Chapter 1

Harris

"After starting the season off strong," the reporter says into the microphone at my pre-game press conference, "the San Antonio Hyenas are in a four-game losing streak. People are starting to put the blame on you. They say you've lost your edge. That the great Harris Sutton is not the same player he once was."

He just stares at me, waiting for a comment.

"Is there a question in there?" I ask while glaring at him.

I hate these fucking things. I'm sitting at a table with about twelve microphones in my face while all these sports media ‘journalists' and writers grill me with their stupid questions.

I want to be done with all of it, but every player is obligated to get their time in with the media. Press conferences before games, after games, one-on-one interviews with these out of shape suits with their journalism degrees who think they're hockey experts because they watched a few games. Most of them have never even held a stick and can't skate.

"Do you think it's time to retire?" the guy asks. I know him. He's always writing shit about me in his articles, saying I'm washed up.

"No comment."

Another reporter stands up. He's a writer on Hockey Wrap-Up, a nightly thirty-minute show that sums up all the hockey news of the day.

"You have a big game tonight," he says as he looks at me behind those thick glasses. "The Denver Landslides. A division team. The team who passed on you during your rookie season. Are you still bitter about that?"

"It was over ten years ago," I answer. I'm trying not to roll my eyes. These fucking guys need something to write about in their stupid articles so they're always manufacturing fake stories. I can already tell you what the headline is going to be.

Harris Sutton Feeling Extra Pressure To Beat The Team That Rejected Him.

But maybe it's not totally fake. I do hate the Landslides for passing on me. It's been an extra bit of motivation over the years to prove them wrong. I still think about it when I'm trying to get one last rep on the bench press or when I'm pushing my exhausted body on the ice while it's screaming at me to throw in the towel.

When you're a professional athlete training all the time, you take any extra bit of motivation you can find.

"Are you feeling extra pressure to win tonight after your slew of bad games?" he asks.

"I'm a professional hockey player," I say in a monotone voice. "There's pressure to win every game."

"But more tonight?"

This guy is really trying to push his narrative. He's just trying to get a comment out of me that he can play on his show. He's not going to get it.

"No."

He won't let up. "Your shot accuracy has gone down thirty-seven percent this season," he says as he reads off his phone, "you've had multiple passes stolen, and your assists, goals, and shots on net are all among the lowest of your career. You're one of the oldest players in the league. Has Father Time caught up to you? Is it time for the once-great Flamethrower to retire?"

All eyes are on me, waiting for my answer.

I sigh as I look at the time. My required fifteen minutes are up.

"I'm focused on the game tonight," I say, giving a canned answer. "And I'm not looking past that. Winning against Denver is my only focus right now."

They all explode into more questions, but I stand up and ignore them all. I grab my hat and leave the room as they all try to get me to give them something that will generate clicks and views.

My teammate, Austin Gambill, is waiting to go in next for his required time.

"How are they today?" he asks, looking nervous.

"Like a bunch of jackals."

They always are whenever a team is on a losing streak.

"We have to win tonight," he says as he peeks into the room.

"Yeah," I say as a heaviness takes over my body. "We gotta win."

The game is not for a few hours so I have time to go home and relax.

I grab my coat from the locker room and head down to the parking lot. I sigh as I sink against the wall when I'm in the elevator by myself.

Those reporters' questions swirl in my mind. Is it time to retire? Have I gone downhill? Are my best years behind me?

I hate that they've gotten to me. I hate that I'm like this.

Maybe I should have retired at my peak. I just… I've always wanted to win it all. To hold that Stoney Cup over my head. To bring one home.

I thought that maybe this year might be it, but my body is starting to give out. There's a reason why there aren't many thirty-six-year-olds in the league.

I've had three elbow surgeries over my career. I've had both knees replaced, a broken hand, three broken ribs, a broken nose, and now my back is starting to hurt.

And for what?

What do I have to show for it? Who did I do it all for?

I sigh as the elevator passes the lobby and drops into the underground parking.

I know this has to be my last year. It's not going to get any better.

But I was hoping this season would be different. That it would be fun again. With this new team and all these good players, I thought it would give me new life. That I would feel some of that old excitement I used to feel back in the days when I was something. When the whole stadium chanted Flamethrower in unison whenever I scored a goal.

Instead, it's just making me feel old and tired and depressed.

It's all coming to an end and I'm left questioning why any of it even matters if I have no one to share it with.

The doors open with a ding and I let out a long breath as I push off the wall and head out into the parking lot.

It's all Ferraris, Porsches, and Lambos down here. I find my beat-up Range Rover and climb in. During my rookie season, I had a ridiculous car just like those, but all it did was cause me stress. I hated worrying about someone dinging it whenever I went into a store. I hated that people always stared and gawked at me and took pictures. This old Range Rover makes me feel normal.

