Tacker (Arizona Vengeance #5)(3)

Gordon Dumfries, III, PsyD, MA, LCSW-C

Jesus fuck… with all those goddamn initials behind his name, one would think he’d have a clue about people.

The man had spent the first twenty minutes of our session lauding himself and explaining all those letters after his name. Then, in the next fifteen minutes, he’d explained the importance of opening myself up to confronting pain, and that the best way to release it was through tears and the shredding of the soul.

Or some shit like that.

The last twenty-five minutes of our session, we spent staring at each other because I wasn’t going to make it easy on him. He was forced to ask me pointed questions just to get any information out of me.

At the end, he shook his head in disappointment and said he expected better of me next time.

Fat fucking chance there will be a next time, Dr. Dumbfuck.

Yes, I’m well aware my hockey career is dependent on me getting counseling. Two days ago, and on the heels of another horrible nightmare about the crash, I sat before our general manager, Christian Rutherford, and the team’s owner, Dominik Carlson, and I told them I wanted to stay on the team. I accepted the given ultimatums I couldn’t drink alcohol again and had to seek counseling.

The alcohol was easy. I was never a big drinker anyway and my abuse of it a few weeks ago—where I got drunk and drove my truck into a concrete barrier—coincided with MJ’s birthday. It was a low fucking moment for me.

But it also wasn’t my first brush with trouble on the team. I’d been suspended and heavily fined back in November for what some would call an extreme act of brutality on an opposing player.

Bottom line… the management has had it with me and while I’d managed an average 1.32 points per game, putting me at the top of the league, that wasn’t going to save me anymore.

So the other part of my ultimatum was the counseling, something I’ve successfully managed to avoid since the plane crash that killed MJ fifteen months ago.

I fucking hated the idea of doing it, but there was one other thing that factored into my decision to make a go of it with the team.

Yesterday, my teammates, Bishop and Dax, showed up at the door of my crappy apartment, and they pleaded for me not to give up.

Well, Dax pleaded.

Bishop was an asshole about it, and I could tell he’s reached his limit with me. He’d said I needed to get my head out of my ass—to figure out not only how to be a professional hockey player again, but also how to be a comrade to my teammates.

It was something I knew how to do prior to the crash. I was close with all the guys at my former club, the Dallas Mustangs.

And despite the fact he was a dick about it, he actually reached through to me. So that was my intent when walking into Gordon Dumfries’ office, actually somewhat heartened by the amount of letters after his name.

Until I realized what a douche he was and that I’d rather repetitively stab myself in the ear with a Phillips-head screwdriver than listen to him for another moment. He’d tried to set up another appointment when he declared our time over, and I told him I’d call him once I knew my schedule.

I have no intention of calling him.

Making my way out of his building, I take a moment to pull up my Uber app to order a car. It sucks having lost my license following the DUI charge I’d received following my up close and personal meeting between my truck and the concrete barrier, but that’s the price I’ll have to pay. Luckily, Dominik Carlson recommended a great lawyer, who I retained, and he’s supposedly going to be able to plead me down to a reckless-driving charge. He told me I’d be able to get my license back after I complete a driver-safety course or some shit like that, but I’ll gladly do it. I hate being driven around.

Dominik isn’t like other organization owners. He takes a very personal and vested interest in his players. He’s already gone to bat for several of us on the team in one form or fashion, and apparently, I’m not any different. In addition to helping me find a good lawyer and giving me another chance to stay on his team, he took me aside after our meeting on Monday.

Pushing a business card in my hand, he’d told me, “My personal cell phone is on that card. I don’t give it out to many people, but I’m ordering you to use it if you think I can help you in any way. I want you to succeed, Tacker. I want this team to succeed.”

And that was all he’d said, but I know, without a doubt, I need his help now.

While I wait for my Uber to show up, I fish his card out of my wallet and stare at it for a moment. I debate if it’s wise to call him.

I could suck it up, go back into Dr. Dumbfuck’s office, and make another appointment. I’m required to attend at least twice a week, and I could suck it up. I could tune him out when he drones on and on, and I could even muster a few fake tears to mollify him.

But fuck… I don’t want to do that. If I’m going to confront my demons and try to purge some of this guilt from my system, I want to at least see some results. I know damn well I’m not going to get them from the dumb shit in that building.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, then dial Carlson’s number.

I fully expect to get his voice mail, and I’ll make my message to him short and sweet. He can return my call at his convenience.

I’m surprised when he answers on the second ring, and even more stunned when he calls me by name. “Tacker… what can I do for you?”