Page 13 of Power Play

It is in the past now, and as I have reluctantly learned in therapy, I need to move on. I need to acknowledge that it happened, that the severity of the concussion caused mild brain damage, and that my career is ending. And when it does, I need to move on.

So that’s why I’m here. Back in Crooked Creek. I retire from the Spokane Storm officially in a little less than two months, at the ripe age of thirty-three. Later today, I have a call with the producers of a nightly sportscast calledTimeout with Tim Priestly.They want me to co-host, and if I accept, I’d start in a few weeks.

My mom moved to Florida after I was drafted. She had been desperate to get out of

Crooked Creek. She had only moved here because my dad was from here. But when he died when I was sixteen, she’d been chomping at the bit to get out. She said it was killing her inside to stay here. She needed a beach and palm trees. Her friends.

But to me, Crooked Creek is home. And more specifically, the Calway house was home. It was loud and full of light and music and laughter. Sibling fights, but those were the things I always felt like I had missed out on. Our house was sad and quiet and lonely. But over there, I was one of the gang.

If I decide to take this job, I plan to look for some land here.

It’s still home.

But till I have that all figured out, I have to focus on making it through this last game. And untilthat,I have to figure out Lo Calway.

And I have to figure out how to handle the one thing I’ve been trying to push down for the last four years.

* * *

I’m sitting at the dining room table of the little farmhouse, setting up my laptop and making sure the lighting looks okay. I log into the meeting a minute or two early, and then finally, two older men in suits pop up on my screen. One of them I recognize as Ron Swigert, the producer who’s been in touch with me over the last few weeks. The other is, of course, Tim Priestly himself. I grew up watching Tim Priestly on television. And now, he talks about me on a weekly basis.

“There he is!” Ron says, clapping his hands together.

“Hey, Levi,” Tim says, “how are ya?”

“Hey, guys,” I say with a smile. “Glad to see you.”

“How ya feeling?” Ron asks. I swallow. I should have expected these questions. But per usual, I try to get through them quick and get down to business. I don’t want to talk about my injuries. My damn brain. I just want to talk about hockey and call it a day.

“Oh, you know,” I say. “Good as new. They’re getting me all fixed up. Looking forward to getting back on the ice.”

They both nod and smile.

“That’s real good,” Ron says. “Just be careful.” I fake salute, then clap my hands together.

“So,” I say, “talk to me. What are you guys thinking?”

Ron shuffles through some papers nervously, but Tim takes over.

“Well, it’s pretty simple,” he says. “We’d love to have a co-host, and we’d love it if that co-host was you.”

I smile and nod.

“Well, that is pretty simple,” I say.

We spend the next few minutes talking through the logistics—hours, days, makeup, contracts, salary. It’ll be a shockingly smaller paycheck than I’m making now but still more than 90% of the American population. I’ll be fine.

“Well, guys,” I say, “this all sounds really good. Let me just talk it over with my lawyer and my finance guys. Can I finalize later this week?”

They nod in unison.

“Of course,” Ron says.

“We actually already have your first segment planned out,” Tim says. I smile and lean back in my chair, raising my eyebrow.

“Oh, yeah?” I say. “What’s that?”

“Get this: Hometown Heroes,” Ron says. I cock an eyebrow again.

---