Page 82 of Rise Above

Rise Above

I thought about my dad and how much I needed him right now.

Coach’s office was warm and welcoming. He had

pictures of his family prominently displayed and various awards and trophies. His furniture was worn, obviously used often. Despite being an intimidating figure at six foot four and still muscular, he was extremely friendly. Coach wanted everyone to feel like we could talk to him. By far, he was my favorite coach I’d ever had.

He motioned for me to sit in a chair before handing

me some water. He was nervous, and coach was never nervous. This man was almost always calm, cool, and collected. He could teach seminars on how to keep your composure. Sweat lined his forehead and upper lip. His shoulders were tensed, tight and near his ears. This was sure to be an incredibly unpleasant meeting.

Seemingly no time passed before several more

people entered Coach Mike’s office. The owner of the Warhammers, Tim O’Donnell, entered. He was wearing a clean, crisp suit. His face was weary, tired. After him was the CEO of the NHL, Nelson Simon. Lastly was the hockey commissioner, Donovan Blackson. I gulped. Intimidation 180

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was not something I normally felt, but all four of these men held my future and my career in their hands.

Coach shook everyone’s hands before I did the

same, awkwardly with a broken wrist. My wrist throbbed briefly, reminding me of my recent injury. I probably needed to take a painkiller, but I refused to do that in front of these men. I couldn’t give them a single reason to possibly end my career. Dad would have had words to keep me calm. My chest squeezed painfully. No matter how much time passed, I still missed him.

“Mr. Walker, you are making quite a buzz after last

night’s events.” Blackson folded his hands in front of him. “Hockey usually isn’t making the ESPN rounds during football season.”

Licking my lips, I nodded. Football was huge in the

States and then baseball and basketball. Hockey had its place, typically in the north, but we were not the most tuned into sport. Something told me this ordeal was not the way the NHL wanted to be recognized even if we were an extreme contact sport.

“Mind you, we fully acknowledge this is not your

fault,” Simon said. He wore a solemn smile. “But, you’re unfortunately involved regardless. As you can imagine, this isn’t the exact image we want out there for the sport. I’m sure you don’t either.”

“Sir, I honestly don’t know what the images are.”

Might as well be truthful with them. I still refused to turn media on, even the socials. My face felt hot.

Four heads swiveled my way. Coach shot me a

pitiful look before turning his TV on. He clearly wasn’t

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going to let me live in my privacy bubble. ESPN was already playing, and right away, my injury was being discussed. Then came the video. My face blanched as I watched my opponent slash my ankles with his stick before slamming into my back. A deafening crunch echoed around the arena followed by my inability to get up. And then came the vomit. My face flushed red in embarrassment, heating harshly as sweat lined my forehead. Jesus, how many people were seeing this? Why would they play something that graphic?

“You’ve got to give credit to Walker though,” one

sports anchor said, “I would have thrown up way sooner.”

Tim clicked the TV off. “Thankfully, it’s not as bad

as we originally thought it would be. Nelson and Donovan are here because we’d like you to do a press conference. There are questions many people have, and the NHL thinks you should speak to the public.”

“What about the guy who hit me?”