That's what these kids don't realize yet. Normal is the luxury.

I drive out of the lot and into the pouring rain.

"What?" I whisper when I see a kid—about fifteen years old—standing in the rain holding a sign with my name on it. He doesn't even have a raincoat. He's just in a soaked hoodie and jeans.

Please Harris Sutton. Just a moment of your time.

The poor kid is drenched. The sign is all soggy and the ink is running from the words. He's probably been standing there all day.

I don't want to deal with this. I just want to go home and relax before the game tonight, but I slowly hit the brakes and roll down my window.

Rain pours into my truck as he runs over.

"How long have you been out here?" I ask.

"Six hours," he says with chattering teeth.

"Get in the truck."

His face lights up. "Really?!"

"Yeah, really. I'm getting soaked!"

I roll up the window as he runs around the hood and hops into my truck. He's drenched and that water goes all over my seat.

"Do you want an autograph?" I ask as he pulls his hood off.

He shakes his head and water splashes onto my dashboard. "I have a favor to ask."

I groan. I should have kept driving.

"What is it?"

"My father is your biggest fan," he says as he starts to get teary-eyed. "He got hit by a car last month and he's in pretty bad shape."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," I say, putting a comforting hand on his wet shoulder.

He aggressively wipes away his tears, trying to keep it together. "He's not going to walk again."

My stomach sinks as he lists all of his father's injuries and the surgeries he's going to need. The man is lucky to be alive.

"It's been so hard on our family," the kid says. "And he's been really down."

"What can I do to help?" I ask. "Do you want a signed jersey? I think I have an extra one in the trunk."

"He already has four of them hanging in our basement," he says. "I was hoping you could come visit him."

I shift in my seat. "I don't know…"

"It would mean so much to him," he quickly says. "He's at the hospital around the corner. It would only take ten minutes. Please, Mr. Sutton. Please. He needs this. Our whole family needs this."

I look at the poor kid who's soaked to the bone and so cold his hands are shaking. My heart goes out to him for waiting six hours in the rain for his old man. I don't have anyone in my life who would do that for me.

"Okay," I say. "Let's go."

"Really?!" he says, his face beaming as he wipes away his tears.

"Buckle up."

A few minutes later, this kid named Arthur is leading me through the hospital to his father's room. He tells me what a big fan his dad is and how he used to bring him to the games when he was younger. They'd both wear my jersey and have a great time watching me kick ass.

"Just a second," he says when we arrive at the room. My stomach is in knots, not knowing what to expect. "I'll go prepare him."

He disappears into the room and then comes back a minute later, smiling his head off.

I walk in and force out a smile at the broken man lying in the bed. It's worse than I expected. He looks like he got hit by a whole fleet of trucks.

He has two black eyes, a metal contraption on his head, more wires than I can count attached to his body, and casts on both his arms.

It doesn't take a genius to know that the poor fuck has had a horrible month.

"Is that…?" he says, staring at me in shock. "Harris Sutton?"

"It sure is, Dad!" the kid says, beaming.

I sit beside his bed and clasp his hand. "You got a good son here," I tell him. "He stood in the cold November rain for six hours to get me here."

"Arthur is the best," he says, beaming at his son. "He's hardly left my side even though I keep telling him to go be a kid."

Arthur's cheeks start to blush as he smiles at his dad.

"I was there when you scored four goals against The Calgary Nighthawks," the man says, suddenly full of energy. "I screamed so loud I couldn't talk for two days!"

I spend two hours in the room.

We talk about hockey and reminisce about the good old days when I was The Flamethrower, burning down the house. I share my best stories and have the father and son laughing their heads off. We have a great time.

I only leave because I have a pre-game meeting I have to get to.

"You keep fighting," I say as I clasp my new friend Chris' hand. "You stay tough for your boy and fight through this. I'm going to have front-row tickets ready for you guys when you get out of here, okay?"

He nods. "Thank you, Harris. I needed this."

I give him a careful hug and then Arthur walks me out of the hospital.

"Thank you so much," he says. "You have no idea how much that meant to us."

I shake his hand and then pull him in for a hug.

"You be strong too, Arthur. Your dad needs you more than ever."

"You got it, Mr. Sutton. I will."

A heaviness hits my core as I walk to my truck through the rain. What a kid. What a father-son relationship those too have. It was beautiful to see.

I climb into my truck and sigh, wishing I had something like that.

Someone who would look at me like that.

"Come on," I whisper harshly to myself as my eyes get hot. "It's game time soon. Get ready."

I start the engine and the radio flicks on.

"Harris Sutton better be playing at a high level for a change tonight or the Hyenas will be forced to part ways with the?—"

I slam the radio off and hit the gas.