawson. They say they sold them to you directly.”
His words are like a cold slap across the face, and I recoil, staring at him with a look of utter confusion on my face. What he just said makes absolutely no sense.
“What are you talking about, Randy? I’ve never done PEDs in my life.”
He turns his laptop around and shows me the screen. He’s got it pulled up to Bleacher Beat, one of the biggest and more reputable sports blogs on the internet. In big, bold letters, the headline on the screen reads, “I Sold Dawson Davis PEDs.” Just below the headline is my current team photo followed by a lengthy article that quotes an anonymous source who claims to have been my PED supplier for the last decade.
“That is utter bullshit. Randy, tell me you aren’t buying this bullshit.”
“Because it’s on the Beat and not on some anonymous hate blog, the league took notice, Dawson. They’re sending somebody to investigate—”
“Tell me you don’t believe this bullshit, Randy. Tell me you don’t believe I’d actually use fucking PEDs,” I press. “Somebody is trying to fuck with me. I have never used PEDs. Not once in all my years in the league. I’ve never had one dirty test in my eighteen years in the league. Not once!”
“I know that, Dawson. And no, I don’t believe you’d use the stuff. I know what kind of man you are and you’d never cheat yourself, the organization, or the game that way,” he says. “But what I believe and what the league thinks are two very different things.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter and run a hand across my face. “This is fucking unreal.”
“I believe you, Dawson. But we have to let this process play out.”
“What does that mean?”
He sighs and looks down at his desk. “It means I have to keep you off the ice until the league finishes their investigation.”