Page 1 of Scoring Chances
Chapter 1
Joshua
There’s a moment in every athletes career where everything is going right.
You’re scoring goals. Getting sponsorships. Fans love you.
Well, that moment for me ended about a week ago.
I was flying high. Our team was just coming off our very first Stanley cup championship win. Houston loved us. We were the Triple H–Houston Heatwave Hockey–and proud of it!
Then my wings took on some hits. When bad things happen to me. They tend to happen in threes.
First, I get called into management’s office. I’m thinking, this is great! They’re going to offer me a permanent position on the team. I won’t be at risk of being traded. Gravy baby!
“You’re being traded, Hicks.”
Excuse the fuck out of me… traded?!
“Thunderhawks need a left-winger and you’re name came up. Deal’s done.”
Forget that I just led the team in assists this past season–but now our bitter division rivals are claiming me as one of their own?
Ok, universe, I’m watching you.
You, jerk.
Then, I get a call from my agent, Monty.
Monty’s great. He worked me this deal with the Heatwave in the first place. I should be grateful that I was able to win a cup championship with my first ever team in the pros.
But I’m also a little sour that he didn’t think to negotiate a no-trade-clause on my contract.
“You’re losing Boot Farm,” he announces.
“The sponsorship?”
“Yep!”
“Why? What the hell did I do? I’m the face of Boot Farm Boots in Houston.”
“Exactly, Hickey. In Houston. But you don’t belong to Houston come the start of the season. They’re just getting ahead of the backlash. But don’t you worry, we’ll get you something good in Georgia. I’ll be fielding sponsorship deals for you left and right now.”
“So what am I supposed to rep in Georgia, peaches? I fucking love peaches–don’t get me wrong–but I don’t think this is the face of a delicious, juicy fruit, Monty!”
“It won’t be peaches, Hickey. Don’t be ridiculous.”
Not even twenty-four hours later, I open an email from Monty.
Hello to the new face of the Georgia Peaches Association!
I reply with two words: You’re fired.
The same night I get told I’m the new face of peaches, of all fucking things, I’m sitting with my boys debating whether or not I should tell them just how screwed I am.
They were discussing the upcoming Stanley cup summer plans. Every year the winning team gets to take turns taking the cup on adventures in celebration of their big win. They were deciding whose turn it was to take it where–when the doorbell rang. I got up to answer it since I wasn’t feeling particularly celebratory at that moment and I hadn’t yet dropped the news that it would be my last summer with them.
“It’s probably pest control, again,” my team captain and roommate, Keelan Landry, calls out to me. “They’ve come by every day this week.”