Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
I used to, anyway.
It sucked to admit it, but at thirty-six, I was a shadow of the player I’d been in my prime. Numerous concussions, multiple cracked ribs, and more broken bones than I could count had wreaked havoc on my body over the years. I was slower than I’d ever been and inclined to use brawn instead of my brain. Not a winning strategy.
To put it bluntly, I’d turned into a relic and what used to work didn’t anymore. Meh, what can you do? It happened to the best of us.
The writing was on the wall, and I wanted to go out with dignity—captain of the Slammers, career leading scorer for a D-man in the Western Conference, two-time Norris Trophy winner, and…the fiercest and funnest dude in the NHL.
Was funnest a word? Whatever. Not important.
I could have kept my final hurrah classy with a quick wave and a smile, but I wasn’t exactly known for being a gentleman. I skated like the wind, turned backward, and played a phantom guitar while skating on one leg—much to the crowd’s delight. It was a tired schtick, but it was mine. I soaked up the love, basking in raucous cheers and applause before taking my place on the line where my teammates…and our opponents tapped their sticks on the ice in a show of appreciation and respect.
There was a team party scheduled next weekend in my honor, a fan meet-and-greet, and a couple of league dinners to commemorate my retirement, but this…standing here, surrounded by brothers I’d fought, bled, and sacrificed with day in and day out and thousands of adoring fans whose support made it all worthwhile…this was magic. I swallowed around the grapefruit-sized lump in my throat, blinking away tears as the first few notes of the national anthem swelled.
I loved this game. I loved these warriors and these fans. I wanted to give them one more win for the books.
Just one more.
We lost.
Of course we fucking lost. The Kings were playoff bound, so it wasn’t totally unexpected, but it still chafed. I’d really been hoping to go out with a roar. Not a whimper.
The reporters at the postgame press conference didn’t seem to care, though.
“Are you sure you’re done, Kimbo?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. In a perfect world, I’d play till I was eighty.” I paused as a polite twitter drifted through the room. “But this is a good place to stop. Next.”
A curly-haired middle-aged man who wrote for Sports Illustrated raised his hand. “Any future plans?”
“I don’t know, Mikey. I might come for your job,” I teased.
The reporters chuckled and raised their hands like overly eager elementary school kids.
“Any plans to expand your burger biz?” A younger man with red hair and freckles asked.
“Good question. Are you hungry, Cory?” More laughter. When it subsided, I replied, “I’m gonna give myself a little vacay first and think things through.”
“Where are you going, Kimbo?” someone called out.
“Where should I go?” I motioned to the room. “Any suggestions?”
I rubbed my stubbled chin thoughtfully as the press playfully bombarded me with typical holiday destinations.
“Bahamas.”
“Fiji.”
“Hawaii!”
“Great ideas. Thanks. Hey, we need to wrap it up here, but, um…before I go, I want to thank the Seattle Slammers.” A hush fell over the room as I continued, “Thank you to the owners, management, the coaching staff—especially Coach Marsden. And of course, my teammates. I love every single one of you. I want to give a shout-out to my friends, my family, even my cousin Colin, who still owes me five bucks. Hell, while I’m at it, I might as well thank my mailman. Seriously, though…um, I want to thank our fans. You make the best game on Earth even sweeter. It’s been a great ride. Really. Thank you for the incredible memories.”
I sniffed loudly into the mic and cleared my throat, gingerly standing in deference to the fresh bruise on my left shin and the tight feeling around my ribs. The entire room stood, erupting in a new round of applause.
I shook hands with a few reporters, posed for dozens of photos, and renewed the “Where should Kimbo go?” conversation. Paris, France; Perris, California…I pretended to consider every idea, though I knew exactly where I was heading next.
Home.
“Elmwood.” Sienna wiggled into panties so skimpy they could have been mistaken for dental floss and bent to retrieve her bra. “Where’s that?”
I plumped the pillow behind my head and admired the view. Sienna Montrose was fucking gorgeous. She was a tall, willowy auburn-haired former model turned LA-based cosmetic guru with perky tits and a sexy mouth. Her pretty pout had to be for show, ’cause there was no way Sienna actually cared about my next move. We weren’t that kind of couple.
In fact, we’d never been a real couple. We were more of an “on again, off again” item with a gratuitous relationship based on public perception. What did that mean? Well, we photographed nicely together and according to our agents, our supposed love affair boosted both of our careers. Don’t judge. It happens all the time.