I stare at him, offering no “thank you” for the praise. I don’t need it or want it and statistics never meant much to me. Kind of like all those awards Coach has on his floor…don’t mean shit to me. I respect his coaching skills for what they are, not what other people say about them.

He waits for me to say something…an acknowledgment, an eye flicker, an I could give a flying f**k. He gets nothing, so he sighs and continues on.

“That little stunt at the end of the game was uncalled for,” he tells me.

He’s referring to the fact that I was named the game’s most valuable player—or most valuable prick if you go by what some fans say—which is an honor commemorated at the end of the game by having the player skate out on the ice for acknowledgment. At the time they were calling my name, I was halfway back to the locker room, refusing to come out for my stupid f**king lap around the ice. The fans’ boos followed me all the way back.

“Sorry…had an upset stomach…diarrhea. Had to hit the can,” I tell him, my face a study of genuine truth even though he knows I’m lying through my teeth.

Pretore leans forward across his desk, flashing his teeth at me in a snarl. “Do you think I’m f**king stupid, Crossman? You thumbed your nose at the crowd and this team because you’re an ass**le and no other reason. I’m fining you a thousand dollars for that stunt.”

I pick an imaginary piece of lint off my slacks and look at him blandly. “Fine. Anything else?”

Leaning back in his chair, Pretore studies me for a moment. Steepling his hands in front of his face, he regards me with interest. “You know…I don’t get you. You were the best player in the Quebec Juniors by the time you were sixteen, the number one NHL draft pick six years ago, and you have the potential to win the Art Ross Trophy every f**king year if you actually decide to start caring about this game. Instead, you do the bare minimum to get by, which, lucky for you and your career, still makes you pretty f**king good. You have the talent and ability to captain this team, yet you have the emotional maturity of the arena’s janitor. You’re a f**k-up by most standards, yet you’ll continue to get your pay and bonuses because you have more talent in your pinky than most players have in their entire body. I guess what I don’t understand is…how do you look at yourself in the mirror every day knowing that you’re wasting your life?”

I know where the coach is coming from. I get it…his little speech is supposed to be a slap-down plus a build-up. He knows I don’t respond well to ass-kissing and lofty praise, but rather I respond to the challenge of proving myself. Unfortunately, his words tonight are absolutely wasted lung capacity on me, because I’ve heard this speech a dozen times already from my dad.

“I look in the mirror same way you do, Coach…every day to shave or brush my teeth. I’m comfortable with the guy staring back at me.”

Pretore snorts at my response and although he’s pissed at me, I also know that answer amuses him somewhat, because he too is a smart-ass by nature.

“Yeah, well, you may be comfortable with that reflection but the suits upstairs aren’t. They’re mandating an immediate cleanup of your attitude.”

Boring! Had this conversation too…many times before.

“I see the look on your face,” Pretore says with a sigh. “They’re not joking this time.”

“Let me guess…they’re going to demand I go to the children’s ward of Raleigh Community Hospital and sign autographs or something. Show that I’m really a teddy bear inside.”

“That’s not a bad idea, but no. They want you a little more involved.”

For the first time in this conversation, I feel a tiny thread of apprehension move through me, and only because Pretore’s voice has gone from tired and frustrated with me to actually a bit fearful. Whatever the suits want me to do, Pretore doesn’t think I’ll agree to do it, so I’m guessing he’s getting ready for there to be a big fight on his hands.

“Spill it,” I say quietly.

“They want you to be the team spokesman for an anti-drug-abuse campaign.”

“I can do that,” I say cautiously, because I can. I have no problem with supporting worthy causes and even though I’m an ass**le, I know how to put a smile on my face when I want to…for the greater good, you know.

“Specifically, they want you to work closely with the Wake County Drug Crisis Center and implement a program to talk to at-risk youth throughout the state.”

“That’s fine,” I say, but the apprehension increases because this is sounding a little too easy.

“They have very specific requirements,” Pretore says firmly.

I just c**k an eyebrow at him, urging him to just lay it the f**k out. He’s killing me here.

Taking a piece of paper from a folder on his desk, he hands it over to me. I take it and scan it, noting an itemized list of stuff, but I just look back up at him.

“Essentially, they want you committing at least five hours a week during the season, on non–game days, of course. Off-season, twenty hours a week.”

“Jesus f**king Christ,” I curse, because I just became the equivalent of a felon who came out on parole.

“That’s not all. They are going to have your liaison report to them weekly on your progress and your attitude. They’ll give him or her a list of criteria you must meet.”

“No f**king way,” I snarl but Pretore ignores me.